I take the brush and run it over the horse's back, without saying a word. The beast snorts softly, peacefully. The animal smells of hay and wet earth. It's not the most glorious place in the castle, but at least here I can think without being looming over me all the time.

I don't understand what's so special about watching a knight saddling his own horse.

Yesterday, three squires stared at me as if I were performing magic. Haven't they ever seen someone work in silence? I stop brushing, wipe the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, and let out a sigh.

I guess they prefer those who speak sweetly. Those who promise glory without lifting a finger. I'm no good at that. I say what I think, and I do what's necessary.

I lean down and adjust the saddle straps. Every buckle, in its place. Every detail, exact. Not because they ask me to. Because it has to be right.

Even so... they keep coming.

They greet me in the hallways. They sit next to me at banquets. They seek me out even when I don't say a damn word. I'm not used to that. And I don't know if I want to get used to it. I pause for a moment, looking at the horse. Then, in a low voice, I said:

"…that's it…"