He was no stranger to midnight meetings under cold silver moonlight, nor was he a stranger to the long journeys over frozen wastelands. Frosted hoof met frosted snow as he drifted across the Steppe, skirting south around the Basin walls and heading west, to the Frozen Arch. However familiar meetings were, it had been a time since last, and by now he doubted few in the Basin were unaware of his return. None, aside from Psyche and d'Artagnan, would know of where he had been, but he couldn't imagine the tale of his spectacular return not spreading. That mirror was a source of frustration for many, so for the King to return through it — surely mouths would whisper. Flicking his tail against his moon-pale hocks he walked underneath the bright moon, his long shadow cast across the crisp snow. Irma rode upon his scarred shoulder, a quiet, frigid guardian in the unusually cold night. Her pale eyes, washed out to white by the moon, penetrated the darkness, relentlessly stalking every movement, assessing it, evaluating it, discarding it.

Others traveled across the lonely steppe, shadows under the moon's eye, secret brothers-in-arms who, perhaps, did not smile at one another in daylight. Falling into the shadow beneath the Arch the owl spread her wings and took off, settling upon the entrance like a sentinel, a marker that the souls traveling to Psyche's call had found the right place. Smiling at her in his soul he stepped into the labyrinth, remembering the sound of her hooves on the edges of his mind, a ghost-sound when he had slipped in and out of restless sleep, ages and eons away; he shook it off, followed the clatter of hooves towards the cavern where she resided on one end. With easy grace the alabaster stallion strode past those who had gathered, giving nods and little eye-smiles were they were due, lingering a moment longer upon Ulrik before he was by her side. She was midnight black in the softly illuminated cavern, her eyes washed out, less vibrant, and with a brief touch to her shoulder he spun to stand beside her, half a step behind. She was their Crux, but no one had said he had been replaced as Bane; he'd kept her in the position during her absence, and it would only feel fair if she gave him the same courtesy.

Not that life was ever fair.

In silence his pale eyes swept the crowd, listening to the honeyed voice of Psyche, his mind swirling to her plans. It seemed that he was not alone in hatching plans on how to reclaim the Edge, and though he wanted to smile dreamily, he kept his face neutral. They would be a formidable opponent to take on, allied with the Throat as they were, and would the Grey aid them? Or could Mauja use his ties to Ophelia to hire them? These were plans for later — perhaps a shadow strike would be better? Talk turned to a mare called Angora, and both Lupus and Snö promised blood, but he found his own heart harden. Snö was too young yet, and that was a fact she couldn't escape. His eyes settled upon her for a moment. She wasn't even fully grown yet, still slightly angular as she would need at least another year or two to fully flesh her frame out, and it would be a disadvantage. He didn't doubt her heart, but he doubted her experience, and as her father, he felt the desire to protect her. And the wolf — frankly, he didn't know him.

"I think," he said from where he stood, his voice not raised but carrying in spite of it. "That I will deal with this Angora myself. I have been away for far too long." And, if he wanted to capture this foolish mare who stole from the Basin, the only way to ensure that it happened was to do it yourself. Then, he leaned his head closer to Psyche, his voice a murmur meant for her ears only. "I think we should restrict recruiting to high ranks only, and impress upon all the need for secrecy. I found a mare trying to initiate a yearling I'd deemed too stupid to keep her mouth shut, so if all you need to do in order to learn of us is to say I am racist, why, before we know it we'll be mingling with equine spies with sticks tied to their foreheads." Slight sarcasm laced his voice towards the end, though his face never shifted — it remained impassive, and once his words had been spoken, he turned his head out towards those gathered again, watching them in silence.