If there is one thing of his past he will never retreat from, it is Nerine.
 
Wasn’t it just yesterday when he was frolicking in the shallow waves, too afraid to fly? Mother was there, standing as sentinel over both him and the kingdom as any Queen should. Her heart – tough as iron though it was – thrived on her love for the kingdom, but it grew larger upon developing a family. First it was Lior, then Castile, then Isobell. The fist she ruled with was substantial at first, intimidating even, but Castile paid no heed to the politics. Family and love was instilled in him. Friendship – he remembers Ivar, especially, and the other foals that congregated at the shoreline – had come easily enough as a young prince. This place, this rocky coastline, is where Castile knew true happiness and adoration. It’s only right that he visits again when his world suddenly seems so dark and lonely.
 
Being in the meadow, on the opposite edge of their small world, Castile harnessed his own power and shifted fluidly. There is no pain this time, no fear or regret.
 
He has been learning and practicing.
For himself.
For them – his children and women.
 
With a growl that trembles the ground underfoot, Castile takes flight. The earth is gored and wounded from his talons as he pushes off, his titanic wings beating heavily to lift him to the sky.
 
What would have typically taken days only takes hours as he casually soars high above where the clouds glitter his scales with dew. Being in no immediate rush, he seizes the opportunity to practice his agility with rolls, dives, and hovers. Although alone, he enjoys the time he has until Nerine looms at the edge of his vision. Butterflies sprout from deep in his stomach and spread across him, tingling even his toes and wingtips. Home, is the word that comes to mind. It hasn’t been for quite some time, and yet this is the only place he can affiliate himself. Loess nor Hyaline captured him the way the cliffs did.
 
A great majority of the population is likely deep in the bosom of Nerine, occupying themselves with conversations and food. While his heart pulls him to the cliff, Castile neutralizes the urge and instead banks then eventually lands at the southern border where he can be appropriately greeted. With a thunderous clap, his claws alight and rip the ground underneath. He immediately shifts however, exhaling a mere plume of black smoke.
 
What’s left is a horse standing amid titanic marks in the dirt.

The growl that slips past his lips is precarious, predatorial. It slips like water, his lips a broken dam. Before Castile could stop it and reconsider, the rumbling noise is already shuddering the air between them. It happens on instinct as he recoils from Breckin’s invasive touch. He straightens himself afterward and composes himself, but the flash of danger is an unmistakable chain reaction. At least, he muses, she is apologetic. The sincerity of her voice adds grease to his rusty gears while shifting into amiability, making it easier to nod his head in understanding. ”It’s risky entering someone’s mind,” but for whom is it more dangerous?

It would have startled him to hear his own name spoken from a stranger’s tongue had he not felt the tender brush of her consciousness thumbing through his memories. The touch was faint, almost undetectable, but Castile has experienced once – maybe twice – before. It sends a chill cartwheeling down the length of his spine, loathing the idea of his mind being so open and vulnerable. Mother’s thoughts were a protected sanctuary, a gift that he often envied after experiencing his first invasion.

But Castile understands the difficulty of harnessing a power. It’s a taxing process that can take months – sometimes years – to control. Sighing, he levels his mismatched gaze on hers, searching them for answers he has no questions for. Breckin, she adds, introducing herself sheepishly. A feeble grin lifts a corner of his mouth. ”Nice to meet you. I suppose you already know my name.” There is no sense echoing what she had already gathered from his memories, but he can’t help to wonder how much she saw or the extent of his emotions she could sense and relive. Unable to contain himself, his husky voice drawls, ”What did you learn?” From me, he doesn’t add. Did she see how he was raised as a prince by an iron-fisted Queen or how he struggled to understand being dragonborne? Did Breckin witness his highs and lows, loves and heartaches? Or did she only feel the infectious joy he had always known when roaming Nerine’s shores?

There is an amused gleam in the silver and orange of his eyes as they first peek past the woman – to see Nerine and its familiar splendor – then to look at her and read her expression.

A lopsided grin, accompanied by a halved laugh, slightly softens the draconic edges of his face. ”Unfortunately,” he admits as his eyes narrow thoughtfully, ”it’s not the first time someone has invaded my mind. It likely won’t be the last either, but it doesn’t lessen the blow of it.” Inwardly, Castile shudders remembering the vulnerability of his mind as the walls broke down. Any invasion is uncomfortable and unwelcomed, but at least Breckin is apologetic and sincere. The goodwill in her voice curbs the edge in his voice and posture. ”I can only imagine the difficulty in perfecting an ability like that.” Hers needs to be contained within the confines of her mind. His? Castile’s was mostly physical and even then, it had taken him years to harness such immense power. So, he can sympathize with her and forgive her trespassing with little more than a nod and harmless snarl.

She confesses what she had seen, but it is truly minimal in the broad spectrum of his life. Nodding his head, he replays the memories that she saw. It brightens his face, almost makes him unrecognizable as the joy from the memories branches out from his core and surfaces. ”Yes,” he can’t complain of his childhood here. ”I was raised by my mother, Nayl, and my father, Lior, here in Nerine. I lived here for a while and even when I left to other kingdoms, Nerine always called me back.” Admittedly, Castile didn’t understand the magnetic pull because this was a matriarchal society; there had been no space for a gangly boy, no matter whose son he was. Nayl’s name has since lost its magnitude, and the role she played in Nerine’s history has likely been forgotten. That’s why he doesn’t add that he was the son of the Queen because what use is that information now? It’s null and moot. He is just a stallion now, roaming Beqanna in search of his purpose.

Castile blinks as Breckin reels him back to this moment, pulling him from the lull of his thoughts and memories. A boyish grin – something he had once been known for – lifts the corners of his mouth and a haphazard shrug trembles across his shoulders. ”I don’t think the Nerinians would’ve taken kindly to their Queen being eaten.” If he ever wanted to kill – to taste the tenderness of his own species – it would be all too easy. A quick shift and he would be large enough to quickly consume a horse.

But no, he isn’t like that anymore.
Right?

”Honestly?” She asked a fair question that demands an authentic answer. What can he say? It wouldn’t make sense to her just as it has never made sense to him. Glancing sideways to the claw marks in the soil surrounding him, he searches for an appropriate response.

A distraction?
A purpose?
A home?
A sense of hope?

A hot wave of air is sighed from his lungs, a small plume of smoke trailing his lips as his mismatched eyes turn to look at her again, heavy with internal conflict. ”Maybe you could tell me?” He expects she will stare at him in bewilderment, like he’s crazy. How can she possibly answer for him? ”I can never seem to stay away from Nerine for very long. I need a purpose, I think. I was a Regent in Loess, but it wasn’t Nerine. It didn’t sate my thirst.” The Cliffside forever calls to him, and deep down, he knows he wants to dig his talons into the granite and take flight off its edge

Here, there is nothing to hinder him.

His expectations are met when they are joined by a young girl sprung by her curiosity. Initially, she regards her superior with a smile and respectful nod before darting her eyes in Castile’s direction. Unwavering, he meets her gaze. ”Castile,” his voice rumbles like the rocks tumbling down Nerine’s cliffs. He is a son of the land – he always will be – and while his foreboding appearance mirrors that of the landscape, his metallic eyes are softer upon seeing her blissful ignorance and curiosity. Enough time has passed, he presumes, that everything can begin fresh in his life (with the exception of the family he created). Nerine captures him (it had when he was a mere boy) but this time, she burrows her nails into his flesh to anchor him to these cliffs and peninsula. Breckin confirms how life has changed and how welcoming they actually are of men – of him.

When she draws nearer, Castile has to consciously continue breathing otherwise it would catch in his throat under her scrutiny. She doesn’t dismiss him (did he actually fear that?) and instead searches the pools of his eyes before demanding that he help her protect Nerine. It hadn’t been a question. The flatness in her tone is a quieted order and proposition that he gropes and hugs to his chest. Castile responds with a curt, quiet nod. It’s done. Their hands have shaken and a warming elation ignites the fire in his core. It roils in his gut, but he tampers it enough for it to only be a plume of black smoke that curtains his face for a few moments before lifting and once again exposing his sharply-edged face. Glancing down to Nalia, he grins. ”I guess I’m staying, not visiting.”

”The Brotherhood,” he repeats with curiosity as his focus rises back to Breckin’s face, ”led by Brennen?” The stallion had always wanted to forge a bachelor herd; memories of the idea flicker to mind, but they’re fuzzy. He had been just a colt then clutching to his mother’s side and listening to her political tangents. Brennen’s name was poison on mother’s tongue, but it hadn’t always been that way. Rolling his shoulders and inclining his head, Castile’s response slips as more of a drawl. ”I’m not interested in following him.” Rather than experiencing the stallion himself, he sticks to what he grew up knowing. ”Tell me how you want me to help Nerine.” With a confirming nod, Castile offers an amiable (and eager) grin.