I. The Broken Creature
In the stable of a miserly man, there lived a dappled pony named Iska. Once, she had been swift, and once, she had been strong, but cruelty is a burden that even the sturdiest back cannot bear forever. Her master, a man of narrow means and narrower affections, had decided she was of no more use to him.

“She is lame,” he said. “And a lame beast is of no value, except perhaps as an example.”

So he ordered her to be taken away at dawn, and Iska, hearing this, lowered her head in silence. She had no reason to doubt the truth of his words.

II. The Black-Winged Witness
That night, as the moon scrawled silver letters upon the earth, a crow perched upon the stable gate. He was a remarkable crow—black as ink, with eyes like polished jet, reflecting all and concealing nothing.

“I have seen what was done to you,” he said, in the voice of one who had seen much and forgotten little. “And I will not let them make an end of you.”

Iska did not answer. The beaten do not often speak.

The crow pecked at the latch with the diligence of one writing an urgent letter, and soon the gate swung open.

“Go,” he said. “The world is wide, and your master’s word is not the only one that matters.”

Iska hesitated. The world had never been wide for her—only long and narrow, a path beaten down by weary hooves. But at last, she stepped into the night, and the wind carried her away.

III. The Lion Upon the Silver Pond
After much wandering, she came to a pond of silver, so still and perfect that the sky itself seemed to kneel upon its surface.

And there, upon the water, walked a lion.

His mane was the color of morning, and his eyes held the weight of a thousand stars. There was neither shadow nor doubt in his face, but there was knowledge, and to be truly known is a thing both terrible and beautiful.

Iska lowered her head. She was a broken thing, and broken things had no right to beauty.

The lion looked at her, not with pity, but with recognition. And though he spoke no word, something in his gaze reached out to her, as if to say, I see you.

But she turned and fled, for a lame creature has no business among the divine.

IV. The Nature of Fear
The crow found her trembling in the shade of an old willow tree.

“Why did you run?” he asked.

“Because he is too great,” Iska whispered, “and I am too small.”

The crow tilted his head. “Then you do not yet know him.”

V. The Wounded King
Days later, she came to a field where the earth was scattered with stones, as if the sky had rained down its anger.

And there, at the center, lay the lion—wounded, bleeding, broken.

The whispers of the wind carried the voices of those who had done this:

“We have no need of him.”
“He was not what we wanted.”
“Let him die.”

Iska did not speak. There are some things too terrible for words.

The crow landed beside her. “You fear to be seen,” he said. “But he did not turn away from them. Nor from you.”

VI. The Dawn and the Healing
That night, she lay beside the lion, though she did not dare to touch him.

And when morning came—he was gone.

Yet something had changed. The wind stirred with warmth, the earth sang a song she did not know, and when she rose to her feet—her limp was gone.

VII. A Journey of Witness
The crow flew ahead as she stepped into the world, her hooves no longer dragging, but light and sure.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

Iska lifted her head. “Run,” she said. “And tell of what I have seen.”

And the wind, hearing her, carried her words into the morning.