Chapter 5

       The invitations had already been sent, delivered to key figures across the city. Lorcan sat in his study, pen gliding over the latest batch of proposals when his phone buzzed with a new notification.

       A message from Seranna; I might come late. I have to attend my divorce trial.

       Right. He’d nearly forgotten about that. His fingers hovered for a second before he typed a brief reply: Okay.

       His men were already handling preparations at the race track. The publicity and press were Jason’s responsibility. But there was still one thing nagging at him—Celyth’s training with her horse, Monerach. That, he couldn’t delegate. That, he worried about.

       Lorcan set his pen down, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. Monerach was a remarkable horse—disciplined, powerful, and bred for performance. But potential meant little without polish. And Celyth, though talented, hadn’t been under this kind of pressure before. She had raw ability, but there was still hesitation in her form, a tendency to rely on instinct over refinement.

       He reviewed the list of confirmed competitors again. Jareth, Mira, Selene—none of them would treat her gently on the track. There would be no allowances. If she made even one misstep, they would seize the advantage without remorse.

       Another buzz.

       I’ll be there by evening. Don’t start anything without me.

       Seranna again. He read the message twice before pocketing the phone. She would be there. But her presence wasn’t enough. Influence could only take Celyth so far. This wasn’t about mentorship anymore. It was about discipline and execution.

       He crossed the room to a locked cabinet, retrieved a folder labeled Celyth – Progress Reports of six months passed, and opened it on the desk. Pages of notes lay inside—feedback from trainers, short assessments, charts of her riding patterns and Monerach’s responsiveness. The margins bore Seranna’s handwriting, clean and direct.

       She rides with emotion. It makes her unpredictable, but also vulnerable.

       Lorcan closed the folder and placed it aside. There was no more time to analyze. What Celyth needed now wasn’t encouragement. It was pressure. Repetition. Real correction.

       He stood and reached for his coat, “Prepare the car,” he said, stepping into the hall.

       His driver was already waiting when he emerged. Lorcan slid into the back seat without a word.

       “To the stables,” he ordered.

       “Yes, sir,”

       As the city passed in quiet blur outside the window, Lorcan’s focus sharpened. If Celyth truly wanted to prove herself, then the final days before the race would be her crucible.

      He intended to make them count.

***

      The car slowed as it approached the private stables tucked behind the Blackwood training grounds. A cool wind drifted through the narrow road, bending the tall grass and rustling the trees at the edge of the paddock. Lorcan stepped out, the gravel crunching under his boots. There were no greetings, no pleasantries—he moved with purpose toward the training ring.

       Celyth was already inside, mounted on Monerach. She was putting the horse through a slow trot, circling the arena with a focus that, from a distance, appeared calm. But Lorcan could tell by the tension in her posture that she was overthinking. Her back was too rigid, the reins too tight. She was trying to control rather than communicate.

       He stopped at the rail, folding his arms as he watched her for a full minute in silence. Eryn, the stable master, stood nearby, quietly observing as well,

       “How long has she been at it?” Lorcan asked without turning.

       “Since first light. No breaks,” Eryn replied.

       Lorcan nodded once, “Bring her in.”

       Eryn gave a soft whistle and a gesture. Celyth caught sight of them and slowed Monerach, guiding the horse toward the rail. She stopped a few paces away, her expression unreadable. Sweat clung to her brow, her cheeks flushed from exertion.

       “You’re not here to watch, are you,” she said quietly.

       “No,” Lorcan answered, “I’m here to fix what hasn’t been corrected. She didn’t respond, but the line of her shoulders straightened.

       “Dismount,” he said.

       She obeyed, swinging off the saddle and standing beside Monerach. Lorcan approached the horse first, running a hand along its neck, gauging its breathing and tension. The stallion was responsive, alert, but not relaxed.

       “You’re holding the reins too tightly,” he said, “You’re forcing his movements. He’s not fighting you, but he’s confused,”

       “I’m trying to stay in control,” she replied.

       Lorcan looked at her, “Control isn’t tension. It’s clarity. Every move you make sends him a message. You’re shouting when a whisper would do,”

       She said nothing. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

       He turned away from her and climbed into the ring, “Mount again,”

       Celyth didn’t hesitate. She moved with practiced familiarity, guiding Monerach back into the ring and into a canter as instructed. Lorcan gave minimal commands—just corrections, short and direct. Posture. Pressure. Turn timing. He didn’t raise his voice, and he didn’t explain more than necessary. She didn’t argue either, only adjusted.

       After twenty minutes, he signaled her to stop.

       “That’s enough for now,” he said, “We continue tonight. Bring him into the cool-down yard. No shortcuts,”

       She nodded, breathless but steady. As Lorcan stepped out of the ring, he spoke low enough that only she could hear.

       “You want to win? Then ride like you’ve already lost once,” Then he walked away.

       Celyth led Monerach toward the cool-down yard, Lorcan’s words echoing in her mind. Ride like you’ve already lost once. She didn’t fully understand it yet, but something in the way he said it struck deeper than any lecture or criticism she’d heard before. It wasn’t just about the race anymore. It was about how she carried herself into it.

       Monerach nickered softly as she walked him around the yard, letting him ease out of the intensity of their session. She loosened her grip on the reins this time, trying to keep her breathing slow and even. He responded with a smoother gait, his hooves clicking softly against the ground. There was a difference—subtle, but there.

       Across the paddock, Eryn was watching. He didn’t approach, didn’t offer commentary. Just a slight nod of acknowledgement as she passed by. No one was babying her here. No one was offering comfort. Only expectation. And strangely, it made her feel stronger.

       She stopped at the edge of the fence, resting her hand on Monerach’s neck. “We’re not going to win just because they expect us to try,” she whispered. “We’re going to win because we decide to.”

       The stallion flicked his ears, shifting closer. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the tension finally bleed from her shoulders. Evening would bring another round of drills. Another round of pressure. But now, she welcomed it.

       For the first time, Celyth wasn’t riding to prove herself to them.

       She was riding to prove herself to herself.

***

       As evening settled over the estate, the distant sound of tires crunching gravel stirred the quiet. A black metallic sedan rolled to a graceful stop near the stables, its sleek exterior catching the fading light. The door opened, and Seranna stepped out.

       She was dressed in a riding suit—elegant, tailored, and utterly commanding. The deep navy fabric hugged her figure, paired with polished boots and leather gloves tucked into one hand. She looked every bit the rider she claimed to be, and her presence instantly shifted the atmosphere. Lorcan, standing by the fence reviewing notes with one of the crew members, turned toward the sound of the door shutting.

       For a brief second, he stared—surprised not just by her punctual arrival after the day she’d had, but by the striking picture she made against the golden backdrop of dusk. They met halfway with a firm handshake, and neither said much. The tension between them wasn’t cold—it was measured, familiar, but thick with something unsaid.

       Seranna’s eyes moved past him to where Celyth stood with Monerach, gently brushing down her horse’s mane. The teenager didn’t look up, but Seranna’s expression softened slightly—approval, maybe, or just curiosity.

       A low rumble followed, growing louder. Another vehicle approached, this time a pickup towing a horse trailer. It slowed to a stop behind her sedan, the trailer door rattling as the latch was undone.

       She turned slightly toward Lorcan and Celyth.

       “I brought someone special,” she said, the faintest smile tugging at her lips, “Let me introduce you to my horse,”

       The trailer ramp dropped with a dull thud, and a striking stallion stepped out. Midnight black with a bold silver streak down his nose, he moved with a deliberate, fluid grace. Every muscle was defined, every step sure. The way he carried himself made it clear—this was not a horse meant to follow. This was a champion.

       “Cé Klargan,” Seranna said, her voice low with pride.

       The horse gave a snort and tossed his head, his dark mane catching the wind. Lorcan folded his arms, studying both of them. “He looks fast,”

       Seranna turned her head slightly, eyes gleaming, “He is. And he doesn’t run for just anyone,”

       Beside them, Celyth watched in silence—her hand still resting on Monerach, but her attention fully stolen.

       The air shifted with quiet tension as Cé Klargan descended the ramp. His hooves hit the earth with a steady rhythm, sharp and deliberate. Every inch of the stallion exuded precision. His coat shimmered with health, and his dark eyes held something intelligent—calculated, even territorial.

       Celyth didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her gaze followed every movement of the beast, her hand still resting on Monerach as if to reassure both him and herself. Next to Klargan, her horse looked younger, less tested. But not lesser.

       Seranna adjusted the reins with one hand, her posture effortless. “He’s not here to race,” she said flatly, addressing both Lorcan and Celyth, “At least, not in the way you think. He’s here to remind you what excellence looks like,”

       Lorcan remained composed, his arms still crossed as his eyes swept over the stallion, “He’ll do more than that. You’ll have half the riders questioning themselves the moment they see him in the paddock,”

       “That’s the idea,” Seranna replied, her voice cool.

       Celyth stepped forward slightly, then stopped, “Did you bring him for me to see, or for me to beat?”

       Seranna tilted her head just enough to acknowledge the boldness of the question, “Both,” she said, “You’ll either rise to meet him—or not,”

       The moment held, taut and silent.

       Then Cé Klargan exhaled, steam curling from his nostrils into the dusk air.

       Celyth didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll make sure Monerach learns fast,”

       Seranna held Celyth’s gaze for a moment before turning away, leading Cé Klargan toward the paddock. The stallion moved like a shadow, powerful yet effortless, his presence lingering even after they disappeared into the barn.

       Celyth exhaled slowly. Monerach shifted beside her, his ears flicking back as if sensing her thoughts. She ran a hand down his neck, grounding herself. She had seen champion horses before, but none like Klargan. He carried himself like he knew he was superior.

       Lorcan’s voice broke the silence, “You understand now, don’t you?”

       Celyth nodded, “He’s not just fast. He’s trained to think,”

       “Exactly,” Lorcan said, “Racing isn’t just about speed. It’s about decisions. The right move at the right tim,”

       Celyth straightened, “Then we train harder,”

       Lorcan studied her, then gave a small nod, “Tomorrow. Before dawn,”

       She didn’t flinch, “I’ll be ready,” This wasn’t just about keeping up anymore. It was about proving she belonged.

***