ith the lockdown lifted, Wound finds herself finally able to travel past Tephra’s shores. As much as she loves the sulfuric island, there’s a hidden piece of her that remains unsettled. Perhaps it is an old habit from her childhood days, when her brothers never allowed her to settle in one place for too long before they were moving again. There’s a wandering spirit nestled in the depths of her heart, one that pinches when she remains inside Tephra for too long. It is often pleased by the numerous diplomatic travels she must go on (to Loess and to Hyaline and to Ischia) but when the lockdown forced her to remain within the borders, her agitation became obvious.

She heaves a sigh of relief in the Meadow, now. With spring fully-fledging, the clearing is bustling with activity. Wound’s heart warms at the sight of leggy children floundering through high grass and tumbling against their mothers’ sides (though her heart aches too, for the love of another child against her own shoulder). A soft smile finds her face as she finds a willow tree nearby.

The soft, long branches brush against her back as she moves beneath the shade. The sweeping leaves tickle at her umber body, dragging along her silvery mane as she walks. She’s a pretty contrast, standing in the shade with the emerald grass beneath her and the dull green above her and the blue sky even higher still and the silver-brown of her body, and some would even go to call her gorgeous if it weren’t for the deformation of her leg.

Wound’s eyes spot a newcomer to Beqanna — a tall, dark stallion with a scar against his mouth — look at her with eyes so accusing she can feel the mistrust like a hot summer day. Where before her cheeks might have flared red with embarrassment, now she merely offers the stallion a generous, forgiving smile and turns her attention back to watch a pair of twins (a yearling and a newborn) tousle in a bed of lacy white flowers.

espite the unrest that settles across Beqanna like a thick, suffocating blanket, the Meadow is surprisingly peaceful. The tall spring grasses are a feast for many and there are horses of all walks of life grazing among the emerald, pink, and yellow colors. Flowers blossom alongside rugged brush while the trees have finally dawned their leafy-clothing once more. The bright, cloudless sky adds the perfect splash of color to the wide clearing and Wound finds herself sighing aloud at the sight of it all.

A chestnut stallion catches her eye, distracting her from the twins who have now chased after their disappearing mother. He seems friendly enough, offering her a polite smile amidst the tall grass, and Wound decides to make her way toward him. She’s here to get away from Tephra, true, but that doesn’t mean she can’t make friends along the way.

A warm nicker leaves the clutches of her throat as she approaches, her slender chest pushing through the greenery. Coffee brown eyes inspect the man closer, taking in the russet of his wings and the splash of white upon his body. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she says quietly. Her voice is a slender hush upon the springtime breeze, but it is there nonetheless. “My name’s Wound.” Her eyes take in the reaction of his face, curious to know if her attempt will be shouldered away or warmly accepted.

alance is everything.

This is something Wound has learned in her years of life — for there to be birth there must also be death, for there to be summer there must also be winter, for there to be good there must also be evil. The kindness of a heart can only be noticed when there is the darkness of a heart to compare it against. The blue of a summer sky can only be noticed when there is the overcast of a snowstorm to compare it against. Balance — good, bad; right, wrong — is what holds the world together and stops it from dropping into the realm of chaos.

The children are just one piece of the balance of life. They have so much potential — there is the probability they will grow up to be beautiful, handsome adults who lead a kingdom to security and happiness and there is the probability they will grow up to connive their way into the pockets of many and steal away the futures of others. It is why Wound loves children so tenderly; her desire to protect them and mold them into the kind hearts of their world is one of her many passions.

She notes his own eyes traveling toward the twins, even as they rapidly disappear with screams of glee and playfulness. “It’s only my shade if it’s my home,” she teases and a laugh follows her next breath. It’s been years since the stumbling, awkward Wound fell into Warrick’s chest and since then she’s been able to speak easier with men. Even the handsome ones.

“You smell like this isn’t your home, either.” Although the scents of wind-scrubbed sky and spring sun drift from his russet feathers, the undertone of Ischia runs deep in his skin. It’s familiar to her nose, after visiting the island kingdom not long ago. “If you see any enemies” — she doesn’t have to say their names, certain he knows who they are just as she does — “promise me you won’t run away screaming without telling me first.”