After his words to the white filly, the young stallion turns his gaze back to Isopia, beaming over every corner of his face. He radiates happiness, satisfaction - having them all together, with their dragons, with family, sends a warm glow through his cold black heart. He turns to her, words tingling the tip of his tongue, but...

She's gone. Without a word, without a goodbye, his little raven is gone. Hubris soon follows, and the crumpled form of Vadir hums a sad farewell as the bronze takes to the wing after his bonded.

Volterra's brow furrows, confused. Why would she leave so suddenly? His tail swishes, suddenly agitated, and his ears pivot side to side to try and detect the faint whistle of her feathered wings in the distance. He hears nothing - she's simply gone. Dejected, he snorts a blast of cold autumn air from his nostrils, his good mood deflating faster that a pricked balloon.

He returns his attention to Ophelia and Erthë, trying to shake off his disappointment and focus completely on them. His aunt speaks of a woman named Psyche, murdered by the Moon Goddess - this makes him think of Isopia again, of one of their first conversations where she'd revealed her brother had been slain by the murderous deity. Why did she leave? Try as he might, he can't stop focusing on Isopia's sudden exit, and finds himself fretting over it. God dammit; he hadn't wanted worry on this most momentous of days. His gold seems miffed that his mind is preoccupied, and he feels her give him a mental jab, as if to say focus on me, not her. This brings the smallest of smiles back to his face, and his mood improves a fraction at the mere sight of the young queen.

Her sharp eyes follow Tinek as he clambers a rock and demonstrates gliding. She bounds after him, scaling the rock and digging her hooked claws into the contours of the stone as she ascends to the top. From there, she leaps as the silver had done - without having to worry about keeping height or avoiding the wind, she can concentrate fully on steering, and manages a couple of gentle turns before she alights upon the ground. She coos her delight and uses a combination of body language and catlike mewls to express her thanks to the older, wiser silver, before clambering up the rock to try again. And again. And again.

He glances back to Erthë, who is still speaking to Isopia. He says nothing; this isn't his conversation to have. He watches as she presents the twisted remains of a horn from the depths of her wing and gives it to Ophelia - despite his now tumultous mood, he can't help but wonder who this Psyche woman is, and why she means so much to both his aunt and this young hybrid filly. ""