The sun was high—unrelenting, heavy on his brow and back. It was only third hour, but the heat felt doubled, perhaps because he’d been working since first. The tournament grounds had to be cleared at dawn—servants scrubbing, guards barking orders—and as always, the squires bore the weight of the labor.

Thallan lifted the flap of the tent, stepping inside where Sir Riordan had already begun to dress in his armor.

“Where have you been?” the knight demanded, tone already sharp.

There were many moments like this—far too many—where Thallan wished he were permitted the luxury of honesty. In all his years as Riordan’s squire, he had never once grown to respect the man. If anything, he often wondered how someone so loud, so small-minded, so clumsy with both sword and word, could be knighted at all.

“There was a delay,” Thallan said evenly, approaching. “The servants were behind clearing the tournament grounds—leftover mess from last night’s festival.”

“I am aware there was a festival. I was present,” Riordan snapped, his disdain as unsubtle as always.

Then don’t ask stupid questions, Thallan thought, biting his tongue. His fingers brushed past the knight’s to adjust and fasten the chest plate properly, fixing what Riordan had clumsily attempted.

“Is my mount ready?” Riordan asked. But before Thallan could answer, the knight kept speaking. “The first event is a joust. I need to make an impression. I’ve heard Lady Briar may give me her token.” He grinned. “A fine woman, that one.”

Thallan rolled his eyes—carefully, while Riordan’s back was turned.

“Don’t feel bad when you’re knighted and no one offers you favor,” Riordan continued, voice oily. “Not all humans do, so I doubt your kind will earn any.”

Thallan placed the helmet over his head with a satisfying thunk, muffling the man’s voice. “Your horse is ready. A stable hand has him waiting outside your tent.” His tone was clipped, professional.

“Ah, finally, something done right.” Riordan gave a hearty slap to Thallan’s shoulder—far too forceful to be friendly. Thallan didn’t flinch. He just turned and stepped out of the tent, his duty done.

Only one more season. One more season and he would be free of this arrogant fool. Knighted. Independent. Respected—likely not.

Thallan walked the length of the fencing, boots crunching over churned earth, the scent of trampled grass and sweat thick beneath the midsummer sun. Wooden rails separated the tourney grounds from the swelling crowd, already humming with excitement. Flags flapped overhead, bearing the crests of Tirnovia and foreign courts alike, their colors vivid against the cloudless blue.

From the stands rose the low thunder of voices, laughter, cheers, and the distant strains of a harpist tuning up somewhere beyond the field. Smoke from a roasting spit curled in lazy ribbons from the far end of the festival tents. The scent of charred meat mingled with wildflowers from garlands tossed onto noblewomen’s laps.

The section reserved for the crown and their honored guests was beginning to trickle in, silks and satins in soft colors catching the light.

He was about to veer toward the stables when a voice called out—familiar, though he couldn’t place it at first.

“Squire!”

He paused. Surely they were calling someone else.

“Thallan!”

Too late to pretend he hadn’t heard. He turned with a practiced smile, gaze following the voice to its source. Upon the dais, Lady Katerina rose from her place beside the princess. She lifted the hem of her purple gown slightly as she descended, smile poised and steps measured. Behind her, the other ladies-in-waiting watched with thinly veiled amusement, their fans fluttering like wings to conceal their smiles.

“Lady Katerina,” he said, offering a polite bow of his head.

“How is my brother this morning?” she asked lightly. “He grew rather pale when he heard Sir Du Floréan of Velmonté would be competing this season.”

She paused beside him, not quite close enough to be improper—just enough to make it noticeable.

“An excellent rider. And with a blade,” she added, eyes drifting toward the jousting field. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Thallan followed her gaze. Knights circled in the ring, some atop restless mounts, others leaning against the rails flirting with flushed maidens. Sir Du Floréan rode past, helmet tucked beneath one arm, dark curls bouncing as he laughed at something a noblewoman called out.

“I’ve yet to have the pleasure of seeing him compete.” Thallan said coolly. It was the truth. He didn’t care for courtly showmanship. Tourneys were theater. His interest lay in steel, blood, and the edge of the world—not applause.

“A shame you’ve denied yourself the pleasure.” Katerina’s lips curved again, this time with mischief. “Though I am sure you can’t say the same for Lady Mirabeth. Did she make the evening a pleasure for you?”

“Who?” His brows knit, caught off guard.

“Oh, Thallan,” she sighed. “You wound her. The young lady you escorted at the fire. Pale cheeks, freckled nose, blushed every time you so much as breathed.”

Realization flickered. “Ah,” he said with a dry smile. “Her.”

“Such a beau,” she teased. “Do you forget every woman you speak to?”

“Not every,” he murmured, letting his gaze meet hers. For a moment, the festival sounds seemed to fade—the world narrowed to the tilt of her head, the glint in her eyes, green as summer leaves in sunlight.

Movement in the field caught his eye. Sir Riordan had slowed his horse, his gaze pinned squarely on them.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” Thallan said, tone light with a playful sigh.

“How so?” she asked, following his gaze. “Heavens, how protective he is. Makes me want to stay longer. Anger might make him ride better.”

She waved sweetly to her brother, a picture of innocence.

“You’re not the one who’ll suffer if he loses,” Thallan muttered, already stepping back. “It was good seeing you, Lady Katerina. Enjoy the tourney.”

“And you,” she replied, gaze flicking once more to him before returning to her brother.

She kept calling to him.

“Thallan, what’s the next event?”

“Thallan, what did you think of the quintain?”

“Thallan, do you think a broadhead arrow would pierce deeper?”

At first, he answered out of courtesy. But over time, the sound of his name in her voice pulled something more from him—a real, amused smile he couldn’t quite suppress.

But it was the final time she said it—after vespers, after the grounds had been cleared—that changed everything.

“Thallan,” she said softly, the syllables a hush behind him. Her heels clicked on the stable’s stone floor like punctuation.

He turned slowly from the stall, brushing his hand along the gate he’d just latched. “Entering the knight’s stables now, are we? You truly know no bounds.”

“Truly no,” she purred, fingers ghosting along the wood, stopping just shy of his hand.

His eyes flicked to the stable entrance, wary, before settling on hers again. “You’re going to get me in serious trouble if you’re caught here. Your brother—”

“Then shan’t we make it worth it?” She stepped in close, her body brushing his, forcing him back a pace as she swung the gate wide. “We’re taking his horse. We’re riding into the city.”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“I thought elven ears were sharper. Or are you daft? Handsomeness only takes you so far.”

Her words teased—but they struck. Challenge lit in his chest like a match.

“Handsomeness and swordplay, actually.” He moved with her as she reached for the reins. “But what are you doing? You can’t just steal your brother’s horse.”

“Why not? He’s as much mine as his. Family, no?”

“I don’t think that’s how property works.” His fingers wrapped gently around her wrists, stilling them. Her hands paused against the leather. “Besides, if you really want to ride with me, you’ll need a mount suited for two.”

She arched a brow.

He gestured to the stallion. “Look at him. Built for speed, not weight. Your brother’s prized racer. He’ll buck with two.”

“You’re saying my father paid gold for a show pony?” she laughed, full and bright.

“Yes,” he said, a soft chuckle leaving him. “We’ll take my horse.”

“You expect me to ride a squire’s horse?”

“My horse is a Branash—native to Eilador. Not as fast or dainty as your court-pretty breeds, but strong. Enduring. The kind of horse you’d want on a real ride.”

She stared at him a moment, thoughtful, gaze flicking once more to the sleek white steed she’d set her sights on. Then, with a grin curling her lips: “Take me to yours, then.”

He unlatched the stall with practiced ease, steps steady as he approached the one steed that stood apart in the sea of hooves and hay. They didn’t give the best horses to squires—only enough muscle to survive training. It was just one more way they reminded them of their place.

But this horse was different.

Large, coal-dark, built for war. To call him a draft beast would be to insult what had taken generations to breed. There was strength in his frame, yes, but intelligence in his eyes.

Thallan ran his palm down the horse’s flank, then to his broad chest where a single white patch broke the black like a full moon in night sky.

“This is Ghealach,” he said, low and reverent.

The horse was his only tether to home. A Branash breed, a parting gift from his father. Thallan had raised him, broken him, loved him. And Ghealach had carried him across the border into Caerwyn.

He looked back at her, half-expecting her to balk at the horse’s size. But those emerald eyes held no fear. Just that same assessing glint she gave him when they first met.

She stepped forward, delicate fingers reaching toward Ghealach’s muzzle.

“I’ve only heard of elven-bred horses. Seen them from a distance when your kind bothered to attend our tourneys. Never up close.” Her voice softened as the horse lowered his head to nudge her palm, breathing a low, accepting sigh.

Thallan took the moment to fetch the pillion saddle.

“You really aren’t going to protest?” she asked, watching him cinch the straps. “Not even ask why I want to go into the city?”

“I see no point,” he said without looking up. “I’m bored. And if I get to help humiliate your brother along the way, that’s just a bonus.”

“You dislike him that much?” She stroked Ghealach’s mane. “Did you know you’re already at the level of a knight? But my brother insists on keeping you a squire until you’re of human age to be. Like the others.”

His fingers stilled at the girth strap. Just a beat. Then the practiced smile returned. “You don’t have to win me over. I’ve had plenty of reasons to despise him.”

“Very well.” Her tone was breezy as she swung into the saddle in one fluid movement. Her gown flared like violet silk smoke before settling around her legs, and she adjusted with the poise of someone born to rule.

Thallan crossed his arms, eyeing her. Sheer audacity. 

“Aw,” she purred, glancing back at him, “did you really think I’d sit behind you and let you lead? How sweet. Don’t be shy, you can hold on.”

He mounted with a resigned sigh, carefully placing his hands at her waist. He focused too much on not letting them slip lower. The saddle gave a blessed inch of space between them—but just that.

She clicked her tongue, heels nudging Ghealach forward. The horse eased out of the stable, hooves tapping a steady rhythm on the stone before quickening into a canter.

“Wait—the palace gates,” Thallan started, leaning slightly. “There’s a hidden postern at the east—”

“Shh, Thallan,” she cut in, tone silken with confidence. “The gates will be open.”

And they were. No guards. No lanterns. Just night air and shadows. His brows knit with suspicion.

“I can feel you tensing.” Her voice was a murmur against the wind. “Not a grope… more like contemplation.”

He didn’t answer, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“You think I could get a squire to steal a horse, but not a guard to open a gate?” she teased. “Please.”

She reached back, fingertips trailing his arm before sliding his hand from her waist to her front, pressing his palm just below her ribs. The move brought his chest flush against her back.

“Relax,” she whispered. “Enjoy the ride. And think of how, if you’re caught, Sir Riordan wouldn’t just scold you. He’d take your hands.”