Chapter 13 #3
I mounted Hyacinth in one smooth motion, muscle memory from years of practice. His body was warm and solid beneath me, muscles coiled and ready with power and magic I relished in. I pressed my thighs against his sides, trusting him completely.
Within seconds, he began to canter, his gait as smooth as running water. He was already anticipating my intent from the tilt of my hips and shift of my weight, the way I breathed, the tension in my calves. We’d done this dance a thousand times.
The first arrow notched smoothly, the shaft cool against my fingers.
I barely took aim before releasing, letting instinct guide me.
The string sang against my leather bracer—a sharp, clean sound—and the arrow hissed through humid air thick with the smell of grass and horse.
It struck the center of the target twenty paces away with a satisfying thunk.
Joy radiated through me, pure and uncomplicated. Hyacinth felt it through my body, the way my seat relaxed, my posture opened. He showed off with a playful kick, his back hooves flashing in the golden sunlight. I easily stayed mounted, as I was expecting his display.
“Hooves down!” Aaron’s voice cracked like a whip across the field.
Hyacinth snorted but complied, settling back into his canter. His ears flicked back towards me, listening.
I notched another arrow and let it fly without conscious thought. The world narrowed to movement and breath and the perfect release of tension. The arrow landed just shy of center, close enough. The target seemed to shimmer in the heat, edges wavering.
Eighteen more to go.
Aaron’s voice carried across the field, cutting through the drum of hoofbeats. “If canterin’ is too easy, do it at a gallop!”
I pressed my heels into Hyacinth’s sides, and he responded immediately, lengthening his stride.
The world blurred into speed and wind and the rhythmic thunder of hooves against earth.
My braid whipped behind me, red ribbon flashing.
The air rushed past my face, carrying the scent of crushed grass and Hyacinth’s sweat—earthy and warm.
Within thirty minutes, both Hyacinth and I were drenched.
Sweat darkened his coat to deep mahogany along his neck and shoulders, foam gathering around his bit.
My tank top clung to my back, soaked through.
My thighs were trembling from gripping his barrel, my core burning from maintaining balance at speed.
I’d hit fifteen centers out of twenty. Not perfect, but solid.
We circled back to Aaron, Hyacinth’s sides heaving, his breath coming in great gusts beneath my legs. Aaron dismounted his mare with practiced ease and helped me gather arrows for a second round. The shafts were warm from the sun, some buried deep in hay that smelled sweet and dusty.
By the end of the second round, my thighs were quivering, muscles singing with familiar exhaustion. My hands ached from drawing the bowstring, the calluses on my fingers burning. But I’d improved my score: seventeen out of twenty.
Rowan remained stoic throughout, watching from his position by the fence.
His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, but something in his posture—the slight forward lean, the way his eyes never left me—suggested complete focus.
I was too caught up in the work to care what he thought, lost in the meditation of repetition and skill.
This was ground I could confidently tread. I’d grown up on horseback. Daddy started me on lessons even before Brazilian jiu-jitsu. I trusted Hyacinth with my entire being. We were extensions of each other, moving as one body with two heartbeats.
Aaron found fault with a few of my shots—my elbow dropping on the fifteenth target, my release jerky on the eighth.
His critique was sharp but fair, delivered in that matter-of-fact tone that made you want to improve just to prove you could.
I made an extra effort cleaning and storing my bow in his office, a small room that smelled of leather oil and old coffee.
Saddles lined one wall, bridles hung on hooks, and everything was organized in a way I appreciated.
Hyacinth received his usual rubdown in his stall—fresh pine shavings on the floor, water bucket filled to the brim.
I ran the curry comb over his coat in circular motions, loosening dried sweat and dirt.
He lowered his head, eyes half-closing in pleasure.
His forelock was tangled with bits of hay, his whiskers soft as velvet when I brushed them clean.
“You’re such a sweet boy,” I cooed to Hyacinth as he let out a happy huff. “Unlike someone I know.”
Aaron handed me a stack of reference materials as I finished—photocopied articles, their edges crisp and white.
“Write me a report on why historically horse archers wore belted-on gorytos and quivers,” he commanded, his arms crossed over a faded blue T-shirt with the university logo across the chest. “It’s due at our next lesson. ”
“Standard essay length?” I asked, tucking the papers into my bag.
He considered, rubbing his jaw. The rasp of stubble was audible in the quiet barn. “Fifteen pages.”
I grimaced. Fifteen pages on medieval equipment design were going to require serious research time, which I didn’t have. “Ten pages, and I’ll tell you how I recently came to know your sister.”
His eyes widened, green going bright with alarm. “Sure; look, I hope it’s not the divilment I’m fearing.”
It was everything he feared.
Oubliette and the dancing. But Aaron was surprisingly understanding, more like Rowan than I’d expected—cautious but not judgemental. True to his word, though, he didn’t back away from the ten-page assignment and reminded me to balance studies with work.
“Bri has only ever said good things about that place takin’ care of her. Fair’s fair,” he said with a slight smile.
I thanked him and jogged back to Rowan, my legs protesting the movement. Everything ached in that good way that came from hard work. He was waiting patiently by the gate, one hand resting on the white-painted wood, the other in his pocket.
“Hey,” I said, slightly breathless.
“Hey.” He held the gate open for me, the hinges creaking softly.
I helped him lock it behind us, the chain rattling as it settled into place. The padlock clicked shut with metallic finality.
“You were incredible,” he said, and something in his tone—low and sincere—made heat bloom in my chest like spring flowers opening.
“High praise.” I tried to sound casual despite the flutter in my stomach, the way my pulse kicked up at the warmth in his voice. “That is honestly my favorite thing about school.”
“I can tell.” His pale eyes met mine, holding me captive for a heartbeat too long. The golden light of early evening painted him in amber and shadow, softening the sharp angles of his face. “You deserve whatever scholarship you earned.”
My breath hitched, caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. I stumbled over my next words, my usual eloquence abandoning me. “Oh, um. Yeah. Thanks.”
Smooth, Violet. Real smooth.
Trying to recover, I asked, “Same deal? Stalk me to the showers, then leave me wounded at my door?”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm, wrapping around me like silk. “Sure, volchok.”
The pet name sent a shiver down my spine despite the heat. I wondered what it meant, though anything at this point was better than princess.
“Let us go,” Rowan said. “I can fill you in on the rules of my house.”
“Oh, boy.” I fell into step beside him, hyperaware of the space between our bodies—maybe six inches, close enough to feel his body heat in the humid air. “I can’t wait.”
Sarcasm dripped from my voice, but underneath it, something fluttered. Anticipation, maybe? Or trepidation for the murder, the danger, the complications piling up like debts I couldn’t pay. Or the beginning of something I’d refused to admit.