What had she been thinking?! Why had she said those ridiculous things? These are all questions she forces herself to dwell on as she moves as fast as she can from the Edge to the Throat, contractions rippling at intervals across her belly. Fool. You jealous, selfish, stupid fool. Yes, pregnancy hormones could have helped fuel her outburst, as well as heat-induced irritability, but neither of those things seized hold of her tongue and forced it to make those words. She only has herself to blame, and she knows there is no going back from this.

Her life is falling apart. First the creation of Oizys and Enyo, and the lie she had to weave to cover up their existence. Then their traumatic birth, followed by an expansion of that lie to include her beloved father. Then, explaining the lie to her father, suffering his shame in her, his embarassment to have her as a daughter. Now this - she has lost the respect of her herdmates, and had she deserved anything else?

And Oizys...oh, Oizys. Had Nyx raised her so poorly that she thought it acceptable to tell multiple members of the herd to basically fuck off? But, reasons the silver, what kind of example had she herself set to her one remaining daughter, when she'd been the one to blurt out her unwanted opinion in the first place?

What kind of mother can she be to this child nestled within her womb if she can't even control her own tongue?

These acidic thoughts plague her during the many hours it takes her to arrive at the Throat's borders. Dominus is close by her side, having deposited her new shield and knife on the Edge borders on the way. He is the only one he can trust never to desert her, and he protects her like only a companion can as they make the long journey together.

This is uncharted territory for the silver soldier. She's never been this far south, and the heat only intensifies as she arrives at the edge of the land itself. It is stifling, the air seeming to hold its own weight as it presses against her; she gasps and pants, desperately trying to cool herself down ready for the long labour ahead. She can see an island in the distance, but there's no discernible way to reach it. She draws in a haggard breath and glances hopefully to the sky in search of the king or his phoenix companion, too exhausted to shout his name. She just stands, sweating, aching and fretful, her head hung low and her mane falling in damp strands across her face as she waits for someone, anyone, to come and find her.

Failing that, there's a rather nice shrub nearby that she could use in an emergency, but she'd far rather deliver the child inside the safety of the herd.