Chapter 21 Hoofprints
Hoofprints
Thursday passes in a blur of quiet observation.
Mariel leaves after breakfast with a book tucked beneath her arm and returns at dinner with a second one, older, thicker, cradled gently to her chest like something sacred.
She doesn’t ask what happened between me and the king, and I’m grateful.
Nor do I press her for the details regarding her day.
Instead, we fall into companionable silence as we take turns reading the books the library offers us.
Friday brings Vivian’s turn, and the following day, she arrives at breakfast in a deep crimson gown and a little smirk.
Her hair gleams and her laughter rings too loudly, but it’s real.
Her light and strength fully returned. When we ask if her day with the king went well, she shares that it was pleasant yet uneventful.
I spend the next few days practically locked in the library, desperate to uncover any history surrounding the curse—or to make sense of the vision that’s been replaying in my mind like a recurring nightmare ever since the night of the first Trial.
By lunchtime on the second day, I finally think I’m making progress, buried in a book about the founding of Abrellia. I’m so focused, so determined to keep reading, that I skip lunch entirely. Even when the growls of my stomach become too loud to ignore, I don’t move.
Instead, plates of food begin appearing in the library, first lunch, then dinner, then every meal the following day. I’m grateful I don’t have to leave, grateful I can keep reading without interruption.
The books the shelves offer now are different. Older. Stranger. Some don’t even have titles, only symbols burned into their spines. I devour them in silence, chasing any sliver of lore that might help me survive the second Trial… or break the curse entirely.
But on Saturday morning, there is no plate waiting for me. The shelves refuse to yield anything new—only a thin children’s story about the benefits of playing outside.
“You’re right,” I mutter, returning the book to its place. “I could use some fresh air.”
I wander down to the kitchens, where a swarm of sprites is bustling about, preparing an evening feast. I try not to think about the next time I’ll be forced to sit at a banquet table and smile, wondering what kind of poison lingers behind each sweet word.
I snag a plate from the buffet, piling it with assorted fruits and biscuits, then step outside into the cool morning light.
My feet carry me toward the one place that still feels real.
The stables.
The earthy scent of hay and leather fills my lungs like a balm.
Soft snorts and shifting hooves echo inside the long wooden hall.
I pass the stalls. Most are occupied, though not all with horses.
Some contain strange horned beasts I don’t yet have words for.
Some hold only empty saddles and air thick with anticipation.
Then I hear it—the unmistakable snap of a whip.
I spin toward the sound. Outside, in the sun-drenched training pen, a black stallion rears high on his hind legs, eyes wild, foam flecking his mouth. One of the goblin guards—a short, thick-bodied oark, his tusked mouth twisted in a sneer—lashes again, his mottled face contorted with rage.
The horse lets out a shrill, panicked cry.
“Stop!” Without thinking, I shove past the stable hands and scramble over the fence, landing hard in the mud. Good thing I wore boots and trousers today.
The oark turns, whip still raised. “Stay out of this, girl,” he snarls.
The lash cracks again. The stallion rears, a distressed whinny ripping from his chest as his hooves strike the air.
“Enough!” I cry.
I throw myself at the guard, grabbing the whip and attempting to wrench it from his hand—but oarks are far stronger than mortals. He hurls me aside with ease.
I hit the ground with a wet thud.
Pain blooms through my shoulder, but I force myself up and dart between him and the stallion, planting myself squarely in the path of the next strike.
His lip curls. “Move,” he growls, “or taste my whip.”
I don’t flinch. “Go ahead,” I dare him.
A low snarl rumbles in his throat.
The whip cracks.
Heat explodes across my thigh as the lash tears through fabric. I gasp, but the skin holds—welts already rising beneath the cloth.
The second strike comes faster. Higher.
Fire streaks across my arm, cloth shredding as I stagger a step, mud sucking at my boots. Still, I don’t move aside.
He steps closer, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air, eyes gleaming.
He’s toying with me.
Behind me, the stallion screams—wild and panicked, hooves striking the earth.
“Move,” the oark snarls, lifting the whip again, “or the next one marks that pretty face of yours.”
“No,” I say, my voice as steady as steel, giving him nothing.
He raises the lash a third time.
But before it can fall—
“Stop.”
The word cuts through the courtyard—low and lethal, sharp enough to still the air itself.
The oark freezes.
I turn.
Keiren strides into the arena, shadows clinging to him like a living thing. Power rolls off him in cold, absolute waves. His sapphire gaze locks onto the guard, burning so fiercely the whip slips from the oark’s fingers and hits the mud with a dull clatter.
“You dare,” Keiren says quietly, “touch what belongs to me?”
“M-my liege…” The oark collapses into the mud, thick fingers clawing at the ground as he bows low. “Mercy, Your Grace. Mercy—”
Keiren seizes the creature by the throat and hauls him upright with one arm.
Up close, the oark is massive—nearly six feet of knotted muscle and tusked brutality—yet Keiren lifts him as if he weighs nothing at all.
“Oh, you knew exactly what you were doing,” Keiren says, voice cold with fury. “And you enjoyed it.”
The guard’s boots kick uselessly in the air, hands scrabbling at Keiren’s wrist as his face purples.
“My lord—please—”
Keiren’s grip tightens.
I move without thinking, my voice pleading. “Keiren…”
His eyes flick to me—sharp, burning.
“He hurt you,” he snarls. “He will never lay hands on anyone again.”
“I know,” I say, stepping closer. “And he deserves punishment—but not this. Please.”
For a heartbeat, I’m certain Keiren will kill him.
Then his jaw clenches.
Slowly, he releases the oark.
The creature collapses into the mud, coughing and sobbing.
“Take him to the dungeons,” Keiren orders, and his other guards rush forward, dragging away what was moments ago a raging threat, now nothing but a cowering mess.
Silence falls.
Keiren turns to me, his gaze dropping immediately to my arm, my torn trousers. His jaw tightens.
“You’re hurt,” he says. “Come with me.”
“I’m fine.”
“Fire—”
“What about the stallion?” I interrupt, glancing behind me.
He follows my gaze. The horse trembles, sides heaving, eyes still wild.
“I’ll have someone attend to him,” Keiren says, stepping toward me.
“No.” I shake my head, turning back to the stallion. “I’m not leaving him.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can.” I straighten despite the ache. “Please. Let me try.”
He studies me—anger, concern, and something deeper warring behind his eyes.
Then he nods.
I turn toward the stallion, lowering my voice, my movements slow and deliberate. I murmur nonsense sounds meant to soothe him, letting the magnificent creature see my hands, my breath.
His chest heaves, every muscle taut, eyes rimmed with white.
“Facilis,” I whisper. “Easy.”
He snorts, tossing his head—but he doesn’t bolt.
Step by step, I approach. “Easy now. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Closer. Closer…
When I reach him, I rest a hand against his neck. Slick with sweat, it quivers beneath my touch.
“You’re alright,” I murmur. “You’re safe now.”
I walk a slow, careful circle. The stallion follows.
We circle the paddock again and again, until he mirrors me—stopping when I stop, turning when I turn, nosing my shoulder with cautious curiosity.
I tap the back of his knee. “Arcus,” I whisper. “Bow.”
To my astonishment, he lowers his head and folds into a kneel.
I grin.
Grabbing his mane, I swing onto his bare back. He surges to his feet and launches into a sprint, galloping the perimeter of the pen in smooth, powerful circles.
Wind in my hair. Fire in my blood. The world narrows to this moment—this beast, this bond.
When I dismount, breathless and flushed, I look to where Keiren stood—
But he’s gone.
A roar cracks the sky.
The stallion spooks, jerking back, but I hold him steady, fingers tangled in his mane.
Above us, the dragon soars—wings slicing the air, tail streaming like a comet—as it vanishes beyond the mountains.
I know something is different the moment I walk into breakfast.
The girls are already seated, their voices lower than usual, eyes flicking to me and then—almost instinctively—to the king’s empty chair.
Cassy lifts a brow in question. Mariel watches me over the rim of her teacup, curiosity gleaming like gemstones.
Vivian hums softly to herself, as if she already knows how this day will unfold.
I take my seat, forcing myself to breathe.
That’s when Cassian enters.
He moves through the room with his usual easy confidence, dark eyes scanning the table before settling on me. For a moment, his expression is unreadable—then he inclines his head, ever so slightly.
“Fire,” he says calmly. “You’re to return to your chambers and dress.”
The table goes very still.
I had forgotten today was my day with Keiren.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I nod once and rise, ignoring the chorus of looks that follow me as I leave the room.
When I step into my chamber, I stop short.
Laid neatly across the foot of my bed is a set of riding leathers.
Not a gown, not silk or lace, but rich chocolate-brown leather, fitted and worn soft with use. Sturdy boots sit beside them, their laces neatly coiled.
Practical.
Purposeful.
Intentional.
Resting on top is a folded note. I pick it up, fingers suddenly unsteady.
I thought these would suit you better. Meet me in the courtyard.
—K.