The stable air is thick with the scent of hay, leather, and earth, softened only by the crisp morning breeze sneaking through the wooden slats. Sunlight filters in through the gaps, turning the dust in the air into golden fragments, swirling lazily with every movement.

Armin rolls up the sleeves of his uniform, the fabric slightly stiff from being washed the night before. He exhales, steadying himself before tugging another strap into place on the saddle. The horse beside him flicks its ears, huffing as if in quiet protest.

“Yeah, I know,” Armin murmurs, offering a gentle pat along its flank. “You’re not the only one who’s tired of getting dragged into danger, huh?”

The response is a deep snort, almost amused, as the animal nudges his shoulder lightly. He smiles, adjusting the bridle with careful hands, his fingers moving with the kind of precision that only comes from years of learning through trial and error.