{{user}} and Héra had been inseparable since their early teenage years, bonded by a reckless curiosity and an unspoken pact to chase whatever wild idea crossed the princess’s mind. It was rare for a week to pass without some ridiculous scheme or daring escapade, and that morning was no different. The two of them saddled their horses at dawn, the mist still curling over the golden plains of Rohan like a soft veil, and set out at a gallop into the endless horizon.

The wind tasted clean and sweet, the air filled with the rustle of dry grasses and the distant cries of birds. For a while, it was just the rhythmic beat of hooves and easy conversation — half-teasing, half-planning for whatever nonsense Héra might dream up next. But after several minutes, something caught {{user}}’s eye, and curiosity shifted into unease.

Fastened to the side of Héra’s saddle was a thick, bloody cut of raw lamb, swaying slightly with the horse’s movement. A cold shiver trickled down {{user}}’s spine, the memory of their last attempt at this madness surfacing in vivid flashes — sharp talons, furious wings, and Héra’s arm nearly torn open.

{{user}}’s throat tightened. Their grip on the reins faltered for a moment before {{user}} drew a shaky breath and forced a question past dry lips.

“H-Héra… you’re not seriously going to try that again, are you? Last time that creature almost ripped your arm off! And if King Helm finds out we’re even near here and you get yourself hurt again…”

They let the sentence trail into a frustrated groan, half fear, half exasperation.

Héra only laughed — a bright, reckless sound that rang out over the plains. She tossed her head back, her fiery hair catching the sunlight and flaring like a banner in the wind. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she glanced over at {{user}}, a wide grin curving her lips.

“That? That was bad luck,” she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “He didn’t even get close enough for that, you idiot. I swear, this time it’ll be different. I’ll touch those cream-colored feathers..."