Chapter 6—Trial by Hay

“Not all trials are fought with blades. Some are borne in silence, beneath the mundane.”

The first hours passed in silence, broken only by the scrape of rakes and the steady crunch of hay underfoot. Horses shifted restlessly in their stalls, snorting and stamping, ears flicking at every sound. The work was far from glorious—mucking out straw, hauling water, brushing coats dulled with dust—but it was work that left no room for pride.

Raiden found his rhythm quickly, though his wounded leg made each step heavy. Randall worked with steady patience, his bucket sloshing as he moved between troughs. Ophelin, however, wrestled with her task, muttering curses every time the bay mare snapped its teeth or swished its tail at her.

“That one’s an Ironmane,” Tadari said at last, his voice calm but edged with dry humor. “Prized as war-steeds. Stubborn, quick to anger. She’ll test you before she trusts you.”

Ophelin scowled but kept brushing, though the mare’s ears pinned flat at every stroke. She knew the truth of his words. The greatest knights of House Harg had always been cavalry, their names sung for charges that broke armies, their steeds etched into banners and song. And here she was, struggling to curry a single horse’s coat. The thought stung sharper than any tooth or hoof—this was her trial, as real as any duel or spar.

The stable stretched long and rectangular, its wooden beams blackened by years of smoke from oil lamps. The air carried the warm musk of hay and sweat, undercut by sharp tangs of manure. Stalls lined either side in neat rows: forty horses reserved for students, sixty more for the Academy’s own martial forces. Each one wide enough to house the massive destriers favored by the knightly orders. Even so, one in three stood empty, their occupants gone with the Exemplars and their escorts on campaign.

The eastern wing, Tadari explained, belonged mostly to the students: leaner riding horses for drills, practice jousts, or lessons in mounted combat. The western wing was reserved for the Academy’s forces—warhorses bred for strength and discipline, beasts trained to withstand chaos and clash without fear. Between the wings stood sheds for tack and armor, racks for saddles, and bins where fresh feed and oats were stored in bulk.

It was not just a stable but a battlefield in miniature, the heart of every mounted knight’s training.

Tadari’s voice carried flatly over the sound of shifting hooves and snorting beasts. “These aren’t pets. They’re weapons. Tools of war. And they demand more care than a sword or bow ever will. You’ll clean them, feed them, water them, and learn to respect them. A poorly kept horse is as dangerous to its rider as any enemy on the field.”

His words carried weight, and Raiden realized this wasn’t just about labor—it was tradition, discipline, survival.

Each stall was marked with care, nameplates hung above the doors: Ironmanes with their thick necks and stormy temperaments, swift Sandrunners with slender legs built for deserts, sturdy Hillmares with broad chests suited for carrying heavy loads, Flamecoats whose fiery coloration and hot tempers mirrored their name, and the prized Silvermanes, balanced in speed and strength, the pride of noble riders. Every breed had its quirks, and Tadari rattled them off as they worked, half instruction, half warning.

Raiden listened quietly, storing the knowledge away. Randall, wiping sweat from his brow, murmured almost to himself, “Wouldn’t mind loosing an arrow from horseback one day. Shooting while moving… different story than shooting at moving targets.” He imagined it—the shifting balance, the rhythm of hooves beneath him—and the thought both daunted and thrilled him.

Ophelin, meanwhile, struggled on. The Ironmane jerked its head, tail swishing deliberately into her face. She grit her teeth, brushing harder, whispering under her breath that she would master it, no matter how long it took. Randall caught her muttering and smirked, but wisely kept the jest to himself.

For House Harg, cavalry wasn’t merely one branch of war; it was their cornerstone. Their knights drilled their destriers to become unstoppable hammers, their charges meant to pierce enemy lines, trample formations, and tear apart even disciplined armies. To fight against Harg’s cavalry was to meet death head-on.

It was during this rhythm of chores that shadows passed by the stable entrance—Garid’s lackeys, strolling the path beyond. Snickers reached their ears, but none dared step inside. Rad was among them, his broad frame unmistakable. He threw one glance their way—just as Ophelin slammed the brush into the stall door in frustration. The sound cracked like a whip, and Rad visibly flinched, shoulders hunching before he quickly averted his eyes and hurried after the others.

Ophelin noticed. A sharp smile tugged her lips. Terror had its uses.

When the lackeys were gone, Tadari broke the silence again, his tone even but with a trace of dry humor. “Horses don’t care whose House you serve. They’ll kick just the same. And fear doesn’t muck the stalls.”

The hours dragged, heavy with work but softened by talk. Between sweeping and feeding, questions began to pass back and forth. Randall asked first, wiping his hands. “How long have you been here, Tadari?”

“Since I was ten,” he answered, matter-of-fact. “Went straight to the stables. Enrolled in Martial course same year. Haven’t left since.”

“Ten?” Raiden frowned. “That’s young.”

“Not in Cerny lands,” Tadari replied. His eyes grew distant for a moment. “Desert people grow fast. My home was all sand and salt air, trade routes snaking through dust and stone. The sea on one side, caravans on the other. I came north for the Academy, and the stables took me in.”

Ophelin leaned on her brush, curious despite herself. “So your tuition… you pay it with labor?”

“Yes,” Tadari said simply. “Stables keep me here. And the Academy pays me, too. Coin’s small, but enough. I’m student and worker both.”

Randall nodded slowly, respect clear in his eyes. “And we’re here for silver.”

“Mr. Lorig asked us,” Raiden added. “That, and… I won’t pretend coin isn’t part of it.”

Tadari gave them a faint, knowing smile. “At least you’re honest.”

The sun sank lower, slanting shafts of orange light across the beams. Sweat clung to their necks, hands blistered, backs sore. Yet there was something grounding in the work, something that dulled the noise of whispers and rivalries.

When at last Tadari declared the day’s labor done, Raiden leaned against a haystack, breath escaping in a tired laugh. Before Randall could stop him, he slid down into the straw, eyes half-lidded.

“Dorms,” Randall urged. “Go sleep properly.”

Raiden shrugged, already too comfortable. “No class tomorrow. I’ll live.”

His words slurred into snores.

Ophelin groaned, dragging her feet toward the door. Randall walked beside her, speaking low to keep her awake, his patience steady as always. Tadari sighed, about to protest Raiden’s choice of bed—only to shake his head when the boy snored louder, cutting off argument before it began.

The day ended not with triumph or battle, but with hay, sweat, and the quiet bond of shared labor. For all its smell and grit, the stables had offered them something the training grounds never did—an honest weight, one carried together.