Etro is not in and of herself dark, but that does not stop her from being drawn to the shadows. There was something in her that was curious about the sharp edges and the bloodstained fingers. She could feel herself drawn to it, opening herself up to the darkness in ways that she did not. Such darkness came in many different forms—in the flat shark-eyes of Kingslay, in the desperate brokenness of Sleaze—but it came all the same, and she did not attempt to stop it. In fact, she welcomed it. Her poor mother.

Today was no different. She moved through the meadow, taking care to skirt alongside the borders. It wasn’t that she was anti-social; she just considered it rude to barge into conversations when she knew that she could affect them without their knowledge. She had seen it happen before—the traits melting from their bodies or the frustration when accessing their abilities made them feel as if they were underwater.

She was a heavy blanket on most conversations; she smothered out all of their fire.

That, however, did not stop her when she saw it. Her ears swiveled atop her head, and she peered forward, mouth pressing together in thought. She had seen a lot in her life (sand monsters created by her mother’s whims, Kingslay burning with ash and soot, her father being brought back from dead), but she had never seen anything like that. Part of her knew she should leave—should bow out—but she could not help herself. She moved slowly toward the creature, blocky head lowered, until she was several feet away.

Silence fell over them for several seconds, the only sound Etro’s deep breaths that fell in steady rhythm. Finally, because she could not stand not knowing, Etro whispered: “Hello.”

It is different than anything she has seen before, dangerous—clearly a predator, although her senses to such dangers are dulled by generations of horses living in relative civility. Still, there are warning bells that ring in the back of her mind, and her nerves are set on fire with the need to run. But she doesn’t. Like always, she ignores that faint calling to save herself, to preserve her life, and she just takes another step.

Her mouth twists with pleasure at his attempt at a greeting, and she nods in response. “My name is Etro.” The only of her family with such a different name. The rest of her siblings were named in her mother’s tongue—names that were rich with spice and beautiful in that foreign language. She, however, had named herself, or at least that is what her mother had whispered to her. A name without meaning. Just a name.

She wonders if it has a name, if it has ever clicked and growled syllables to refer to itself. She thinks it hasn’t, but then again, she also has a hard time imagining such a thing being born. It looks like something that simply crawled out of the ground and became something out of nothing. Such a thing could not have a mother, could not have been cradled close at birth, loved from its first breath. The thought saddens her.

“Are you by yourself?” She looks around them and does not see anything, anyone, that belonged to it, but she feels the urge to ask anyway. Perhaps because she wants to know if there are more around (some faint attempt at staying aware of nearby dangers) or perhaps because her heart aches for the bladed creature before her. Perhaps her feral heart simply couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being alone like her.

None of this makes sense to her; none of this triggers any form of self-protection or memory or anything to prepare herself for this meeting. She knows that she should do something—should perhaps leave before that bladed body and sharp teeth are turned against her—but she is powerless against her own curiosity. She is powerless to stop her fate from drawing her time and time again to the edge of a cliff, just waiting for the next breeze to push her over and into the abyss. She is fated to live so close to death, it would seem.

“Cth,” she tries to mirror the half of its name it gives and shakes her head at its trilling. “I’m sorry. I’m trying,” she says in her silver bell voice. “Yesth,” she echoes again and this time, she manages it—at least a little—her tongue wrapping around the strangle syllables. “Did you have a family?” she asks, wondering what it meant, if it meant anything at all. If it was named or simply given the syllables to itself.

When silence falls again, she takes another step toward it, forever bold in the face of danger, and although she is tempted to touch its flesh—fascinated with the way light reflected off of it—she refrains. Drawing a deep breath, she simply looks at it, questions unasked and forever unanswered hanging between them. “Cth, do you want to have a family?” She wonders if it even knows what that means.

There are worlds inside of it she will never understand. There are things that shape him, it, that are alien to her in almost as severe of a fashion as the bladed plates that compose its body. She would not understand the relationship between it and its mother; she would not understand the way its tongue cannot wrap around the syllables so natural to her; she would not understand the hungering for meat that would make her own stomach turn against her. Still, she does not fear him. Never fears what she should.

“Yes, a pack,” she nods with enthusiasm—pleased that she was making some sort of progress with it, although she does not trust that the progress has been much. “Do you want a pack?” She is not sure why she is asking; it is not like she has a pack of her own to offer him. Once, she might have been able to offer it that. Once, she had been princess of the desert (is again, she supposes) and had run wild among the dunes. Once, she had been blanketed by stars and promise—the hope of forever pressed into her shoulder blades. But such promise, such hope, had been stripped from her, and she had no such thing to offer.

Now, she was merely a vagrant. She wandered the meadow because it was the only place where she did not feel the magic of the land creep into her belly. She stayed alone often because she could not stand to see the light fade from her companion’s eyes when their wings melted from their body or when they struggle to utilize abilities as familiar as their own flesh. Etro had been born to be a social creature, but she now found herself a loner. Kingslay had turned and left—disappearing into the rustle of brush where life beckoned to be taken. Sleaze had gone too, although she trusted that one day he would return.

She was just alone—and she was lonely.

“I don’t have a pack,” she admits, more to herself than anyone.