Zèklè wouldn't hear about the invasion until later.

Innocent to the breath of tragedy, the sting of betrayal and the fierce, blood-boiling adrenaline of fight which painted the air mere miles away, the boy strode languidly through a field of thorns. Kicking now at daffodils, sniffing then at thistles, his steps were carefree, haphazard, dominant. The world had yet to be cruel to Zèklè, so of course he saw no reason to think anything but the best of it. He was a prince, maybe, after all, and even better than that he was the son of a warrior, the best warrior.

He'd been adventuring, as usual, without much of a goal in mind (also as usual). Past the bridge (his key hung handsomely around his neck, though he was sure he wouldn't need it soon. His wing was due to come in any day now. He could feel it) and beyond the caves he had journeyed, carefully avoiding the forests which stretched east and west and would no doubt ensnare him in their tangled branches and labyrinthine paths. He was onto them, their malicious intent to trap him and get him lost and make him in trouble with Ma. No, today he'd go on north, and try maybe to find where his friend Spirit-Girl lived, or see the ocean, or something.

It really didn't matter what happened, because he was absolutely confident something would.

And something did, something small and hiding and so quiet he nearly tripped over it. He'd just forded a mighty river, which Ma would think was so impressive and would be so much easier when he could finally fly, and come to the other side, and then walked some more looking for especially interesting plants to try and eat (thistles tasted good. Dandelions made him sneeze) when he saw them. Heard them. Smelled them, all of it at once, pausing with eyes wide and nostrils flared and senses ablaze.

It smelled like blood, kinda, kinda... gross and mucusy, and also like horse. He could hear what might be voices and what might not, loud sniffs and sobs flopping indelicately against the stiff, hot breeze. And he could see... well, not them, but definitely a spot, right in front of him, that looked kinda squished. Tentatively the boy stepped forward, his voice wavering more than he would ever admit, trepidation and curiosity stretching every muscle in his small form taut. "Hello?" he inquired of the squished-grass spot, wondering if whatever was there would answer.

The singular wing was slightly raised, tail feathers flared, but of course Zèklè the Lightning Back wasn't afraid.

He just thought it would be polite to wait until he was invited closer, that's all.

Water dripped from a damp dark coat as he waited, breath held, for something to happen. Slate hooves shuffled and he stretched his neck, trying to get some glimpse of whatever was on the ground. But the weeds were too tall, and the boy was too short, and the mystery remained bright in his mind, illuminating silver sun-beam eyes.

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