Everything is different after dark.
Of course he had known it might be dangerous, this island - he is no stranger to feral magic, though it’s been years since he tasted the tang of it. But Asterion had allowed himself to get swept up in the excitement of it, had loosened his defenses to let in awe, had begun to hope that nothing here would hurt them. And perhaps, with rumors now swirling of Tempus’ relic, that is the truth. Yet the prospect of such power brought a new kind of danger, a predator no more than the greed in their own hearts.
So the king is alert, as he continues his exploration of the island.
Asterion stills at the scream, save for a twist of his ear, and he does not breathe again until it is done. Afterward the night seems to echo it, but perhaps it is only the reassuring shush of the distant waves. It is only a fox, he tells himself, or one of the strange cats he’d glimpsed earlier. Not something dying, not something dead.
But he is still more careful, when he starts forward again, and his magic coils tightly within him.
It is not a monster he finds. It is a foal, white-faced and stock-still, that his searching gaze falls upon as he steps through ferns tall enough to brush his withers. In the dim her white spots are milky, moon-colored; he is near invisible, but for the star on his brow and the gleam of his eyes.
For a moment he only regards her, head half-bowed, a posture that says I am no threat. The king has had limited experience with children; even the flocks of them in the city are foreign to him, joyful and strange. He thinks of what Florentine had told him - that he will be an uncle, soon. He lets the thoughts go no further before he can wonder if he will ever be a father.
“Hello,” he says, softly, and the night is still hushed around them - but slowly, slowly, the insects and the birds begin to sing again. “I’m Asterion. Are you alright?”
@
and hardly ever what we dream
