He followed her. Of course he did. He would never admit that to anyone, of course - though if Aela ever found the ability to look inside his mind, she would know immediately that he felt as he had no other choice. He had been thrown into a life of complacency when he was obviously born for greatness and out of every one he has met, Aela is the only one who could see that (or challenge it) and for that reason, the young colt could not refuse her. It irritates him, of course, that this golden girl captured his attention so fully and quickly; but Skandar believes himself wise beyond his years and he knows the path to greatness is led by the silent girl he had met by chance.

Skandar was still learning about Pangea - the territory itself and how it had been formed (Aela knew all the stories of old and politely informed him of all of its former glory), as well as learning the different paths the canyons carry him and which areas were dead ends. He found Pangea itself eerie as if something heavy and unbearable has stretched itself across its terrain, flickering tepidly and only waiting for a single spark to light it. Sometimes the wind would howl through the dusty rock and the colt would allow his spine to shiver from tip to tail as it echoed the entire territory.

She finds him easily (or he assumes so because he seems to always be right where she needs him) and he throws his head upward in a gentle huff, looking for her. He looks himself today - nothing out of the ordinary save for the indigo and burnt orange of his natural skin, winking with the soft sparks of the constellations that paint his skin. Her thoughts are immediately his own (something intimate, he feels, in the way she so easily enters his mind) and he cannot help the half-smirk that cracks across his indigo mouth. He’d never say it to her out loud, of course, but he finds it a compliment that she remembers his ability so fondly.

In an instant, his body shimmers and then his skin begins to peel, flapping against each other like feathers. Beneath the outer edges of purple and orange - instead of the color of blood and muscle and sinew - darkness writhes. It seems to pour out of him, spilling across his constellation skin and outward, wrapping him in shadow. He becomes the shadow in the canyons, dark and pulsing, a black spot that does not belong in the clay of the twisted path he was on.

Skandar comes before her as only shadow, melding into her own that is cast on the ground before taking any sort of shape that would resemble an equine. She would know it was him, of course, as it came rushing over the horizon, sinister and relentless. He whispers her name though he has no mouth, but the smile on his face becomes discernable as he takes shape beside her - a shadow creature but those same, intense orange eyes.

In a way that he has yet to discover in the handful of others he has met in Beqanna, no excitement breaches his chest save for when he is beside Aela. He’d never admit it, of course, and though he feels as though the golden girl has some sort of insight into his mind (with her ability to shower him with her own memories), he still would not find it within him to remark on the thrilling chill that travels down his spine when they are both together. He is nearly vibrating, even though he is only shadow and darkness, wondering what sort of plans that she has for them in this endless night.

Skandar is not at all perturbed by the insidious ring that hangs heavily in the sky, nor the lack of stars and light. Why be afraid of something he can easily become? Perhaps a naive thought, but for one as young and powerful as he is, the reasoning is sound - he does not have room in his heart for fear, only for himself and the select few that he silently deems worthy, like the stunning girl beside him. She glances away from his shadowy-body and into the darkness; he turns as well, his orange eyes nearly glowing in the pitch of the night. Creatures are out there, rifling through Pangea (and all of Beqanna) without any hesitation, creeping in the darkness, crawling against the canyon walls with slick, black bodies that seem both fully shadow and fully real.

When Aela turns to face him again, Skandar does the same. He is expectant, patient. She has yet to disappoint.

In a moment, she feeds him her desires.

Fire dances before his eyes, red hot and burning. Light. Though there is no real shape of a mouth in this shadowy-form, Skandar smiles. The dark tendrils of shadow that float out beside him suddenly draw inwards, folding in on themselves. He vibrates and flutters, the sound of wings permeating the still of night as his skin becomes solid and the flayed pieces brush against each other.

The lava of Tephra breaks and cracks like fissures along the blackness of his body. He remembers the lava flows and how their light glows brilliantly against the dark nights, bold and steady and dangerous. His body remains black as onyx, save for the cracks that run like veins across his skin, the orange glow pulsing with the life he gives it. Then, almost unnoticeable with the brilliant magma that flows continuously about his body, his mane and tail burst into flames.

His light illuminates the near-gold of her skin and he looks to her eyes, silent and waiting. Would the creatures be drawn to his light, like moths to a flame? Or are they like roaches, set to scurry away from the brightness? His orange irises glow gently with a soft hum, preparing himself for whatever may come from the darkness, as well as whatever Aela had planned for them. 

In the sweltering and brooding darkness (a foreboding darkness, one that even Skandar finds drawing chills up and down his spine), he becomes a beacon for her. She is pleased, he thinks, because he is sure he would know if she wasn’t. It is hard to tell what makes her happy, but he has found that discovering her dislikes were far easier and expected. He doesn’t think that he exactly seeks her approval, but moreso that he desires the subtle way she seems fascinated by him. He wonders, if she had the power, would she literally pick his brain apart to see what makes him the way he is? He doesn’t wonder long, for he already knows the answer would be yes.

Aela’s images that cross his mind are familiar - he had seen them (he thinks) moving within the shadows, more apt to announce their presence by sound than by sight. Their shape is a complicated one, as it seems that each of them is different than the rest and Skandar briefly wonders if they are merely shadow-versions of themselves, dark and twisted demons that are as rare as Aela and himself. He does not know the golden girl’s thoughts on the creatures - only that she is thinking of them - but he (and perhaps it is their length of knowing each other) can tell that her memory is merely that; there is no request within the image and even so, Skandar finds his molten lips twitching thoughtfully. Could he live amongst them, undetected?

In a new breath of a moment, Aela shows him the tree. This, unlike before, is not a suggestion. Without hesitation and with the subtle cracking of his skin, he breaches out to lead her there in the pitch black of this endless night.

Together they stand before the tree itself and though Skandar knows nothing of the previous Dominus or her abilities, he remembers quite vividly seeing her swallowed into the earth. So he eyes the tree intently, tilting his glowing head towards Aela, wondering what it is she has brought them here to do. Only a few silent moments pass before she reveals her intent: blood on stone, feeding magic.

Understanding immediately, Skandar snorts sharply which causes steam to rise from his nostrils while tiny droplets of lava spurt with it.

Perhaps it would make her angry (not necessarily what he thinks to do, but that he hadn’t asked permission), but it did not stop him. He does not think twice - Aela will bleed for the tree and receive her reward first. This thought is accompanied by another: it would be him who does it.

His bright orange eyes deepen into a glowing scarlet, a soft hum vibrating with its sudden glow. The intensity of it makes his lava-laced body pale in comparison as he fixates his gaze on the slop of her golden shoulder. In barely a breath of a moment and with a gentle furrowing of his brow, two red beams of light shoot from his eyes, searing into her skin in one single spot.

When he blinks, the beam disappears and it takes a few moments for the darkened world to adjust once again. Skandar still crackles and burns but it is dim; fading. His lips twitch as the cracks of orange disappear and close, the sound of fluttering skin signaling him reverting back to his star-studded shape. His mane and tail, however, remain flames - small and close to his neck, crackling and spitting.

He watches as the ruby red of her blood drips down her leg, cutting through the gold bands around her knee and slicing through the soft white of her ankles, staining her. He takes a single step to the side, allowing her the space to let her blood drip onto the tree’s roots that grip tightly beneath the grey stone.

The sound of her cry does not stir anything within him; nothing that can be seen outwardly, nor even recognized inwardly. He is nearly emotionless as his burning gaze sears into her skin, unphased by the smell of singed flesh and hair, mesmerized by the shimmering blood that now trembles down the slender gold and ivory of her foreleg. The dark violet of his lip twitches as the light in his eyes returns to a brilliant orange, fixating on the open wound a moment more before aligning his eyesight with hers.

There is nothing in him that does not suspect Aela to meet his bold action with that of her own - he fully expects retaliation and does not move from her when she comes closer. The air is thick between them once again, the scent of blood and burnt skin amongst the palpitating electricity that shatters between them. She is quite literally a breath away from him, her pale muzzle hovering at his jawline, where his throat pulses with an insidious heartbeat. Can she hear it?

Skandar fails to notice how Aela’s blood has fallen on the stone (as had been the plan all along, right?), far too enraptured with her silent and brooding eyes and the way her breath makes him nearly frozen.

The young stallion’s ears fall to his neck as the heat between them rises, becoming uncomfortable but he did not have the strength (nor the will) to move from her. There is a sharp snort from the violet of his nostrils - a warning, maybe - but it does nothing to stop her from alighting fire at his throat, seemingly to slice the precious artery that thrums there.

The moment is beautiful, Skandar will think to himself when he looks back on it later.

He screams in a way that she had, his skin flickering and peeling uncontrollably as the white-hot pain sears the deep swirls of orange and purple of his neck. Blood flows easily from the wound, bright red and dripping. Skandar nearly believes he will stay in this moment forever, with her burning him until he is nothing but ash and bone - but clarity finds him eventually. He finds the strength to pull away from her (even though the motion is hesitant) so that the blood that trickles down his chest and stains the deep galaxies of his legs now feeds the bone-bare tree that watches both of them silently.

Skandar’s skin flickers as fire dancing beneath the deep starlight-colored pieces.

Now they both will burn.