The wind swept over the hills and brought his scent to his nostrils, driving his frantic hooves as they pounded after her. His gunshot heartbeat was rapid against his chest, threatening to leap from behind the sinew and epidermis to land smack into the chilled grass. The light blanket of snow was thin and slippery beneath his crashing hooves, his trail easily followed. The beast did not care about being followed now, no, all he cared about was Circe--and his child--'s safety.

Archibald rose early to patrol the borders, and by the end of his toll he had ventured to the heart of the herdland, hoping to find Circe there. She was so close to her due date that she frequented the area, he could see it in her mannerisms that she wished to nest. He had seen it so many times before in Mandrake before his brothers were born. She would pace, eat, paw, eat, and pace. All day, all night. However, panic struck the warlord when he did not find the shadowmere in the middle of the Foothills. He sent Loretta ahead of him, her vision and nose guiding his hulking form towards the very ends of the territory. His golden eyes narrowed in determination, but his mind raced with possibilities. He knew of the Assassins and their attempt to breech their borders, and he could only hope that they had not snatched up his execu--his mare.

The thought of Circe being captured while pregnant, and bursting, with his child made his heart turn cold and his stomach churn with fire. He would demolish any that laid a hoof on her form, rip them limb from limb and scatter their organs around for those just as stupid to see what happens when someone crosses the Daun--there she was. Archibald's hooves stopped moving, his behemoth body screeching to halt in the snow. His breathing was quick and agitated, his nostrils flaring wide. His golden eyes scanned over the dark mare, arriving downwind behind her, still several yards away, just as his--their--child dropped from her body. He waited for Circe to turn and clean the foal and urge it to move and drink, but nothing happened. Upon the wind the dark mare whispered a single word. Callisto.

Taking tentative steps forward, the Dauntless swallowed the distance between them and the world slipped away from him. His golden eyes darkened with the epitome of sorrow and his ears dropped. As he reached Circe and Callisto, the draft gently swooped his neck nose to smell and nuzzle his daughter. Loretta, watching from a few fox-lengths away, lowered herself to her belly and placed her chin on her paws. Her ears lowered and a whine slipped from her throat, and she crawled forward, her tail curling underneath her belly tight. The bitch continued to whine, her amber eyes darting between Circe and Archibald.

Heavy legs bent and the mammoth, warrior frame of the general crumpled to the ground. His knees fell cold onto the earth and he moved his body carefully, wrapping his giant mass around the fragile body of Callisto. She was beautiful and sad, with a coat like the night sky. Her four legs--solid, Archibald could tell--were dipped in the finest royal blue and her torso was draped in the darkest of ebon. She was a mix of the warriors that created her--perfect and strong and pure.

And dead.

Curling his neck, Archibald held his daughter tight in an embrace, his body slowly beginning to shake. This was not like the births of his brothers--or, his sisters. Flashes of Mandrake's fillies flashed into his head, blood splashing across his vision as the memories flooded and haunted. His first kill had been one of his sisters--his mother had been blessed with a beautiful palomino draft with striking green eyes, and Archibald had killed her without a second thought. But now, when he deserved the blessing, he received a curse. Not your fault, Loretta cooed mentally, whining loudly before tipping her head back and pointing her muzzle to the sky. From the depths of her throat she sung a song of perpetual sorrow.

"Circe. Forgive me."