The walkways of the Heaton stables were always unnaturally clean, nothing like the dust-choked barns he had known before.

  Since Zephyrus had become his training horse, Elian noticed Timmy's glances toward him had grown less than friendly. He had no idea why, but at least the other grooms and riders were happy to chat with him.

  "I haven't seen you before. Are you new here?" A girl with her hair tied in a short ponytail looked up. She had brown hair, a small upturned nose, and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks.

  "I'm a newly signed rider. Just call me Elian."

  "I'm Ariya." She smiled, dimples appearing.

  "You look pretty young. What made you want to work at a stable?"

  "I wanted to study veterinary medicine, but I couldn't afford the tuition. So I came here instead."

  "Then we have something in common. I gave up college and came straight to work at a stable too."

  Ariya stared at him in surprise. His skin was uneven from long hours in the sun, yet his features still carried a refined, almost well-bred.

  "Don't riders like you usually train from childhood all the way through university, with everything laid out smooth for you?"

  "That's how it should go. I trained from childhood until high school, then nothing after that." Elian gave a wry smile. "Fortunately, Mr. Heaton recognized my potential."

  Most who came to the Heaton stables were wealthy clients or established riders. Even without meaning to, there was always a sense of distance. Yet with Elian, Ariya felt at ease.

  "So, have you started training already?"

  "Yeah. I'll need some time to get in sync with Zephyrus." Elian nodded.

  "Zephyrus—your horse is Zephyrus?" Ariya suddenly exclaimed. "You're the new rider the manager can't stand!"

  Elian rubbed his nose. "So it's true. Word's gotten around, huh."

  Ariya burst out laughing and clapped his shoulder. Elian wondered, baffled, how someone so slim could hit so hard.

  "You showed up and immediately chose Zephyrus. And the horse that only ever listened to the boss suddenly let you handle him. No wonder Timmy's furious."

  "But don't worry! The manager's just sulking. He'll get over it."

  "I hope so." Elian let out a helpless smile.

  "I actually think Timmy's sour face is hilarious." Ariya didn't bother hiding her excitement.

  "Speaking of the boss, you said Zephyrus only listens to Mr. Heaton. Does that mean he still rides?"

  "Well... not anymore." Ariya's expression sobered.

  Neither of them explained further, but Elian felt a pang in his chest.

  That evening, Elian sat down in a chair. Training had ended early for once, leaving him a rare scrap of free time, so he pulled out his sketchbook, untouched for too long.

  He had loved sketching since childhood. His mother, Emma, often took him outside to draw from life. Animals were his favorite; dogs, cats, reindeer, and horses filled the pages.

  He moved his pencil across the paper, shaping the lines of a horse's powerful muscles. He thought of Zephyrus's storm-dark eyes and felt an urgent need to capture them. Even after weeks together, he still believed no one could truly master Zephyrus.

  If anyone could, it would have to be a rider with a mind even stronger than the stallion's, a presence impossible to resist. Or perhaps not someone who controlled him at all, but one who guided him only at the most critical moments.

  The stable at night was quiet, save for a lone guard in a distant office. The light above him was dim, moths circling lazily around it. He had been up since four in the morning, busy all day, and now his eyelids grew heavy.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Amber light spilled over the paper as his vision blurred. The graphite marks wandered with his drifting thoughts until finally the pencil stilled.

  The sound of footsteps pulled Elian back to consciousness.

  He lifted his heavy eyelids, first catching sight of a pair of black leather riding boots. His gaze moved upward: perfectly tailored navy trousers, shirt sleeves rolled at the forearms, a sharp jawline, and those glacial blue eyes.

  Clatter—

  The pencil slipped from his hand, hitting the concrete floor with a wooden crack before rolling away.

  Vance bent down and picked it up, offering it back without hesitation. "Sorry. I startled you."

  "It's fine, thank you," Elian managed, swallowing hard. He wiped the graphite dust off his fingers as he took the pencil back. The lead had broken at an ugly angle. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for a blade, only to realize he hadn't brought one. With a sigh, he resigned himself to leaving the sketch unfinished.

  When he looked up again, Vance was still there, his eyes moving between Elian's face and the sketch on the page. Flustered, Elian quickly covered the drawing with his arm and forced a casual smile.

  "You don't have a blade, do you?"

  "Uh—no. It's fine, I can finish it later in the dorm."

  Vance didn't respond. The silence pressed in around them.

  "Give it to me."

  "What?"

  "The pencil."

  "Oh—right!" Elian handed it over with both hands, half-embarrassed.

  Vance drew a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, the blade snapping open with a metallic click.

  Elian's throat tightened. For a split second his mind spun down absurd paths: what if Vance was furious at the graphite stains on his hand and decided to kill him on the spot? He pictured the blade cutting deep, blood spraying, his name splashed across tomorrow's headlines.

  Ridiculous. Stop it.

  Instead, Vance simply sat down beside him—and began sharpening the pencil.

  Why was someone like Vance Heaton, so refined and so far removed from the mundane, sharpening a pencil for him? Graphite dust smudged Vance's fingers; didn't he mind?

  The scene was too strange. Elian kept a polite smile plastered on his face, though his thoughts were in chaos.

  "It's already midnight. You're up too late," Vance said at last.

  "I'll sleep earlier, I promise!" Elian blurted, obedient as a schoolboy before a stern parent.

  "A rider must keep strict discipline with his routine."

  "...Right."

  Only the rasp of the blade against wood filled the silence.

  "Mr. Heaton, can I ask you something?"

  "What is it?"

  Elian opened his mouth, but the question he really wanted to ask about the past caught in his throat. Afraid of the answer, he diverted.

  "Why did you offer me such a generous contract?"

  "Because I don't want to see you buried by financial pressure. Because I believe you can win."

  He set the sharpened pencil before Elian. The lead was cleanly exposed, cut at a precise angle—perfect for sketching.

  Elian lifted it almost reverently with both hands.

  "I remember when you trained here years ago," Vance said. "You still have that same talent."

  The praise sent a ripple through Elian's chest.

  "The difference is that I can no longer ride," Vance added, his voice flat, stripped of emotion.

  Elian stiffened. He hadn't expected Vance to say it so plainly.

  Vance's eyes locked on his. "I want you to carry on that spirit. Shine on the field in my place."

  "I will," Elian said. I once admired you more than anyone. If this is your wish, then I'll give everything to honor it.

  Vance's hand rose suddenly, stopping just short of brushing aside the fringe over Elian's forehead.

  Elian froze, breath caught. They were close enough that he could smell the faint, cool fragrance that clung to Vance.

  "Does it still hurt?" Vance asked softly, almost like a phantom whisper.

  "What?"

  "The injury from the track."

  "Oh—no, it's almost healed," Elian said quickly.

  "Is that so?" His gaze dropped, fingertip hovering so close Elian thought he felt heat on his skin.

  "Yes, don't worry!" he insisted.

  "But the bruise is still there." Vance drew back at last, as if restraining himself.

  "It's nothing. I've had worse. Once I even broke my scaphoid bone. Do you know what that is?" Elian lifted his wrist, flexing his thumb. "I didn't learn the name until it snapped, and it took almost three months to heal."

  Vance's brows pulled tight, his gaze lingering on Elian's wrist.

  "From now on, don't get hurt again," he said after a long pause. His tone was unreadable, but his fingertips curled faintly inward.

  "I'll try my best. After all, if I'm injured, it's a loss for Heaton Company too, right?" Elian joked.

  "...Something like that." Vance's face smoothed into calm.

  "But Mr. Heaton, you really remembered my fall on the track? Were you actually watching that day?" Elian asked, embarrassed at the memory of being thrown so spectacularly. He secretly hoped Vance hadn't seen it, but since his assistant had handed him the card right after, he must have been there.

  "I was."

  Of course.

  Elian groaned inwardly.

  "I've watched all your races," Vance said evenly.

  Elian froze.

  What did he mean by all?

  Every single one?

  "Hahaha—Mr. Heaton really does love horse racing, huh?" Elian laughed stiffly.

  "Your powers of comprehension are truly remarkable," Vance said dryly, rising to his feet and looking down at him.

  "Thanks...?" Elian muttered, unsure how to take it.

  He watched Vance stride away, still wondering if he'd understood correctly. From behind, Vance's frame was tall, but his gait carried a subtle stiffness, a faint hitch with every step.

  He disappeared into the night beyond the stables, and Elian, for a moment, was a boy again—watching that same figure from afar, the figure once crowned in medals and miracles, now barred forever from the saddle.

  A weight of unspoken sorrow pressed against his chest.