Five - Champion
FIVE
CHAMPION
GOT HERE JUST in time. The cinnamon rolls are just going in the oven.
Which means I can be in and out of the cafeteria before the scent ruins me, and I clock twelve hundred empty calories before six in the morning. They’re not getting me this time.
This place is open day and night, but it gets evil around meal times.
I’m talking fresh-baked hell—molasses bread, skillet hash, syrup that tastes like it came out of an actual tree.
And then they display everything right in front of me, all smug in warm crocks under soft lights, and I’m like—what the fuck do these assholes want from me?
I’m supposed to resist all that? It’s fucking harassment.
At least at this hour, only the joyless shit is available.
I bypass the steam trays, grab two hard-boiled eggs from the chilled bin, snag a banana.
And then two protein bars, for which I check the expiration date since I’m positive I’m the only one paying penance this way.
Black coffee, no sugar. Homemade sports drink for later—yeah, it’s a thing, and it’s delicious.
All set, I head for my usual corner table.
This building is the only one in Riverlight that’s one floor up from ground level, and I bet it’s because of this view.
Floor-to-ceiling windows turn two whole walls into a widescreen pasture feed that’s the cover of at least a dozen cottage-core fantasy novels.
Fog is still stitched low over the paddocks, pulling apart as the sun shoulders up behind the ridge. Goddamn enchanting, not gonna lie.
I slip out my rope gloves from my back pocket and slide onto the bench. A pair of stablehands eat three tables over—heads down, no chatter—but no one else is here, so it’s super peaceful.
My horse and I have groundwork in an hour, but Eli said he’s gonna try some different trust exercises solo before that, to get a better feel of how far we can push him without pushing—whatever that means in Riverlight-ese. Gonna get there earlier to watch and fake being unimpressed.
Yesterday was our one-week-out-of-quarantine mark.
And I know that means we haven’t been here for a full month yet, but also that we’re almost five months to the deadline.
And all I’ve got to show for it is being allowed into my horse’s personal bubble without much annoyance, and having him kinda-sorta respect mine.
Plus a good-ish walk and stop flow—backing up is getting there.
I wanted to get some ground poles in by now, but Eli said it’s too soon, maybe in another week or two. As much as it stings, at the end of the day, I have to trust the guy who actually knows what he’s doing.
And hope that he does it quickly.
Then I jolt. The clack of a tray hitting the table.
“Cassian!” Lena announces as if presenting me on a game show, sitting across the table.
And I know the other goblin is never far, but I’m not fast enough fleeing before he blocks me, sliding into my bench. “Are the rolls nearly done?” he asks while placing a fishbowl of cereal—half the milk spilled on the tray—a stack of pancakes, and toast slathered in frosting. Frosting!
“Nope,” I say, trying not to gag. “You’re early. You should go back to sleep. Like right now.”
“I smell sugar,” Lena says, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “I wait. I want hot.”
Kellan nods, then he finally looks at me, then my food, then me. “Vale, why do you hate yourself?”
I sigh. “I don’t hate myself.” Much. Let’s not unpack that.
“You’re eating the equivalent of a sad beige apartment.”
“No beige.” Lena shakes her head. “Grey. Depression. Dead cat lady. But no cats. Cats abandon lady.”
“Dark. But accurate.” Kellan nods, dipping a pancake in the cereal and stuffing it whole in his mouth.
“At least my breakfast won’t give me a sugar coma,” I shoot back, eyeing the crime scene on his tray. “What even is that? Why is that?”
“This? This is life, friend.” He points at the quote-unquote food, then shows his bicep with the smugness of a cat presenting a dead bird. “I built these here babies on pancakes and vibes. Worth every carb.”
I squint at the curve of his muscle, which, annoyingly, is kind of impressive when I know syrup runs in the veins feeding it. “Yeah, congratulations. You’ve got chaos muscles. Mine are lean, competition-ready. Under eight percent body fat.” I tap my stomach. “Everything here is functional.”
“Like horse,” Lena injects. “Horses eat sad too.”
“Fact!” Kellan grabs his toast, frosting smearing across his fingers as he waves it like a weapon. “And these muscles are functional too. They carried Lena’s ass out of a club in Germany. Remember that?” he asks her.
“No. Also, I have tiny body,” Lena says, inspecting the dark spots on my banana. “I weigh most of nothing. Baby chick. Not impressive.”
“Excuse you,” Kellan says with mock—or maybe real—offense. “I carried you and three boxes of pizza. That’s core strength.”
“Core stupidity,” I mutter.
Lena leans forward on her elbows, eyes gleaming like she’s watching the trash fire she started. “So, who wins? Sad athlete man or sugar muscle man? We do push-up contest. Begin now!”
Kellan bolts up, starts stretching, loosening up. I kill it right there. “I’m not doing push-ups in the cafeteria,” I say, yanking my protein bar open with unnecessary aggression.
Kellan grins, munching a mouthful of pancake. “Scared?”
“Scared I’d get my hands dirty and beat you after three, yeah.”
Lena gasps. Kellan stretches his arms wide like birds do when they’re trying to show other birds they’re big. “Oh—oh. It’s on, my dude.”
I hope he’s joking. Thank fuck I don’t find out because Rey marches into the cafeteria, boots clunking and reverberating against the walls.
She gives us a two-second glance and calls on us without skipping a step.
“Ya kids want a show with that meal? Get your asses out here.” She slides open one of the full-length windows out onto the balcony, leaving it ajar behind her.
I blink. “A show?”
Before I can even process, Kellan spins around so fast he almost trips over. “Show?!” he half gasps. “What kind of show? Horses? Explosions? Horses jumping through explosions?!”
Lena slams both hands on the table. “Yes! We go. We always go. Cassian—ass up!”
“I’m literally mid-banana,” I say, still just peeling it, but she’s already on her feet, tugging my arm.
“Banana to-go!” Kellan barks, shoving the rest of his pancakes into his mouth like a competitive eater, before rushing after Rey.
“What if it’s just, like… a weirdly-shaped horse dump?” I ask, sighing but standing anyway before Lena starts yanking me off this bench.
“That is spirit!” With how she beams while hauling me by the wrist, I’m assuming my misery got lost in translation. “We don’t miss crooked poopie!”
By the time we hit the balcony, Kellan is already bouncing on his heels, hands on the rail. “What-is-it-what-is-it-what-is-it?”
I slide the door behind us, cool air hitting my face, and look where they’re looking—the nearest round pen, not too far out.
Eli is inside, one hand on the horse’s flank—my horse, actually—the other trailing down the crest of his neck like he’s feeling for something.
But what? Is this one of the trust exercises he mentioned?
“Oh yeah,” Kellan says, leaning on the balcony. “Mama Rey feeding us the good stuff.”
Lena props her chin on the top rail, sighing so hard, it fogs he air. “Horse Daddy is best meal. So hot, burns tongue.”
Rey snorts, folding her arms as she watches. “Keep your panties on. Today’s side dish is magic ‘n wonder.”
Magic and wonder?
Rey leaves it at that, smiling and keeping her eyes on the scene downstairs. The chaos twins and I exchange a look, but curiosity gets us quiet and waiting.
Inside the round pen, Eli moves closer to the stallion’s shoulder, hand over the withers.
Black mane hair sticks between his fingers, fists crumpling it like he’s holding that massive body up by the ridge of the neck.
Not rough but not slack either, and no signs of nervousness from the horse—loose ears, soft eyes.
Eli adjusts his stance and shifts off the shoulder, as if trying to draw the stallion down and back by the neck. Is that the exercise? Getting him to shift his weight like that? Kind of a weird way to do it.
With his free hand, Eli gently taps the inside of the near fore behind the knee. Waits. Then taps again. And I can see the thought ripple down the horse’s topline before he drops his head, folds that leg—a tiny bow, like some prissy dressage warm-up.
We never taught that. We haven’t taught anything —it’s been a week! I open my mouth to say as much.
But it stays open, silent, as I watch with these two eyes on my face that stallion—my unhinged, untrained stallion—bend the other leg next.
And instead of popping back up, he keeps going. Chest to sand, then rolling to the shoulder. That whole lethal body eases down until he’s flat—leg cocked, neck stretched, head tipped. All of him sideways, laying in the dirt.
My jaw unhinges.
I… What is…
How?
In my world, a top prospect flat down in week one means colic, sedation, or a trainer screaming for a vet. Not this. Not because a man touched him gently.
Eli follows his movement and stays crouched behind the shoulder, one hand stroking the slope of his neck, slow and steady.
I can see the horse’s lungs inflating deep, an exhale so hard it echoes across the paddocks, ears flicking in lazy agreement.
Just like that, a black mountain melted into the dirt.
“Holy crap,” Kellan breathes. “Is that normal? ”
“Nope,” Rey says simply. “Not with a high-strung behemoth on a week of groundwork. But that’s Eli for ya.”
Lena exhales, wrapping herself around Kellan’s arm. “Hotter than cinnamon bun.”
Kellan nods. “I’m so turned on right now.”
“Kellan…” I try to berate, but my voice comes out hoarse because same.
Then a scream. High. Human.