This was the world. It had moved, and changed, and seemingly ended in a whirlwind. The snow that had piled there was eventually gone and melted, and yet Epithet and Gunsynd, together with young Leola, who was now a little older and much more sure of foot, stayed where they were and talked, moving them through the season so quickly that it was almost as if no time had passed at all—or that perhaps they had skipped the winter altogether.

Of course the weather was insane. Everything around here was insane and it was almost as if Epithet were living in a world created by her own madness. The floodgates that kept her mother’s power at bay were slowly creaking outward, knocking at the door of Epi’s mind, begging to let the dragons out. Charlemagne’s last magical gift on the world—would it become a curse? The white woman shuddered at the thought, and she turned to Gunsynd, her blue eyes upon him while hearing Leola playing with the voles behind her. “So what became of you? I came to find you later and you all but disappeared. Have you found for yourself a place of protection?”

Leola watched her mother curiously. It was almost as if her mother had an addiction to black stallions. Her own father, in and out as much as he was, was not the steady stream of affection that she longed for, and Leola watched as her fragile mother became more and more bruised by whatever it was that was plaguing her. Love for Akhil? A savior complex? It was becoming painfully obvious to the young dark girl that her mother was a broken woman, and it made Leola sad to see Epithet circling the drain. She knew nothing of power, or of magic, but as she grew and developed her senses about her, Leola began to understand that there were things about this place—and about her—that Epithet was hiding, and Leola’s mistrust of the dark stallion her mother sought to find and keep company with did not escape her mind. She appeared to be as innocent as she ever was, but in her heart, Leola was growing up—much faster than a filly ought to.