She waited. He waited. In the back of his mind he was aware of wind slipping over wings, of the cool morning air against white feathers and the warmth of the sun against her back. Dimly, as if recalling a dream, he saw the black form of Psyche grow larger, her keen eyes trailing her movements until she wheeled away, and the Empress followed obediently. Thermals and wing-beats guided Irma back towards her bonded and his captive, her eyes occasionally falling down, upon the shape of Psyche. Objectively speaking, she was beautiful, but who was she? And why, how, did she differ from the other one..? In the mouth of the cave, Mauja gave his head a small shake, trying to clear it. This was neither the time nor the place to think of that, and his gaze focused again upon Angora. She remained pressed up against the icy wall, though quieter, stiller. He blinked impassively, knowing that Psyche was close now, seeing her through Irma's eyes before the owl spun away again, losing herself in the play of air and the tug of wind. She disappeared in the sky, to hunt, to watch, to wait, and Mauja was left alone with the jackal-heart and their prey.

"Psyche," he responded to her greeting, inclining his head slightly without looking at her. His gaze remained fixed upon the depths of the cave, and the slender shape which resided there. He had not brought her here to lose her, though it would be tempting to let the ungrateful bitch go. At least he had been effective, though denied the release of a fight, and instead he had mired himself in a kind of misery he'd never been drowned in before. The dark mare looked into the cave and gave a loud exclamation of delight, but not a muscle in his body moved as he replied, smoothly: "Indeed, I did." To see Angora bleed and beg for mercy would not move him, but he wanted, desperately, to be alone, with his mind, and at the same time, he didn't want to be alone at all. Sighing ever so softly he gave his head a small shake, rattling the thoughts around and hoping they'd fall out through his ears. Who am I, Irma? She was the only one he could ask in silence, but the only answer he got was the mental equivalent of a wing to the head. Apparently he was supposed to figure it out without help from his owl, and he took the opportunity to grimace while Angora trembled. He had no idea what Psyche was doing to her, but from the look of slight concentration on her face she was the cause for it. Well. Whatever.

He'd been prepared to leave to fetch Crowley, or d'Artagnan, or someone else who wanted to play a little wicked game with their captive when she suddenly lunged, away from the ice wall. In less than a heartbeat every nerve and sense in his body was alert, adrenaline flooding his system as his ears fell flat to his neck, blocking out the sound of her hooves crashing against the uneven cave floor. So this was how it went, huh? She wasn't ready to take his advice, but to make a break for it when cornered, instead of out on the Steppe where she probably could've outrun him? Darkness fell into his mind and cold into his veins, but he made no move to strike her with magic just yet. Her loud neigh echoed out from the cave and into the Basin, and his mind labeled her fool before he fell into motion. Arching his thick neck, the point of his icy horn facing forward, Mauja tucked his haunches under him and pushed off in complete silence. The aim was to tackle her foolish charge head-on, and run the point of his horn into her body where the neck met the shoulder on the left side. If she was stupid enough to try and run for freedom, he'd bleed her until she was too weak to stand. She would not get out of this cave on his watch, not with two unicorns blocking the entrance. She was theirs, and deep in his soul he felt the monster stir again.

Mauja Frosthjärta