“Right. You’re right. We have to start. He’s waiting for us.”

“Good,” Quinn says. “What next?”

“A name. We need to name him.” A harsh laugh claws out of your throat. “Gods, everything that comes to mind is so bitter. Just look at him, Quinn. Look at what I did. What do you call a horse you’ve betrayed this way? Ruin? Prodigal? Lost?”

“Trust,” Quinn replies firmly. “You call him Trust.”

To your surprise, the horse’s coat flickers brightly in response to the name. He nuzzles down at Quinn’s shoulder. “Trust,” you repeat numbly. “Trust works.”

You reach a hand out, but the horse startles away from your touch.

“See? He hates me. He knows I’m to blame. He can feel it.”

Quinn takes your hand gently in her own. She feels cold and ethereal, but she leads you patiently over to the horse. Together, you stroke its neck in small, circling patterns. Over and over the two of you repeat the horse’s name, allowing it to hear your voices, the single-syllable sound. Before attempting a mounting, Quinn casts a sympathetic glance your way.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re crying. In our world…”

You nod. You can feel the tears sliding down your cheeks.

“Bravos is really gone, isn’t he?”

Quinn’s face is a mirror of your sorrow. “Yes,” she says. “He’s gone.”

She flashes into the saddle and helps pull you up. You’re not sure you could have managed it without her help. You don’t object either when she sits in front, taking the reins. It’s hard to think straight because it feels like your whole world has slipped mercilessly out of reach.

A glance at your bracelet shows Bravos’s name in third. The distance between you grows with each passing second. He’s gone. He left you. He betrayed you. In this condition, you’re not sure you could direct any horse, blind or not. Besides, it’s clear to you that Quinn has a better bond with this rebirthing. You search the blurring plains, but each time you find them excruciatingly empty. How did Quinn know?

How could Bravos do this?

Understanding comes slowly as you cover the plodding, sunlit miles. The first realization is that you never messed up the components. It isn’t your fault. Bravos must have poisoned the ashes. You trace back through his words: I figured a few doses of Absolution might be useful.

In the concealing darkness, he baited you into believing his fifth component was something it wasn’t. You knew Absolution isn’t a dark powder. Any other rider and you would have questioned that fact. But it was Bravos, spinning pretty lies through pretty lips.

He poisoned your ashes.

Everything feels broken now.