Chapter 1 - Arrival 

Scarlett Warrens had never believed in luck, so when the acceptance letter arrived embossed in silver with the crest of Walden Academy, School of Equine Discipline, she treated it not as fortune—but as proof. The gates of Walden rose before her now in immaculate symmetry, wrought iron polished to a dark sheen, the academy’s name etched in precise lettering that seemed less like decoration and more like a promise. Beyond them stretched pristine white fencing, emerald pastures rolling into the distance, and a main stable complex so architecturally flawless it felt almost ceremonial. The gravel beneath her boots crunched softly as she stepped from the car, the air carrying the clean scent of clipped grass and oiled leather, discipline woven into every visible detail. Riders in tailored jackets moved with quiet efficiency between barns, their posture straight, their movements economical, as though even breathing here required intention. Scarlett felt the familiar tightening in her chest—not fear, but expectation sharpening into focus. She had earned this scholarship. Earned the right to stand among the best. And as she lifted her chin and walked toward the towering main barn, sunlight catching in her long blonde hair, she made a silent vow to herself that Walden would not break her. If this academy was built on discipline, she would become its standard. 

Scarlett quietly enters the building, her freshly polished tall boots click against the marbled flooring. Her cold gaze inspects the stunning architecture of the stable, soft nickers, hoof beats, grunts and other equine releated noises echoing throughout the pristine halls. She continues down the rows and rows of warmbloods, and thoroughbreds in their designated places. Holding her head high, walking with confidence as if she has been there her whole life. The dame makes her way towards her own mount's stall. 

Glancing wearily back at Scarlett, CSI Against All Odds looks over from his haynet. The gelding turns, hooves churning up the shavings which coated the stable floor. Arasael, is his barn name, Azzie to Scarlett when no one is around. The equine is a mix of prestigious breeds, his sire being a Fresian Sport Horse and dame a Danish Wamrblood. The steed's coat is almost fully black, except for a small star which remains hidden beneath his forelock. 

" Good morning, Arasael. " Warrens speaks softly, inspecting the front of the stall. It's rather bare, a saddle rack and bridle rack are bolted into the emerald green paneling. A black tack bin filled to the brim with expensive saddle pads sits beside them. A padded lemuiex halter in the shade ink blue is hooked on the black metal bars which encase the the shamrock coloured wood. 

A low, soft chuckle echoes from behind Scarlett, the girl immediatly freezes, brows furrowing. She doesn't need to turn around to know who's laugh that was. Though she still does, and the sight confirms her guess. Max Summers is across the hall, getting his own mount CSI Blue Ribbon Runway, AKA "Dakota" settled in. His golden brown hair is styled perfectly, he seems to tower over Scarlett even from a few meters away. Max's gentle, sage gaze locks with Scarlett's harsh, icy blue scowl.

" What happened to you, Warrens?" He snickers softly, striding over without warning.

 

Scarlett freezes for a moment, stepping back from his towering 6''4 figure. " What happened was I thought I could escape from you for once in my lifetime. But no, I'm stuck with you at Walden for the next few years. . . " The damsel grumbles, folding her arms across her chest.

" Why is that such a bad thing? Hmm? " Max's lips turn up into a smirk, he reaches out an arm, holding it on the bar beside Scarlett's head, leaning in and getting close as if he didn't care this scene might just cause a scandal. 

" Because I'm going to have to deal with you flirting like this, and thinking you're the best in the arena. News flash, just because you have daddy's money doesn't mean others can't be better than you. Now, fuck off will you? " Warrens grumbles, pushing him away gently as she turns sharply on her heels, striding off towards the head masters office to sign in.

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Scarlett leaves the Head Master’s office with her spine straight and her expression composed, though the conversation still echoes faintly in her ears like the lingering ring of a struck bell. Walden did nothing casually—not its scholarships, not its expectations, and certainly not its warnings. Excellence was assumed here. Discipline was currency. As she steps back into the stable aisle, the familiar scent of hay and polished leather wrap around her like armor. Azzie lifts his head the moment she approaches, dark eyes sharp and knowing, as if he can sense the shift in her mood. She runs a steadying hand down his sleek neck before reaching for the saddle pad, her movements precise and economical. Every buckle fastened cleanly. Every strap checked twice. Control restored.

"Did you survive the conversation with Ms. Pattridge?" Max’s voice drifts down the aisle, warm and entirely too amused.

She doesn't look at him.

"If I hadn’t, you’d know," she replies coolly, adjusting Azzie’s girth with practiced efficiency.

Max leans casually against Dakota’s stall door, sleeves rolled just enough to expose forearms lightly dusted with hay. His golden-brown hair is perfectly styled despite the humid air, and when she finally allows herself a brief glance, she finds him watching her with open appreciation.

"You know," he continues, pushing off the stall and strolling closer, "most people look at me when I’m talking to them."

"I’m not most people," she says, tightening the girth one final notch.

"I’ve noticed."

He steps within arm’s reach, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of her riding jacket. Dakota nudges his shoulder playfully behind him, as though encouraging the performance.

"You look especially intimidating today," he adds lightly. "Very academy-approved. It’s doing things for me."

Scarlett pauses only long enough to arch a brow in his direction before reaching for Azzie’s bridle. "Focus on your own horse, Summers. Flirting won’t improve your stride distances."

He smiles, slow and deliberate.

"Maybe not," he murmurs, "but it definitely improves my mornings."

She slips the bit gently into Azzie’s mouth and secures the straps with steady fingers, refusing to acknowledge the faint warmth creeping beneath her collar. If Max noticed the slight hitch in her breathing, he was merciful enough not to comment.

Scarlett swings into the saddle moments later with flawless precision, gathering the reins before finally sparing him one cool glance.

“Try to keep up,” she says.

His grin widens as he mounts Dakota in one fluid motion.

“Oh, Warrens,” he calls after her as she guides Azzie toward the arena, “I always do.”