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“I’m left,” said Devon. “I’m all that’s left.” Visander remembered—kneeling by a sun-dappled stream, scooping up the refreshing water, sensing something behind him. Looking up, he had seen the shy creature watching, a young colt. Their eyes had met; startled, a flash of silver, and it was gone. “It can’t be.” A pale boy in a small, dirty room, dressed in crude human garments, wearing animal hide on his feet. Devon had drawn back, pressing himself into the opposite wall as if by instinct. Visander reached out to touch him. “My steed, I—” “Don’t,” said Devon. “I am not that young colt I was. I
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she didn’t say, because she knew by now words didn’t help, and that when things were broken they never really got mended. You just went on. You just went on as best as you knew how.
