Chapter 7—To Each Their Own

“What comes easy to one is a mountain to another—but all mountains matter”

The second day began before dawn. Tadari roused them with no more ceremony than a sharp rap against the stable door, his silhouette framed in torchlight. The smell of hay and musk was stronger in the early hours, mingling with the cool air that rolled down from the western hills. Work began as it had yesterday—water, feed, cleaning—but quicker this time, for they now knew the rhythm. By midday, the worst of it was behind them, and Tadari finally permitted what they had all been waiting for.

“Afternoons,” he said, arms folded, “you’ll ride. Or try to. You’ve earned that much.”

Ophelin’s eyes lit with determination. Randall only smiled, calm as always. Raiden, leaning on his rake, tried not to show his interest, though the thought tugged at him like a string.

Tadari led them first to the yard behind the stables, where the horses paced restlessly, sensing the shift in routine. He brought Randall to a Silvermane, tall and proud, its pale hide gleaming in the sunlight. The horse tossed its head once, but quieted almost instantly when Randall placed a hand on its neck. He murmured something low, words too soft to hear, and swung into the saddle with a natural ease that startled even Tadari.

The Silvermane paced forward, hooves striking steady rhythm across the packed dirt. Randall did not falter; if anything, his posture grew calmer, as though the saddle had always belonged beneath him. His bow was slung across his back, and though he did not draw it, his hand twitched as if imagining the pull of string and the flight of an arrow loosed from a moving mount. Hitting a moving target is one thing, he thought, the corner of his mouth quirking. But shooting while moving yourself… The challenge gleamed before him, both daunting and exhilarating.

From the sidelines, Tadari gave a single approving nod. “Natural.”

Crotis are always like that, Raiden thought suddenly, and the notion startled him. The words had risen from somewhere deeper than memory. A figure blurred behind his eyes—a man from another age, beasts gathering at his side, predator and steed alike docile in his presence. No sane beast dared strike him. Raiden blinked, breath caught. Why do I know that? It feels like my memory… but I don’t remember learning it.

While Randall guided the Silvermane in steady circles, Tadari turned to Ophelin. He led out the Ironmane—the same bay mare that had toyed with her patience yesterday. Its thick neck rippled with muscle, eyes flashing with stubborn intelligence. “Prized as war-steeds,” Tadari said evenly. “They’ll break an enemy line as surely as a lance. But first, they’ll break you.”

Ophelin grit her teeth and stepped forward. She had faced men twice her size, had smashed Garid into the dirt without flinching. Yet as she laid a hand on the mare’s flank, it snapped back its head and bared its teeth, forcing her to yank her hand away. The sting of near-failure burned sharper than any spar.

Tadari stood by her side at first, voice clipped, offering firm instructions—where to hold the reins, how to approach without threatening, how to press her weight into the saddle. She followed, stubbornly, but the Ironmane refused her every attempt. When she finally mounted, the beast reared, nearly throwing her, and Tadari caught the bridle to steady her. His irritation showed, but he only said, “Again.”

She tried, and failed. Again. And again. Tadari’s tone grew sharper, his patience stretched thin. At last, with a shake of his head, he walked away to tend Raiden instead, muttering something under his breath about stubborn horse and stubborn rider.

Ophelin’s face burned, but it was not wounded pride that stung her—it was disappointment. She knew her place among the Academy students. She knew her strength was real. But cavalry was the legacy of House Harg. Its greatest knights had carved history not with sword alone, but astride destriers whose charges shattered armies. Infantry had honor, but cavalry had legend. And here she was, unable to tame even a single Ironmane. The thought gnawed at her, pricking doubts sharper than any bruise. She masked it with anger, cursing under her breath, striking the brush hard against the stall door as though daring the beast to yield. But the mare only tossed its head, ears flat, as if mocking her.

Meanwhile, Tadari gestured Raiden toward a lean, dark-coated horse with slender legs and sharp, alert ears. “Stormfoot Courser,” he explained. “They won’t carry heavy armor, but if you value speed… few breeds can match them.”

Raiden studied the animal for a moment, then nodded. He approached slowly, brushing its neck with careful strokes, speaking nothing, only matching its breathing. The Courser shifted uneasily but did not shy away. When he mounted, it balked, stamping and tossing its head, but with Tadari’s patient guidance he steadied himself, coaxing the animal forward. It did not accept him fully—not yet—but it tolerated him. The bond was tentative, fragile, but present.

For Raiden, it felt right. He was no brute, no wall of strength. He needed movement, agility. A steed that could weave as quickly as he could think. His leg ached, his balance wavered, but when the Courser finally trotted forward under him, a thin smile touched his lips. Envy pricked at him as he watched Randall, who rode like the saddle had always been his, but he forced it aside. This was his own trial, and the Courser—this lean creature of wind and speed—was his answer.

By the time Tadari returned to Ophelin, his patience was frayed but not gone. He tried once more, adjusting her grip, repeating the same instructions, but the Ironmane stamped, snorted, and nearly threw her again. At last, he exhaled heavily, muttering, “Stubborn horse, stubborn rider,” before leaving her to wrestle with it on her own.

The hours slipped past until the sun bled orange across the horizon, casting long shadows over the yard. Randall dismounted easily, patting the Silvermane with quiet respect. Ophelin stumbled down, breath ragged, sweat plastering her hair, frustration still burning in her eyes. Raiden slid from the Courser’s back, his thigh throbbing but his spirit lighter for the ride.

They returned the horses to their stalls, brushing them down, replacing feed, clearing space for the night. The rhythm of labor smoothed the edges of the day’s trials, and when Tadari declared the work finished, the sky was already sliding into dusk.

Randall stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Dorms. Beds.”
Ophelin groaned in agreement, dragging her feet toward the door.
Raiden, however, shook his head and sank into a haystack with a sigh. “Not me. If I sleep in the dorms, I won’t wake before dawn. Here, the horses will rouse me.”

Randall gave him a long look. “One day, you’ll regret that stubbornness.”
Raiden only grinned, eyes already half-closed.
Tadari opened his mouth to protest, then paused when the boy’s snores cut the air. He shook his head, lips twitching faintly, and let it be.

So ended the second day—not with glory or clash, but with bruised pride, sweat, and small victories. Trials of hay and hoof, of patience and humility. And in their own way, they weighed heavier than any duel.