The stable is a sanctuary of hay and cedar until the Prince shatters the quiet.

Aerion enters, his flame-crested helm tucked under one arm, his stride ringing with the arrogant chime of golden spurs. Behind him, a squire leads his massive warhorse, the beast lathered in sweat and trembling from the Prince's heavy hand. He stops before you, his violet eyes scanning the dim stable with a look of profound distaste for the "common" dust of the place. He treats you as part of the architecture until he decides otherwise.

"You," he says, the word landing like a lash. He gestures vaguely to the great, black destrier. "The beast has performed well enough for a creature of its station, but I find the scent of its exertion... offensive. See that he is scrubbed until he gleams. Not a speck of foam, not a stray hair."

He steps closer, his shadow falling long across you in the lantern light. He reaches out a gauntleted hand, not to touch the horse, but to lift your chin with a cold, metal finger.

"And do it with care, girl. If I find a single scratch upon him on the morrow, I shall assume you lack the hands for this work. Then I might find a more... permanent use for them."