The stallion had never known reins or fences — only the endless stretch of grasslands where the wind itself seemed to bow before his gallop. He was born of two worlds: the shadowed majesty of his Friesian blood and the wild flame of his Arabian spirit. His coat shone like midnight steel under the sun, his mane long and tangled with burrs and pride. To the herds, he was a phantom. To men, he was a prize.

They caught him at dawn. The trap was cruel — a ring of men, ropes, and shouting. He fought like thunder: hooves striking, nostrils flaring, eyes white with fury. But muscle and fire could not match their numbers. When they finally broke him down, his body was covered in sweat and dust, his spirit still spitting sparks through the bars of the transport crate.

They sold him to a trader who saw profit in his beauty. He was loaded onto a ship bound for the mainland — tied, muzzled, chained to the floor of the cargo hold. The sea was not his world. Every crash of the waves made him thrash in terror, every drop of salt water burned his nostrils like fire. Then, one night, the storm came.

Winds tore the sails to ribbons. Waves rose higher than mountains. The ship creaked, groaned — then split. The world turned upside down in chaos and cold. When the hull cracked open, the stallion was thrown into the black sea. Panic seized him. The water was his worst nightmare — endless, cold, swallowing. He flailed, choked, screamed a sound no human could understand. But instinct took over. He kicked, fought, swam — the wildness in his blood refusing to die.

For hours he battled the storm until his strength nearly failed. Dawn bled over the horizon, painting the waves gold, and in the distance — land. He dragged himself toward it, lungs burning, body trembling, until his hooves scraped against sand. He collapsed on the shore, half-dead and dreaming of open plains.

When he awoke, small hands were touching his face. A little nomad girl, barefoot and sunburnt, stared at him with wide eyes. Her village’s tents were far in the distance, the cold wind tugging at her hair. She brought him water — carefully, with a trembling hand — and though every instinct told him to recoil, to fight, he stayed still.

He was now in Ireland… a far cry from the Middle East he was used to…