The sound of hooves stirs Knots from his dozing.

“Knots,” Duskwalker hisses, “you have to come see this.”

Knots blinks blearily at her. She’s not wearing any of her equipment. A blurry glance around finds it across the cavern next to his own. “Was’happening?”

“I was exploring,” she tells him. “Come here.”

Knots shakes himself, dark mane tussled on both sides of his neck, forelock falling into his eyes, and stretches. Dusk is already walking away. He hurries to follow her.

The dungeon here is cozy, if such a word could be used for the place. It’s quiet and green. Water pools in sweet, clear pools and the untrodden mossy path they take weaves between them. When he peers into them, he spots the tiny flickers of pale fish and colorful invertebrates. Far above, some cracks allow light from the surface to dapple the ground they walk on.

Duskwalker doesn’t lead him far. She ducks to the left and through a curtain of green vines. When Knots follows, they leave dew clinging to his coat. His skin quivers to shake it off.

“Look,” Duskwalker murmurs from in front of him. He’s never heard her voice so low or reverent. Duskwalker is a loud, brash horse. Getting her to whisper is as hard as scaling a shale hillside.

Knots joins her, and follows her gaze. Immediately, he understands.

Painted on the walls in front of them are dozens of horses in shades of earthen brown and charcoal black. They look like coursers, but their body proportions are unlike any courser Knots knows. They’re round, very round, with thin legs and small heads. Their tails are mere lines, drifting behind them as they gallop across the pale tan of the cave wall. All of them run together as a herd. The longer Knots looks, the more details he realizes. Some of the horses run close together, heads tossed up so that their muzzles almost touch. Some of the horses are tiny, running hard at the flanks of their larger kin. Foals.

He and Duskwalker stand there in silence, neither courser willing to disturb such precious silence. Not even the water drips in here. The floor is deep and sandy and dry under his hooves. It's also perfectly undisturbed.

Until recently, Knots couldn’t have even imagined what it would have been like to live in a herd, and it makes him ache for his younger self. These painted horses have kin and friendships. The foals are sheltered between the unyielding bulk of their mothers and aunts. Knots grew up nameless and alone, his memories of his parents thin and threadbare. Flight or fight had been the name of the game for as long as he could remember, and it had only ever made him unbearably skittish.

“Do you think they were happy?” he wonders aloud.

Duskwalker considers the strange horses, and then looks at him. “I think they were.” One of her ears flicks backwards. “…Are you happy now, Knots?”

Knots considers. He has a name. He has a best friend. His best friend coaxed him from the dungeon and led him to more horses, and her mentor gladly took him under his wing without even a moment of hesitation. If this painted herd was anything like that and they were happy… “Yes,” he says. “I’m happy now.”