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The shadowmere would heed his wish soon, for the dark mare indeed stood in the shadow of the tree line for the time being. Her eyes floated in the din, drops of mist as they contemplated the shadowy bulk that lay in the cool embrace of the moon’s luminescent shadow. Her gaze was tender as it lay upon him—just look . He was a beast of war, an earthquake that rocked the planet and tore asunder the worlds of his enemies. He was a monolith, a frightening golem who undoubtedly went into war with a bloodlust unmatched, excepting the bitch that followed his heels. Circe had wanted to see this lusty side of him; had wanted to stand by his side as they slew those foolish enough to stand in their way. Call it a gory day-dream if you must; it was a little piece of heaven to the shadowmere. Yet now, as the Dauntless lay in the grasses of a tranquil meadow, he seemed positively peaceful, a golem of justice, and Circe’s heart twinged with worry as she watched him. Her heart fell heavy; her stomach knotted in painful ropes.
Circe refused to hide her treachery from him. Sooner or later—and she rather it was sooner—the shadowmere would have to reveal her crimes against the Foothills and the sparkling Pegasus mare who dared call herself family. The notion of spilling her gut and telling him all that transpired sent trills of fear up the shadowmere’s spine; how would he take it? Would they see eye to eye, or would he find blame within the sorceress’s actions? Archibald seemed most distant after his return from the invasion; something was broken in his icy stare, something that quite evaporated the previous irritation that tugged at Circe’s mind, irritation at being left behind. Something had happened; Circe was sure of that. Would the news of her treachery ignite the dormant passion in his breast; would it finally unleash his disquiet?
Regardless of these musings, Circe wanted him. The feel of his pelt and mane, the headiness of his scent, the weight of his bulk, the rumble of his voice—she needed to be close to him, even if she was in danger of rejection. And so, in the quiet of the moonlit glade, Circe stepped from the shadows, approaching her General with a walk like smooth, serene waters. A soft nicker escaped her lips in greeting; her tail curled at the tip in a sign of her pleasure, languidly sweeping the grasses behind her.
“Archibald,” was all she said; her voice was a sigh and a purr, laced with the nip of her trepidation. Seeing him lying on the ground, some piece of her wanted to join him—but her limbs refused to bend. Tired as her body was, the comfort of lying down wasn’t deserved by the shadowmere. Not while she could still hear the echo of the bird-creature’s squealing pain ringing in her mind as an afterthought. “Speak to me.” The ribbon of her words fell from her maw hesitantly; the mistiness in her voice suggested her question for his seeming disquiet, alluded to her creeping fear. In this moment, her anger towards Phaedra began to snowball into a sensation more akin to hate; it had been so long since she had been in the sole presence of the Dauntless, yet even in this intimate place the legacy of the Spy’s impudence poisoned the atmosphere. Circe would be rid of this guilt; her conscious wanted to be free.
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