Chapter 8—Mare Without Reins

“Strength without control is blade without hilt”

The tenth day of stable work began before sunrise, as it always did. The air was cool and damp, the smell of hay and sweat clinging to the beams before the first light crept through the slats. Raiden had grown used to it—waking among the horses, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, already reaching for a rake before the first bell had rung. The straw was softer than his dormitory cot, he insisted, though Randall and Ophelin never believed him.

What had begun as drudgery now slipped into rhythm. The three of them moved with a kind of practiced efficiency—Raiden mucking stalls despite his limp, Randall carrying buckets as though born to it, Ophelin muttering curses at whichever beast she was unlucky enough to brush. Even Tadari, once terse and distant, had softened slightly. He corrected their mistakes with fewer words, watching their progress with something that almost resembled approval.

By midday, the chores were done, and the four lingered by the open paddock, sweat still damp on their shirts. Randall led a tall Silvermane into the yard, settling into the saddle with ease, the horse moving under him as though guided by thought. He steered in wide arcs, loosed a mock draw from an imaginary bow, then laughed as the beast carried him smoothly into a tight turn. Raiden found himself staring, half-envious, half-admiring. Randall was a natural—Crotis bloodlines are always like that, Raiden thought suddenly, the words unbidden. It was more than a knack; it was a lineage. Their ancestor had been an unmatched beast tamer, so the story went, no creature daring to strike him. The memory didn’t feel like something he had read or been told. It was simply there, surfacing from somewhere deep, as if it had always belonged to him. He frowned slightly, wondering how he even knew.

He turned back to the sleek Stormfoot Courser he had chosen for himself, brushing its dark coat, listening to the rhythm of its breath. It was lean, restless, built for endurance and speed. His hand lingered on its mane, and though he had not yet ridden it freely, he felt something there—an understanding, a partnership waiting to be earned.

Ophelin, however, was in a very different battle. She had tried three times now to mount an Ironmane, and three times she had been thrown into the dirt. The mare stamped hard, head tossing, ears flat, as though mocking her efforts. Ophelin rolled to her knees, spat hay from her mouth, and snarled, “Damn beast.”

Randall’s laugh rang out from horseback. “It’s not the horse, Ophel. It’s you.”

“Shut it, archer-boy,” she snapped back, but her voice lacked venom. The sting was her own. Harg knights were cavalry, their destriers the measure of their worth, and here she was, unable to hold even one stubborn mare. The thought burned more than her bruises.

Tadari, leaning against the fence, crossed his arms. “You’re trying to wrestle it. Won’t work. Ironmanes don’t yield to force.”

Ophelin’s grip tightened on her brush. She muttered something about rusting away with horses and chores, then turned sharply, planting her practice pole into the dirt. “Enough of this. I need a proper fight. Humor me, stable boy.”

Randall raised a brow. “You serious?”

She smirked. “What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll break him?”

Tadari sighed, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he reached for a wooden sword leaning against the fence. “If it’ll keep you from taking it out on the horses.”

The others cleared the paddock, giving space. Dust rose as the two squared off—Ophelin gripping the long pole, Tadari balancing the single sword with quiet precision.

She struck first, a thrust to his chest. Tadari pivoted lightly, letting the pole graze his side, then tapped her wrist with a flick of his blade. A sting of warning, nothing more. She pulled back and swung wide, then thrust again. His footwork was subtle, just enough to slip aside, his blade darting in with small, surgical touches—her ribs, her thigh, the edge of her knee. None of it harsh, but each a reminder of where she left herself open.

At first, she grinned. The clash thrilled her. “Quick on your feet. I like it.” She pressed harder, thrusting with speed, swinging with force. Dust whirled, wood cracked against wood. But as the fight stretched on, her thrusts dwindled. She swung more often, heavier, each arc wider than the last. The sharpness faded from her form, replaced by sheer force. Tadari’s blade whispered through the gaps, striking with clean precision: ribs tapped, elbows grazed, the pole jarred in her grip.

Sweat stung his brow now, though his breathing stayed measured. He worked constantly to meet her strength, always moving, always calculating, but his control never faltered. He saw the gaps widen—the raised heel before each swing, the overcommitted shoulders, the pole dipping too far to recover. His sword answered each with clinical accuracy.

Ophelin’s confidence began to curdle. She clenched her teeth, swung harder, faster. The grin was gone, replaced by a grimace. Her shoulders ached, her lungs burned, but still she pressed on, rage bleeding into every strike. It was Garid’s fight again, only stretched thin: not a sudden fury, but a steady descent into frustration. Her pole crashed down in great arcs, each one thunderous, each one narrowly avoided. Tadari ducked, turned, countered, his sword striking where it hurt most.

Randall muttered at the fence, “She’s losing her edge.”

Raiden said nothing. His eyes narrowed, watching her confidence dissolve into something darker. He recognized it too well.

At last she roared, charging with reckless abandon, bringing her pole down in a crushing overhead strike. Tadari met it with his sword, the wood clattering, then twisted inside her guard. His blade tapped her stomach once, her neck, her knee—three strikes in a breath.

She froze, chest heaving, pole lowering as if her strength had left her. Tadari stepped back, sweat streaking his temple, chest rising heavier now. He had worked for it, but the outcome was clear.

Tadari lowered his practice sword at last, his breathing steady, sweat beading lightly across his brow. His gaze met Ophelin’s—direct, but not unkind.

“You already know how to hit hard,” he said evenly. “Now learn when not to, and you’ll win more fights than you lose.”

The words struck deeper than any blow he had landed.

“You- “Her lips curled, ready to spit denial, but the words caught in her throat. Her pride bristled, yet her conscience twisted. She turned away, muttering only, “Next time will be different.”

Silence hung in the paddock. Randall gave a low whistle. “Well. That was something.”

Ophelin said nothing, her swagger dulled, shoulders tight as she strode off. Raiden let out a long breath, his gaze still on Tadari, who wiped his brow with the edge of his sleeve. Not smug, not triumphant—simply steady.

The sun slid toward the horizon, casting the stables in orange light. The horses shifted in their stalls, stamping hooves at the bell that rang across the grounds. Randall and Ophelin made for the dorms, Randall keeping pace at her side, speaking softly to keep her moving.

Raiden dragged another bundle of hay into the corner, settling down with a grunt. “Not risking oversleeping,” he muttered, stretching out. His words faded into snores before Tadari could protest. The stable hand shook his head, exhaling, and left him to it.

The day ended not in triumph but in lessons that cut deeper than bruises. The clash of pole and sword still echoed faintly in the paddock, a storm that had broken not the fighter before her, but something within herself.