She’d seen them before, of course.
Through windows, from a distance.
The carriage horses that brought visitors to Ashford Manor, their coats gleaming, their harnesses polished to perfection.
The plow horses in the fields beyond the estate, massive and patient as they pulled their loads.
The fine riding horses her father and Marcus kept in the stables she’d never been allowed to visit—sleek, expensive animals that were exercised daily by grooms and stable boys.
But she’d never been close to one.
Never touched one.
Never stood near enough to feel their warmth or hear their breathing or look into their eyes.
Her mother had forbidden it.
“Horses are dangerous, Katriana.
Unpredictable.
And you’re too clumsy, too nervous.
You’d spook them, and they’d hurt you.
Or worse, you’d hurt them, and then what would we tell people?
That our cursed daughter injured a valuable animal?
That she’s so incompetent she can’t even be trusted near livestock?”
The words had stung, as they always did.
But Kat had learned not to argue.
She’d learned to accept the restrictions, to live within the narrow boundaries her mother set for her.
So, she had only ever watched from windows, pressing her face to the glass and wondering what it would feel like to run her hand along a horse’s neck, to feel the warmth of its breath, to look into its large, dark eyes and see…
what?
Intelligence?
Gentleness?
The same kind of quiet understanding she found in books.
Now, standing outside the stable door, she hesitated.
She shouldn’t.
She should go back inside before anyone noticed she was gone.
She should be sensible and careful and obedient, the way she’d always been.
She should remember her place, remember that she was cursed and clumsy and not to be trusted with anything important or valuable.
But something in her chest—that same something that had whispered freedom—urged her forward.
Pushed against the years of conditioning, the layers of fear and shame that had been built up around her like walls.
Just once.
Just to see.
Just to know what it felt like.
Kat pushed open the stable door.
The smell hit her immediately—hay and leather and horse, earthy and rich and somehow comforting.
It was a living smell, full of warmth and breath and movement.
Dust motes danced in the lantern light, swirling in lazy patterns, and she could hear the soft sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls, the rustle of hay as they moved, the occasional stamp of a hoof.
There were eight stalls, four on each side of a central aisle.
All of them housed the same breed of horse—sturdy, compact animals with distinctive dun-colored coats that ranged from pale gold to deep red-gold.
Each one had a dark dorsal stripe running down its back, and their long manes flowed down their necks, thick and lustrous.
Some of the manes were adorned with intricate braids, small carved charms woven into the strands—wooden beads, bits of leather, tiny metal ornaments that caught the light.
Fjord horses.
She’d read about them once, in a book about the northern lands.
Hardy creatures bred for the harsh climate and rugged terrain, known for their strength and sure-footedness and gentle temperaments.
The book had described them as intelligent and willing, capable of carrying heavy loads through mountain passes and deep snow.
The carriage horses were in the first two stalls on the left, and the northern guards’ mounts occupied the others.
But they all had that same powerful build, that same alert intelligence in their eyes as they turned to watch her enter.
Kat moved slowly down the center aisle, her boots quiet on the packed earth floor.
The horses watched her with mild curiosity, their ears pricking forward.
One of them—a mare with a coat the color of honey—nickered softly, and another tossed its head, making its braided mane swing.
She stopped in front of the nearest stall on the right, where a beautiful dun horse stood watching her.
Its coat was the color of pale gold, almost luminous in the lantern light, and the dark stripe down its back seemed to shimmer when it moved.
Its long mane was thick and dark, almost black, with small carved charms braided into the strands—she could see what looked like tiny wooden horses, a crescent moon, a star.
The horse’s eyes were dark and intelligent, and it studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
There was something in that gaze—not judgment, not the cold assessment she was used to from people, but something else.
Curiosity, perhaps.
Or simply awareness.
“Hello,” Kat whispered, her voice barely audible even to her own ears.
The horse snorted softly, its breath misting in the cool air.
The sound was gentle, almost conversational.
Kat’s hands trembled as she reached toward the stall door.
She shouldn’t touch it.
She didn’t know anything about horses.
What if she did something wrong?
What if it bit her or kicked her or reared up in fear?
What if she proved her mother right, proved that she was too clumsy, too cursed, too fundamentally wrong to be trusted with anything living and beautiful?
But the horse lowered its head slightly, and something in that gesture seemed almost…
welcoming.
Kat’s fingers found the top of the stall door, and she leaned forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from the horse’s body.
It was like standing near a fire, that warmth—alive and comforting.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathed, and meant it with her whole heart.
The horse huffed again, and then—slowly, carefully, as though it understood her nervousness—it stretched its neck forward until its nose was just inches from her face.
Kat froze, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat.
The horse’s breath was warm and sweet, smelling of hay and grain and something else, something earthy and good.
Its nostrils flared as it scented her, taking in her smell, teaching her.
Then it made a soft sound—almost a rumble—deep in its chest, and Kat felt the vibration of it in the air between them.
Without thinking, without letting herself hesitate, Kat lifted her hand and reached toward the horse’s nose.
Her fingers made contact with soft, velvety skin, and the horse didn’t pull away.
It stood perfectly still, letting her touch it, and Kat felt something break open inside her chest—something that had been locked away for so long she’d forgotten it was there.
Wonder.
Pure, uncomplicated wonder.
The horse’s coat was softer than she’d imagined, softer than the finest silk she’d ever worn.
It was warm and alive beneath her palm, and she could feel the muscle and bone beneath the skin, the power contained in this magnificent creature.
Its whiskers tickled her fingers, coarse and bristly, and when she moved her hand up to stroke its nose, the horse leaned into the touch, its eyes half-closing in what looked like contentment.
“Oh,” Kat whispered, tears pricking her eyes.
“Oh, you’re wonderful.”
She didn’t know how long she stood there, stroking the horse’s face, running her fingers along its neck, marveling at the texture of its mane.
The hair was coarser than human hair, thick and strong, and the carved charms woven into it were smooth under her fingertips.
Time seemed to stop, the world narrowing to just this moment, this connection.
The warmth of the horse’s body.
The softness of its coat.
The gentle sound of its breathing.
The horse made soft sounds of contentment, little huffs and rumbles that seemed to express satisfaction.
And Kat found herself smiling—really smiling—for the first time in longer than she could remember.
Not the careful, practiced smile she’d learned to wear in public, but a real smile, one that came from somewhere deep inside her, from a place she’d thought was dead.
She traced the dark stripe down the horse’s neck, feeling the way the color changed, the way the hair lay differently there.
She touched the braids in its mane, examined the tiny carved horses and the crescent moon.
Someone had taken time to do this, to decorate this animal with care and artistry.
Someone valued this horse enough to make it beautiful.
“You’re loved,” she whispered to the horse.
“Someone loves you very much.”
The horse’s ear flicked toward her, as though it understood.
Kat felt tears slip down her cheeks, but they weren’t sad tears.
They were something else relief, maybe, or gratitude, or simply the overwhelming emotion of experiencing something she’d been denied for so long.
Something simple and good and pure.
“His name is Stormrunner.”