Thirteen Years Ago — Heaton Stables

  "Yes! Now—jump!"

  The sky was clear, the green pasture bending in the breeze. The training arena smelled faintly of damp earth, freshly watered moments ago. From the stables came the hiss of a pressure hose, the hammering rhythm of a farrier shaping iron shoes.

  A boyish rider urged a tall horse over the jump, his small body folding forward. Sweat trickled down from his temples, soaking the strap of his helmet.

  "Your timing was right, but you leaned too soon. Jumping has rhythm. You need to feel the horse's rhythm."

  Young Elian nodded, panting too hard to reply.

  "A horse is like a graceful piece of music. You move with its rhythm, not the other way around. Don't try to force it to follow you."

  "I do feel his rhythm. I can sense his breath, his heartbeat, even what he's about to do next. It feels like I am becoming him, and then I forget the moves I am supposed to make."

  "Elian, you're a rider, not a horse. It's rare to feel that kind of fusion, but you need to learn how to return your focus when you drift away."

  "Like this?" He guided the horse back and cleared the jump again.

  "Yes, yes—that's it! See? Just a few small adjustments and it's perfect."

  The boy's flaxen-brown hair lent him a light, almost airy look. His features carried the refined nose and large eyes of Western blood, softened by Asian contours that made him look even younger than he was.

  His pale skin was drenched in sweat, his words broken by breathless gasps. The coach chuckled.

  "All right, little man. That's enough for today. You should be out playing with your friends, not training all the time. For your age, you're progressing just fine. Review it next time."

  Elian's face lit up. "Really? I did well?"

  "Off with you! One compliment and you're already smug. Wash your horse and get him back to the stall."

  "Okay!"

  Back then, Elian was always neatly dressed under Emma's care. From helmet, jacket, and breeches down to his boots, every piece was top-of-the-line. His shirt was always tucked just right; he was told to keep his chin up when he walked, to carry himself like a young gentleman.

  The stablehands couldn't resist doting on him, sometimes poking his soft, round cheeks and laughing as they did.

  But Elian knew well enough—he was still far from a true rider.

  How did he know?

  Because there was already a flawless example at the stables—Vance Heaton.

  Leading his horse out of the arena, Elian nearly bumped into young Vance entering to train.

  "Hi—" Elian greeted, his voice trailing into nothing.

  One stood on the ground; the other sat astride a towering horse. Elian tilted his head back, only to flinch under Vance's icy downward glance.

  As always, Vance ignored him. Elian scratched his nose and stepped aside.

  "You were staring at the Vance again, weren't you?"

  The stablehand beside him broke his reverie while brushing a horse.

  "I—no. It's just, the arena's right across from the tack area. Easy view."

  On the field, Vance was commanding, his posture flawless, his takeoff sharp and precise. The horse he rode was usually lazy and stubborn, yet under Vance's hands it obeyed instantly, galvanized by its rider's presence.

  "Uh-huh. Funny thing, though—I've been watching you hold that brush for five minutes and you haven't moved it once."

  As if to prove the man's point, the horse flicked its hoof in irritation.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Elian chuckled awkwardly and finally resumed brushing.

  "I think the young master hates me," he mumbled, shoulders drooping.

  "Why would you say that? You've never done anything to him." The stablehand's expression shifted suddenly. "Ah—unless you mean that time."

  "That was your fault, Uncle Jack! You're the one who gave me that awful idea!"

  This all began not long after Elian first arrived at Heaton Stables, when he was only six or seven. From the moment he saw Vance's commanding presence, he was utterly captivated and fell headfirst into fanboy mode. Unfortunately, Vance couldn't have been less interested in him. One day, unable to hold back, Elian turned to Jack, one of the stablehands.

  "If someone keeps ignoring me, always so cold, what should I do?"

  They happened to be training a stubborn horse at the time. After a moment's thought, Jack said, "Sometimes trust comes from body language. Stroke its neck, pat its back, and let it know you mean no harm."

  Elian's eyes lit up. "So... gentle physical contact?"

  "Yeah. Like a hug, that kind of closeness."

  Ten minutes later, Vance emerged from the stables, head lowered over a competition manual. Out of nowhere, a small blur launched at him and clung to him like chewing gum. Two skinny arms wrapped tight around his waist, squeezing hard enough to strangle.

  "Open your heart to me, Master Heaton!!!" Elian shouted up at him with all his might.

  The stable went silent. Even the horses stopped chewing their hay. Gasps echoed; no one could believe someone had dared to hug the young master, smearing mud and straw all over his expensive riding jacket.

  Vance froze where he stood. That muddy little monkey—actually holding onto him?

  Then, with a sharp inhale, his shoulders trembled, and lightning flared in his blue eyes.

  "You—let—go—of me!"

  For a moment, he even raised his hand, fingers stiff with the urge to lash out, but pride forced him to hold back, to maintain the composure of a "young master." His breath hitched—like a snake had coiled around him, or as if someone had dumped a bucket of filth onto his spotless attire in front of everyone.

  And yet Elian only shouted louder, still clinging on: "I—I just wanted to build trust with you... I really like you!"

  Vance's face turned scarlet, humiliated as though the entire world were watching. His patience snapped. He grabbed Elian by the scruff of his collar and yanked, tearing him away and flinging him aside like a sack of grain.

  "Stay away from me. Don't touch me!"

  "Waaah—!"

  Elian tumbled straight into a nearby haystack, sending straw flying everywhere and startling several horses into snorting and stamping.

  The stable fell into stunned silence. Vance Heaton's face was dark, his chest heaving with fury, yet he still forced himself to stand tall, brushing the dirt sharply from his jacket before walking away.

  Jack couldn't help bursting into laughter at the memory. "Who would've guessed you weren't talking about a horse back then!"

  "He already didn't like me, and now it's even worse. He must hate me now." Elian's small face twisted into misery.

  "Relax. He won't hold a grudge that long. You'll still get to sneak peeks at his training," Jack said cheerfully.

  "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one he hates." Elian pouted. "Still, sometimes when the coach corrects me, I just don't get it. But if I watch the young master train, suddenly everything makes sense. He's amazing—so good that even the strict coach can't find a single flaw."

  "Of course. Young Master Heaton works harder than anyone."

  "But I work hard too," Elian protested, frowning. "The coach even tells me I should spend less time training."

  "It's different. For the young master, riding isn't just a hobby. It's how he proves himself. I'd bet he has his own reasons—reasons that mean he can't lose. That's why, even when the coach tells him to rest, he'll just switch horses and keep training."

  "No wonder he's already won three gold medals this spring," Elian murmured.

  "You could study his recordings. I'm sure it'd help a lot."

  "I have!" Elian nodded vigorously. "I've watched every one of his competitions!"

  "At least twenty times each," he added proudly, holding up two fingers.

  "You really are a little fanboy," Jack said in amazement.

  But all Elian's devotion never earned him the young master's approval. No matter how many times he tried to start a conversation, Vance always looked at him as if he were air—so cold that Elian felt he might freeze solid on the spot.

  So, most of the time, all the fanboy could do was secretly watch, secretly cheer, and sometimes walk the same paths Vance had taken, tracing the hoofprints he left behind. Maybe if he followed long enough, one day he could be just as great.

  That afternoon, Elian wandered the grounds as usual. The breeze carried the mingled scents of grass and sweat, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the posts.

  Behind the stables, in the garden, stood a grand manor where the elder Mr. Heaton sometimes stayed during the busy summer season. Built in a retro European style, its stone walls were a somber gray, its windows and fences lavishly wrought in metal.

  Roses bloomed outside, their heavy fragrance mixing with the damp smell of moss, as though the air itself belonged to another century. By the time Elian grew older, the manor had already been torn down. He couldn't say if he regretted it or if he was simply relieved the unsettling place had vanished.

  Back then, he was idly kicking stones along the path when a sudden clamor of shouting drifted from inside the estate.

  Curiosity drew him closer. He crept up the gravel walk, circled to the window, and peered through the glass just in time to see the elder Mr. Heaton in his wheelchair.

  Elian's eyes widened, and he ducked back at once.

  The old man's presence oozed menace, as if something vile seeped out from beneath his pallid skin. Elian couldn't explain why, but he felt a chill of fear just looking at that frail figure in the chair, listening to his rasping voice. Even the faint creak of the wheels sounded like leather and metal groaning in agony.

  "You think you can get rid of me with that? Call that evidence?" The elder Mr. Heaton's voice rasped, laced with a venomous laugh.

  "For all the filth you've done, retribution will find you." Vance's low, icy reply cut through the air.