“Also true. I am a strategic menace.”
Stan shifts his weight, still watching me with that same intense curiosity. “And the other words? In what manner are they used?”
“Some are used for intimidation, some for seduction, some for arguments, some for poetry?—”
“Poetry?” Hart echoes.
“Very niche market,” I admit. “Not always successful.”
Malachi exhales a laugh he tries to hide behind a cough. Theo presses his forehead against my shoulder. “Only you could turn this into a lesson.”
“I contain multitudes,” I say with dignity.
“You contain chaos,” Gwyneth corrects.
“Semantics.”
Stan hums, clearly still processing. “And you prefer floof.”
“I do.”
He nods once. “I will adopt this term.”
There is a beat.
“No,” everyone says.
I beam. “You’re welcome.”
Note to self:develop floof-friendly saddles once the revolution is off my to-do list, because it feels like my thighs are on fire and I am very concerned about getting down given the last toilet break involved a shout which made the local wildfire hide in fear.
“You good?” Nash asks.
The knights passed me around as we rode, with Nash being the final one to be subjected to my constant grumblings about the lack of feminine involvement in equine tackle.
I shift, trying and failing to find relief. “My thighs are either on fire or numb, and I feel like someone is punching my floof each tempo. It’s bruised and is a victim of this war before the battle has even begun. Starting me out with a handicap doesn’t make this a fair fight.”
He kisses my neck, sending pleasant little tingles down my spine and causing heat to swirl in my stomach. “I can’t fix it, but I can distract,” he offers.
I turn my head and smile. “Thank you, but if you make me orgasm on the back of this horse, I’m going to have to tap out. You’ll just need to pick me up on your return from bringing in a new era.”
“Not far now,” Genie says.
“You said that far, far ago,” I point out.
“This time I mean it,” he says, pointing into the distance.
We crest the ridge of a hill, and there before us is an imposing temple rising from the earth in tiers of dark stone. Each level is carved with symbols that shift when you look at them too long, as if the stories etched into their surfaces refuse to stay still. Worn columns stretch high and unyielding, their bases wrapped in creeping vines that have long since given up trying to claim them. Flapping in the breeze are several terrifyingly familiar banners. A black one with a gold crown split in two. A green serpent eating its own tail. A tower crumbling in a storm.
And the sky? Decorated with violent veins burning gold.
“We’re just missing the bodies,” I whisper as we come to a long staircase which cuts straight through the center, leading to towering doors that are ajar.
Stan stamps his hoof beside me. “This is not a place built by Idols,” he murmurs. “This is older. This is from the before—before the Idols, before the Grimms, before any being laid claim to the land.”
He’s right. I can feel the weight of it in my bones.
Genie stares at the temple with equal parts reverence and fear. But underneath that is recognition.
