Many thoughts passed through the stallion’s mind when he patrolled, and early this morning with the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, there was one thought that kept pressing against him. It was the thought that Einarr needed to see Rhoa. The young stallion had helped save his daughter, after all, and had been following on his heels quite often in silence. It was obvious to Einarr, a seasoned warrior and teacher, that the boy wanted something. However, until today, Einarr had thought the boy needed to step forward and seek the help for himself. While that thought was not entirely wrong—especially in Einarr’s background, and in the background of Rhoa’s ancestors—but it did not fit here, in this situation. For Rhoa’s actions, the guardian owed him something. It did not matter if Rhoa had followed Einarr on that day out of curiousity, and helped the young filly out of benevolence of heart, no—all that mattered was that he did help, and that he did follow Einarr.

Rhoa had done more than help on that day, too. He had been hurt. Burned by the falling acid of the striped bitch, and for that, Rhoa deserved to lay marks on Einarr’s hide. It was Einarr’s fault that Rhoa—but a child those months ago—was injured. Einarr brought (even unknowingly) his herdmate into danger. The only thing that could make it worse, and did in the bloodrider’s mind, was that Rhoa was not just any herdmate. He was a prince. A khalakka. Einarr had brought the khalakka into danger. Although none of the harm brought to the smoldering prince was permanent, to Einarr’s knowledge, the bloodrider still needed to teach the khalakka how to deal with this. How do we deal with danger? Rhoa was a budding warrior, after all (all were to be warriors, despite rank duty, in Einarr’s mind), and so as a decorated soldier, the Warden had a duty.

Tipping his wing, Einarr made wide, slow circles until his cloven hooves touched the reddened sands at an easy, light trot. He landed in the southern desert of his herdland. All around him, for miles to see, was nothing. The landscape was barren, but the crashing of the ocean against the land could be heard in the distance. The ground beneath his hooves was solid and dry, and as he walked dust kicked up around him. The coolness of Orangemoon was moot here in the desert, and the midmorning sun shown down with glory, rays unhindered by clouds. The dark stallion stretched his wings out before he stretched each of his muscles. His warm-up was light and easy, trotting circles and walking circles with some deadly quick spins thrown in. Finally, turning so his back was to the sun, the dark stallion lifted his body up on rear legs and spread his wings. ”Khalakka Rhoa! Lajat anna! Nesolat!”