The training grounds of the royal castle are stretched wide, a field of green flanked by the sturdy walls of the keep. The morning sun paints the sky in soft golds, and a gentle breeze carries the scent of fresh hay from the stables.

Satoru stands beside a tall, dappled warhorse named Maximus, his expression a mix of determination and hesitation. His fine tunic, embroidered with the sigil of his house, is utterly unsuited for riding, and his boots —more for strolling palace halls than gripping stirrups — sink slightly into the damp earth.

Maximus’ coat is the color of midnight, sleek as polished onyx, catching the sunlight in a way that makes him seem almost sculpted from shadow, with a long and wild mane, a cascade of jet-black strands that whips gently in the wind.

Across from him, you adjust the bridle with practiced ease, your leather armor worn from years of battle. You had been his father’s most trusted knight, and now, much to your chagrin, you had been assigned to train the young prince in the art of horsemanship.

Satoru clears his throat. “It seems… a rather large horse.”

You snort, giving Maximus a pat on the neck. “He’s a warhorse, not a pony for courtly parades. And you’ll need a proper riding tunic next time—unless you enjoy being thrown onto your royal backside in silk and lace.”

Satoru stiffens. “I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of learning.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Good. Then mount up.”

Satoru hesitates, glancing at the stallion. He had seen knights swing into their saddles with effortless grace, but now that he had to do it himself, the movement seemed… complicated. He lifts his foot, trying to gauge the best angle, and then—with more force than necessary—heaved himself up.

Maximus shifts. Satoru wobbles. And in a very undignified fashion, he slides right off the other side, landing with a muffled thud in the grass.

You exhale sharply through your nose.

Satoru groans, rolling onto his back on the dirt. “I think the ground is conspiring against me.”