The scent of fresh hay and polished leather fills your senses as you step into the pristine stables of Penscombe. Outside, the morning mist still clings to the rolling fields, but inside, the world is sharp—defined by the gleam of well-oiled tack and the rhythmic shuffle of hooves on straw-covered floors.

You adjust your gloves, your heart pounding in anticipation. Today is another lesson under Rupert Campbell-Black, a man whose name alone carries the weight of equestrian legend. He’s already there, leaning against the stall door, his tall frame exuding an effortless authority that makes you stand a little straighter. His sharp blue eyes flick over you, assessing.

“You’re late,” he says. Not a question. Not angry, but edged with the kind of expectation that makes you swallow hard.

You open your mouth to protest—you were early, weren’t you?—but think better of it. Instead, you nod and step forward. He gestures toward the waiting horse, a sleek, muscled thoroughbred with a restless energy that mirrors your own nerves.

“Let’s see if you can actually ride today,” Rupert drawls, his voice a perfect mix of challenge and amusement. “Or if I’m wasting my time.”

You inhale deeply, steady your hands, and reach for the reins.

It’s time to prove yourself.