I was a two-year-old filly, and naïve at best. I and the others in our herd had nothing to fear, for my father was the leader, and he had always protected us. None of us had yet experienced death or injury, our arguments always minimal. We were taught to fight, but no one took it seriously. We had no threats. My mother told me that my father was famous across the land as Spirit, the leader of the Cimarron herd. Even the humans knew who he was, and respected him. I knew it comforted my grandmother, Esperanza (she tells me to call her Espe), to know we were always safe.

            It was an early spring day, and I had turned two maybe a fortnight earlier. My features were less and less filly and more and more mare. My legs were longer and thinner, my muscles filled my skin and rounded me out, and my face became more chiseled, like my father’s. I saw the way that even some of the older colts looked at me; it made me nervous. The only one who didn’t see me any differently was Night, he was my best friend, and the older mares joked within our earshot about our foals someday. We brushed it off.

            The morning was warm, and we were all grazing. Night and a few of our friends, Chessa, Nina, and River, were racing. I don’t like racing, but I watched them as I cropped the grass near the edge of the forest. Suddenly I couldn’t see Night anymore, but I didn’t worry. Surely he was just beyond the rocks.

            I heard a sudden rustling from behind me. That rascal! I thought. He went through the forest to sneak up on me! Well, he won’t scare me, I’ll go scare him! I crept quietly into the forest. I could still hear him, in front of me.

            Suddenly, I realized I couldn’t see Night. I could barely see anything; I was so deep in the forest. I must have been walking for ages, because I couldn’t see the edge of the forest, where it met the field. I had no idea where I was. I was lost!

            I heard footsteps in front of me. There was Night, or Father, ready to rescue me!

            “Night, are you there? Is that you? I’m lost.”

            “Lost, are you?” There came a heavy, thick voice that I didn’t recognize. A huge, red stallion stepped out of the shadows. His pelt glowed blood red in the bare light, and his long black mane was full of tangles. His eyes were a dull, cold brown. “Come with me.” And he started off.

            I should have turned and run. I should have cried out for help. I should have demanded to know who he was. I should have done anything but what I did. My curiosity and innocence got the better of me.

            I followed him.

            Every fiber of my being was screaming at me to turn and run. Don’t trust him. My instinct told me my home was in the other direction, and that the situation was not safe. My eyes told me it was getting dark quickly, but my internal clock said it wasn’t even time for the sun to be highest overhead. Soon I was scared. I followed the stallion’s scent, continuing to follow even though I was terrified. He was twice as large as me, he could kill me if I didn’t do as he said.

            It was far past midnight when we walked into a scary-looking clearing. A group of mares, all skinny and scruffy, were guarded by large, battle-scarred stallions. The mares gasped as I entered the clearing. I snorted. Another stallion approached me, an old, dark grey with a sympathetic look in his eyes. He looked beaten. As he led me to where the mares were grouped, he looked at me and snorted, “I’m sorry.” I nickered back.

            The blood bay had taken a position atop a pile of rocks. His muscly body looked even larger in the moonlight. I was accepted into the mares with protective snorts. We all looked up at the stallion as he started to speak.

            “I have left for days, and my efforts have not been in vain. I have returned with the daughter of Spirit, leader of the Cimarron herd!” The other stallions cheered, except for the old grey. “I, Blood, leader of the Dark Reign, will soon have my blood in the Cimarron herd!”

            “If she lives that long!” A light bay mare on one side of me snorted in a hushed tone. “You don’t even look three years old. Far too young for our fates.”

            “I just turned two,” I whispered. She shook her head. “My name is Brooke.”

            “Stay strong, Brooke.” She hung her head over my back. “For your father, please, stay strong.” Some of the other mares muttered, “too young, too young.”

            Blood directed a heavy roan stallion to look over me. “I will take her tomorrow. Make sure she does not escape.”

            “She’s too young, Blood!” A black Paint mare, young and hotheaded, scolded him. “Her body’s not ready for this yet! Let her go, at least for now!” He snapped at her neck, causing it to bleed.

            “Are you insane? If I were to let her go, her father would be on guard for the rest of his life. I would never have another chance, after this!” he shoved through the crowd to stand in front of me. I cringed. “I was prepared to wait years for you. And you, foolish filly, presented yourself to me like a lone foal for a wolf pack!” he snorted. “You will bring me more pleasure than the rest of them here.”

            I did not sleep well that night.

            There was no food to eat the next day. The older mares were willing to give up bare strands for me to eat, but I refused. They needed it more than I did.

            The next night, Blood singled me out. He pulled my long mane, and when I fought, slashed my shoulder. It didn’t bleed, but it hurt. I hadn’t been hurt since Chessa had accidentally thrown a stone at my belly, swimming in the river late last winter. He pulled me behind a row of trees, and I continued to fight. He delivered a crippling kick to my front leg, and laughed when I cried out.

            As he grasped my mane again and his front hooves scraped my back from above, I broke down and cried. I came to a conclusion as I felt him against my hindquarters and screamed.

            I was at his complete and total mercy.

            He did this again night after night for weeks. It hurt every time, and I cried during the day, dreading each night to come.

            The mares comforted me as well as they could, with the light bay, named Carissa, becoming my best friend. As old as she looked, she said she was only five years old.

            The black mare confronted Blood again about me, and he started taking her each night instead of me. I was immensely relieved. Then he started taking other mares, each having turns. Sometimes he took more than one each night. We all lived in mortal fear of being sought out to be taken behind those trees. Whoever came back was wet with sweat, shaggy coat covered in fresh cuts and bites that often bled. We all knew what the others went through, but never talked about it. I was given a break for a while, and then taken the most often. As I grew weaker and weaker, he stopped again.

            I grew to look more and more like the others. I was skinny, and my pelt was scabbed and scruffy, my mane and tail long and tangled.

            After some time, though, I started to gain weight. The others did, too, and after we were all showing significant belly fat, no one went behind the trees anymore. We were relatively safe.

            I asked Carissa why we all gained weight when no one ate.

            “What he’s been doing,” she nickered, “has gotten us all pregnant. We’ll all have foals, come Spring.” A dun mare joined in.

            “I’ve been here for a year already. My last foal died, so Blood kept me for this year,