The sound of neighing echoed through the Emberthorn Castle stables, clashing with the chaos of guards who had been struggling for hours. When they finally gave up, the men backed away from the stall with sweat-drenched faces and looks of defeat. Yet retreat wasn’t an option—the Duke wanted Damascus.

No one knew exactly what had happened inside, but the black stallion was clearly in a frenzy. Even the seasoned stablehands—men who had tamed countless wild horses—were utterly overwhelmed. One of them had even been injured: the castle’s elderly stablemaster.

“Can’t the Duke just use Vermel? Why does it have to be Damascus? This is a nightmare.”

Between their efforts to calm the most difficult horse in the castle, the guards grumbled constantly—until old Moyas showed up. Then they all fell silent out of respect.

“You understand how important this stallion is, don’t you? He’s a family heirloom. Only the late Duke Gilleo was ever able to ride him. The young Duke probably wants to show the guests at the celebration in two days that he can control Damascus too.”

“Alright, that makes sense.”

“Then do your job. We're being paid for this. Tame Damascus, no matter what.”

But once again, the massive black stallion resisted—violently rejecting any human contact. He reared up, using his front hooves as weapons to drive them away.

The men were stubborn. Even after hours of coaxing, they hadn’t made progress.

“Argh! That hurt!”

Damascus sent a guard flying several meters before he crashed into the grass, clutching his abdomen—where the stallion’s kick had struck.

“You alright, Roger?” Owen rushed to help his fellow guard up. They had stepped outside the stall, leaving two others still inside trying to manage the beast.

“If this goes on, someone’s going to end up with serious internal injuries. That horse is too wild. I’ve handled feral horses before, and they all gave in eventually. But Damascus... it’s like he hates humans.”

“Maybe because the Duke hasn’t ridden him yet,” Owen replied. They were running out of explanations—they all sounded the same by now.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from within the stable, cutting off their conversation.

Their pupils widened as Damascus burst into view, neighing furiously, rearing up on his hind legs, still bound by reins clutched tightly by two other guards who were struggling more than Owen and Roger ever had.

“God. Damascus gives me chills.”

“Come on, Roger! Help them!” Owen grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling him back in despite Roger’s visible trauma from the earlier kick. There was no time left for hesitation.

A golden-haired girl arrived carrying a basket of lunch for the stable guards, taking a shortcut through the castle grounds to reach the stables faster. Aunt Moran had asked her to deliver the food, taking advantage of Elle’s spare time after her brief visit to the castle kitchens.

It was rare to see Elle wandering around the castle. The simple girl usually spent her time in the cottage or deep in the forest—collecting medicinal herbs, her area of expertise.

Her steps halted beside the line of horse stalls. All was calm—except for one black creature still raging in the hands of four desperate grooms.

The Vlestrian Flame stallion, a breed owned only by the Duke’s family and passed down for generations, stood out with his signature trait: a crimson mane like living fire.

“My gods! They still haven’t managed to tame him, huh?”

The voice behind her made Elle turn. It was the old stablemaster who had retreated earlier after treating his own wounds. He was back to check on the situation, though it was far from what he’d hoped.

Their eyes met. Elle lowered her head respectfully. “I apologize, I was just bringing lunch for the guards. Aunt Moran asked me to. But… then I saw the situation here.”

“It’s alright. Damascus is incredibly hard to tame. I’ve been head of the Duke’s stables for decades, and in all that time, I’ve only seen him allow one person to ride him.”

“Who was it?”

“The late Duke Gilleo.”

Elle stood still, still holding the basket as she watched the chaos unfold. Then, without warning, she rushed toward a guard who had been thrown down by Damascus.

“Don’t come any closer, miss! It’s dangerous!!” Moyas shouted in warning. But Elle ignored him.

“Hey. Let’s get you sitting down. You’re injured.” She knelt beside the guard, her proximity to Damascus dangerously close. The stallion was still rearing violently—if the reins slipped, he could break loose or injure someone again.

“No, miss. Please step back. This is bad. I can treat myself later.”

“But—”

A piercing whinny erupted beside her. Elle turned—Damascus was just a few steps away, hooves raised, as if about to strike the golden-haired girl frozen in place on the grass.

The sun blazed overhead, casting his shadow across her like a black, towering monster.

“Pull harder, Owen! Pull harder!”

“Don’t let him break free!”

Elle should have run. Saved herself. But she was rooted to the spot.

As Roger yanked the reins to the side, her eyes locked with Damascus’s.

Something screamed from within her. A primal voice demanding her to move—to do something. She gathered every ounce of courage she had and shouted:

“LET GO OF THE REINS! HE’S IN PAIN!!!”

Gasps erupted. Old Moyas cursed and stormed forward.

“Hey! Have you lost your mind? Let the men do their job! Don’t make a joke out of something this dangerous.”

Elle didn’t listen. She stood and approached Damascus. And just as their eyes met—he stopped.

The raised hooves returned to the ground. The raging stallion fell quiet, gazing at the girl with the pastel headscarf wrapped beneath her chin.

Everyone froze. Even Moyas. How could the beast suddenly fall silent… just because of her?

“Hey… did something hurt you? Why are you so angry with your handlers?” Elle whispered gently, placing her face close to his, brushing her fingers along his forehead and down his powerful neck.

Owen dropped the reins, his hands red from the strain of holding them. Roger stayed tense, eyes darting between Elle, the horse, and Moyas.

No one knew what to make of what they were witnessing.

“They must’ve taken care of you well, right? The Duke would never hire careless people. So why the anger, Damascus?”

The stallion didn’t budge. He stood completely still—like he’d found his true rider.

“Do you like peaches? I didn’t bring any today. But if you promise to behave and stop fighting them, I’ll come visit again and bring you some. Can you do that?”

“Owen, I’m scared,” Roger muttered, drenched in sweat. They were nothing more than spectators now—watching Elle and Damascus in disbelief.

“Scared of what, huh?”

“That girl… I think she just stole my job.”

***