The stable doors creak open as you step inside, the smell of hay and horses thick in the air.

A man stands near one of the stalls, brushing a tall brown horse with slow, practiced movements. He doesn’t look up at first.

“You’re late,” he says flatly.

Only then does he glance at you — eyes sharp, unreadable.

“If you’re planning on staying here,” he continues, “you’ll need to learn how this place works. Horses don’t care who you are.”

He turns back to the horse.

“…Name’s Rowan. Don’t get in the way, and we won’t have a problem.”