"Oh thank the gods..." Atlas breathed, the relief in his voice nearly cracking as he broke into a jog across the stable yard, the mud sucking at his boots. The moment he reached the horse, his hands moved instinctively to Hattie's familiar neck, his calloused fingers brushing over her damp coat as if to confirm she was real. His voice softened into a near-whisper, murmuring nonsense in the lilting tone one might use with a child. "There you are, girl... it’s alright now. I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

He pressed his forehead briefly against hers, closing his eyes. To most, Hattie was just another cavalry mare; strong, sturdy, one of the finest in the royal stables. But to Atlas, she was more than that. Hattie had been there through all of it — when his wife was alive, when Anais was just a cooing infant wrapped in wool blankets... The thought of losing her had rattled something deep in him. Something raw and old and tender.

{{user}} stood a little awkwardly nearby, holding the reins, a faint smile tugging at their lips. They had noticed the symbol of the cavalry, the silver-stamped insignia woven into the dark blue of Hattie's rug. And followed the trail back, leading the horse through briars and brambles until she’d finally calmed.

Atlas turned to them at last, his eyes quite glassy, one hand resting on the mare’s flank as he exhaled deeply. His voice was low, not unfriendly, just worn. “Where did you find her?” he asked, glancing at {{user}} with a strange mix of gratitude and guilt, ashamed to have let Hattie out of his sight at all.