fault lines tremble underneath my glass house; atrox and any

[atrox]

a t r o x -- Magic does not phase him. He had seen enough of it in his life to know the trickery that sometimes flowed through the veins of other horses. So he does not startle when Bright’s coat shudders with electricity or when Woolf shifts into the mirror image of him or when the trio of them are surrounded by the lights that flare into the sky—illuminating the kingdom with their brightness. He just watches them with that slight frown pulling at the edges of his mouth, his face turning hard with the concentration. His heavy head angles toward the mulberry coat when his voice glosses through his mind, and then toward the filly when she seemingly floats to her feet. These were not children that he had seen before. Usually, magic like this was gained later in life—either from inheritance or from heaven’s gift. While he was no stranger to magic of this nature, he had never seen anyone born like it. Never seen it woven into the very DNA of someone in the same way that it was with these two standing before him. This was entirely new to him, and he was intrigued. “I can see that,” is all he answers finally, shifting back, his body becoming that of the battle-worn stallion. He was not particularly tall, but he was strong—his color as dark as the sky was now. “Where is your mother?” he finally asks, because he knows in some way that she was part of all of this, that they all were. He would not recognize his granddaughter when he saw her, but he would not be surprised to know that she was related to him. After years and dozens upon dozens of descendants, many were. “My name is Atrox,” he finally says, although he is not entirely sure it is necessary. panther-stallion | ex-king | forever chamber guardian