The cave is warm as he enters it, and it is already warm, misted with sweat and a sour scent of birth that he is becoming numb to. He blocks the light as it filters in, casting a grand, thick shadow across the mare he made a mother, and her offspring. Ka’Ora, perched on his wither, relives an anxiety that becomes familiar, that thrums in a steadier rhythm now instead of something wild and panicked. She knows now—she has reconciled herself with this fact—that there will always be a chance one of these children will die. She can only hope, and pray, for every occasion he goes to meet the child.

They look upon the current one now, the one who does indeed scent as a female (the first checkmark), and they watch as she struggles to stand in the midst of her father’s shadow. Reginald frowns; Ka’Ora shifts uneasily on her perch. Master is displeased. He does not like what he sees in something so small, still struggling to her feet. Is he so early that he has seen her so freshly birthed? And yet his eldest ones hadn’t hesitated even after their near death to conquer gravity. His eyes are hard, such a hard grey, as harsh as the ice that panels the mountains around them.

And he does not like her pelt, either. It is a patchwork of greys, a mockery of his own hide, a hideous, clumsy quilt embroidered with a blue, snake-like tendril across her body that he detests. His eyes cut to the ribbons spiraling up the black mare’s legs—he knew better, he should’ve listened to his gut instinct the first time around. Ugly markings are much less offensive in the stomach.

He sighs; he leans on one rear hoof, his head throbbing with bitterness to have to travel all this way only to be met with disappointment. He does not like this child. He didn’t even like the sex, in all honesty. She had made him angry.

Perhaps that is the secret: a good fuck produces good children. Merlin should be promising, then.

Tell me now, Ka’Ora, why this one should be kept, he thinks to his harpy, and her spine shudders at what seems like a threat in his words. Your blood, good blood, she reminds him quietly, so much tinier and meek than last time. There is not much she can do now to protect the child. Master will make up his own mind.

Seconds, minutes pass. He waits for the child to climb to its feet (it is an it now). The moments pass, the wind howls outside, and his displeasure ever grows.  “Her name?” he asks the black mare, cocking a broad brow towards her.  “Where will she be raised?”

Speak