Rune gave a long, low cry that he knew would be left unanswered again. His fetlocks were burning with the pain of indefinite shackling, and the sharp sting of copper shoes radiated up and down his legs constantly. His head pounded with noise. There was no escape from this prison, nothing to do but stand and stare at four walls and his own misery. For the last year, he had watched the room slowly and agonizingly fill with horses. Horses who were his only family in a world so wrought with hatred. Suspended in time, never to be returned to the living. He was helpless to stop it, watching the hope drain until there was no one left to rescue him. He was the only one even aware he was here, the only one left awake and alive.

  His only company was the ghost, intermittently passing through and conversing with him. The sturdy dapple grey Mustang must have lived a few thousand years ago, the two of them guessed. Sent to Rune by a magical blessing, Thunder lived through a violent rebellion against a monarchy of despotic horses. Now, his duty was to protect Rune and help him understand the visions.

  “It doesn’t matter what he did or didn’t see. I’ll take out every horse that even whispers of it, if it saves the masses,” a horse’s voice called out carelessly.

  He knew the horse that was coming in by his footfalls alone. Glacial Divinity, the monarch of Norfolk. The pristinely white stallion had been heavily involved with the effort to take down the magic horses for a long time, Rune had learned. With nothing to do but listen to the chatter of guards, Rune was all too familiar with what they thought of his kind. Rogue, feral, unfixable, dangerous.

  “He was a prodigy sport horse, this is completely outside of his nature. We have no cover-up to give the family,” a rabbit said. Side by side, they both strode in to marvel at their work. Six horses frozen in time, one left to watch them rot.

  “Tell them anything, no matter how outlandish. His association with that fiery mare is enough of a conviction.” Glacier stared up at Ashley. Folke’s Sea of Ash. A beautiful grey Arabian mare, meant to dance the desert sands, unveil mystery and make dreams real. Floating still as a corpse in a tank, like a fish kept for show just because of its colors.

  The slam of boots on concrete alerted Rune and the others.

  “Sir! There’s been a problem,” said a new voice. It was light and sharp, riddled with extreme worry.

  “What’s happened now?”

  “The mare’s helped the warmblood stallion escape. But that’s not even the worst part,” he said.

  “If that’s not the worst news, what is?”

  He breathed deeply before speaking. “The mare is turning out to be…more of a threat than we thought. She hospitalized multiple federal and local agents with her bare hooves. Didn’t even use her magic, according to security.”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “I don’t care what she’s done. She must be eradicated,” Glacier said, slamming his hoof on the table. “This is why I told them to take her out as soon as they could. They always get worse.”

  “How are we supposed to convince our agents to pursue her? She’s too dangerous to take down in a typical manner.”

  “If she’s atypical, she’ll be after a big goal. Like our little Friesian friend. She’ll put herself in the right place if we let her.”

  “You think she’ll come…here?”

  “Where else would be on her mind?”

  Rune pondered their words. The more they spoke of this mare, the more he recognized her from his visions. She was exactly what they described. A complete loose cannon, apt to slit the throat of anyone who got in her way. She was a fallen star, intended to be a highly regarded show jumper, but crumbled under pressure and returned as a blade made of diamond. If she was to come here, he was certain she would lose. She was cocky and drunk with the illusion of control. If she thought too highly of her abilities, she would dig her own grave.

  His head pounded as he felt another vision coming on. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Hearing voices that weren’t there, losing control, no way to stop it. Sometimes he wished he was just another painting on the wall like the rest of them, because then at least he wouldn’t feel a thing. He was transforming into a body not his own, living the memories of someone else.

  The horse of his vision was just a wobbly little foal, filled with promise and pride. He was a pretty, sporty little thing-already laden with muscle, legs too long for his head to reach the ground. A lovely new red colt, with a tasteful star on his forehead.

  There was something horrible in the air. He knew it, because he was so attentive even in his youthful fragility. His long ears were snapped up and his nostrils were flared to the smell of blood. Something he would become all too familiar with. He heard terrible, terrible screams as they tore his mother apart. He hardly knew her. He was alone from the very beginning, the world not meant for him.

  He grew into a fine stallion, or so she said, constantly praising him and building him into a perfect machine. But there was something unrequited between them. She cared for him, always made certain he came in at night and got a rub down. It was not enough. Nothing was ever enough, he knew he could never be fulfilled in anything he did. He would scream and pace all night because he was born into a body not meant to ever be satisfied.

  He thought he might get what he needed, ruining Czar as she had asked him to. It was his turn to be the head, she told him. There was nothing wrong with taking the crown, she promised. But she never mentioned the emptiness and regret he would feel for the rest of his life. All he knew how to do was be good to her, and it would never be returned. And to be good to her was to betray morality, to give in to his nature, to be at the top of the chain. He would know nothing other than how good it felt to spill blood, to take all his pain and pay it forward to someone he thought deserving. That was the very thing that would destroy him. He was a reaper who would collect the harvest that had been set out for him. Those who had sinned against him and his children would not be left unscathed.

  Rune’s true sight returned to him, and he saw the colorless world again. His legs stung from his fight against his restraints, and the guards were staring at him.

  “I’ll never know what the hell is wrong with that horse. I thank Epona every day that he’s not out there,” Glacier said. He looked at Rune with morbid curiosity and fear.

  Thankfully, Rune heard the comforting voice of Thunder beside him.

  “Rune? What did you see?” he said, his faded form wandering closer.

  “If it means what I think it means, that mare is in a lot of trouble. Thousands of years old trouble,” Rune whispered.