Back home at last. 

Crispin had left him at a corridor where the heat had grown tolerable and the inclined stone gave way to cobbles and moss after Ghost assured the knight he’d be alright from here. The old stallion had returned to the furnace to continue his own quest, but not without assuring Ghost that if he ever needed help, he’d find him.

Hah. 

Ghost picked his way up the sloping path, tension unwinding from his withers with every patch of mushrooms and trickle of water. The furnace was a terrifying new experience, but the caverns were home. 

“You’re not equipped for these depths,” Crispin noted, looking over his younger companion curiously, “What brings you into the dungeons?” 

Ghost had told him the truth: he lived here. The few times he’d ever seen the surface had been touch-and-go. Nighttime was peaceful and quiet, and for a while he’d thought maybe he could set hoof up there with the coursers, in the wild and free. Then the sun had risen, and Ghost had shied away, his pale eyes far too used to the dim he’d been born into. 

Besides, the surface was no place for a monster anyway. 

Crispin had called him a courser, but a lot of travelers did, until they saw through it and fled or attacked him. Ghost was thin, bony, and pale; a poor mimicry of the hot-blooded horses that delved the dungeons with valor. He wasn’t like them. 

Just another ghost in the darkness.