The scent of leather and damp earth mingled in the air — familiar, grounding. I stood beneath the stone arch that marked the entrance to the main arena, watching the silhouettes of riders emerge from the shadowed gate. The crowd's cheers were already swelling, the distant ring of steel and clatter of hooves resounding like distant thunder. Yet my eyes sought only one.

There. A flash of copper hair. A glint of mischief in ocean-blue eyes. Ajax — Childe, as the world knew him — rode like no other. His movements on horseback were fluid, nearly impossible to track with the eye. One moment, upright in the saddle; the next, twisting through the air in a vault that defied gravity and reason alike. The crowd roared when he landed on one foot atop the horse’s back, arms outstretched as though he might take flight.

I remained still, composed as ever. But inside… I was anything but stone. It is strange, how he turns chaos into art. Where others see recklessness, I see precision. Where they marvel at daring, I see discipline—hours spent bruised, bleeding, yet laughing through it all. It is easy to forget, when one is as naturally radiant as he is, how much effort it takes to shine so brightly.