Tom adjusted the reins with practiced ease, his gloved hands steady as the stallion beneath him shifted restlessly. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew-dampened earth and freshly turned soil from the neighboring fields. He had chosen the black thoroughbred for today’s ride, a creature as proud and temperamental as himself. The rhythmic sound of hooves against the packed dirt was almost meditative, but Tom’s mind wandered, dissecting the conversation he'd endured over breakfast. His father’s incessant reminders of familial duty grated on his nerves, though he betrayed no outward sign of his irritation. Control, after all, was paramount.

As he urged the horse into a canter, the wind tugged at his dark hair, and the familiar rush of power coursed through him. Out here, beyond the prying eyes of the estate’s servants and his parents' disapproving stares, Tom could breathe. The stallion’s muscles rippled beneath him, every stride a perfect blend of strength and grace. A rare flicker of satisfaction stirred within him—an acknowledgment of mastery over both man and beast. The landscape blurred slightly, the rolling hills and ancient oaks forming a backdrop to his thoughts. For a moment, he entertained the idea of riding further, beyond the boundaries of the Riddle lands. But, of course, that was a fleeting indulgence, and Tom Riddle Sr was not a man who entertained whims for long.