Caelestra is exhausted. Her body quakes underneath his power and intense stare. Castile merely snarls in the moments following her collapse. Obviously, she is alive. Scrutinizing her confirms the rising and falling of her breaths as she lies there, determining her motives after a tumultuous denial. Although he applauds her bravery, his mind cannot help to tunnel toward her stupidity as she draws in a heaving breath to stand. He nearly shifts back with her, to assume his smaller self as her claws and muzzle recede. The thick mat of fur sheds away until there is a horse once again in front of him, defeated but still proud and defiant. Smoke coils from his nostrils distastefully as his slit eyes blink, unyielding in their watch of her.

By the way she addresses him, her tone collected despite her labored breaths from the effort, Castile concludes that she will no longer remain here. In the split of a second, the healer is retracting from her offer and withdrawing from Loess’ embrace.

Seizing the opportunity, Castile’s body contorts and shrinks until a horse stands in front of her again, but his teeth remain jagged in silent warning. ”While I am here, as Loess’ leader, it will not be a pacifist country. The Cove and Hyaline have that role covered,” and what fun is there to be had if everyone is tranquil and at peace? His shoulders roll, predatory, as she backs away with her final words. He lunges then, his mouth agape to latch onto and puncture the crest of her neck. A growl vibrates from his core and through her before releasing and wheeling back. ”A parting gift,” he murmurs before sidestepping away and disappearing in a cloud of black smoke.