The morning air bit gently at my skin, crisp with dew and the scent of wet earth. I stood by the rail, watching him, Childe.

The man’s red hair burned like flame against the mist, tousled by the wind, and yet his back remained straight in the saddle, his focus sharp, if a little too tense. He was trying too hard again.

The horse beneath him, a young stallion with too much fire and not enough control, twitched at every movement. A poor match, I’d said when the owner first brought them both to me. But my words fell on deaf ears. “Let the boy prove himself,” he’d told me. "He’s got spirit. Like you once did.

I exhaled slowly, arms folded behind my back. Spirit, yes. But no discipline yet. And this creature beneath him, was not a mount but a mirror. Every flaw the boy refused to acknowledge, the horse reflected tenfold.