"Forget it. That's not important," Vance said flatly.

  Elian decided he would go home and brush up on his Greek mythology. Of course, he wouldn't realize until later that the god of the west wind carried a far more turbulent story than the name suggested.

  The downpour showed no sign of easing. The city streets were already flooded, traffic snarled. The vet and farrier couldn't make it out to the stables.

  The grooms, shaken by the earlier chaos, weren't eager to go near Zephyrus again—especially with several of their colleagues still nursing bruises in the guardroom.

  So Elian took a pair of hoof nippers and a heavy towel, and went into the stall alone.

  The horse's hooves were badly overgrown, the walls chipped and pitted, grit and mud seeping from the cracks. His coat and mane were ragged, with bald patches where hair had rubbed away. His ears pinned back, nostrils flaring in rapid bursts.

  "It's okay," Elian murmured, approaching from the side to avoid stepping into the horse's blind spot. He laid a steady hand against the stallion's neck.

  Zephyrus glared at him warily but, thankfully, didn't lash out this time. Elian wiped the rain from his face, draped the towel over his drenched body, then crouched with the nippers. Risking a kick that could kill him, he trimmed the hooves as best he could. He refreshed the bucket with clean water, laced with a touch of beet juice. At last, Zephyrus began to settle.

  Saturday's competition came quickly. After leaving Heaton Stables to compete and giving his horse time to rest, it was more than a month later when Elian finally returned.

  The first thing he did was ask after Zephyrus.

  "What? They're sending him to slaughter?"

  "More likely resold," came the answer. "But a horse like him won't find buyers easily. He's already injured a trainer and a handful of grooms. Mr. Heaton's furious."

  "Alright..." Elian raked a hand through his flaxen-brown hair. "I'll talk to the trainer, figure out what's going on."

  At the training ring, the head trainer was trying to school Zephyrus with a lead horse.

  The stallion's condition had improved: his coat filled in, and today he stood saddled. Yet the session was going poorly. Zephyrus refused to follow the lead horse, ignored cues to walk or halt, and balked at every attempt.

  "I just don't have the time," the trainer admitted with a sigh. "He's not the only horse here that needs work."

  "What does he know so far?" Elian asked.

  "I've taught him to circle, halt, and steer. Technically, he understands every cue. But he just won't cooperate."

  "I noticed he's saddled now. So he'll tolerate people close to him and doesn't mind the saddle?"

  "Not exactly. Watch."

  No sooner had he spoken than Zephyrus rose onto his forelegs, twisting his neck to snap at the saddle, teeth bared as he tried to tear it off.

  "Then... if you don't have the time, could I try?" Elian ventured.

  "You want to train him?" The trainer scratched his chin. "Well, you've picked up a few things. Alright. Give it a shot. If it doesn't work, no harm done."

  "Thank you!"

  The next afternoon, the rain finally cleared, and Elian managed, with no small effort, to lead Zephyrus out to the small paddock. He stood in the center while the stallion instinctively withdrew to the edge of the fence.

  "Looks like you haven't even finished the basics of groundwork," Elian said with his hands on his hips.

  He began edging closer, only for Zephyrus to shy away whenever the distance narrowed too much. Each time, Elian stepped back, giving him space. Again and again, he approached and retreated, each attempt shortening the distance, never rushing, never pushing hard enough to frighten the horse.

  "Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you." He stretched out a hand, only to be bitten hard a second later.

  "Sorry. I pushed too fast."

  Undeterred, he tried again, slowly, patiently. This time Zephyrus didn't resist as strongly. Once assured that Elian meant no harm, the stallion even leaned forward a little, sniffing with cautious curiosity.

  Encouraged, Elian lifted his hand higher, avoiding eye contact and standing still, waiting for the horse to come to him. He waited and waited until, at last, Zephyrus relented, pressing his nose forward to sniff him.

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  By the second week, Elian was already able to rest one foot in the stirrup and lean against the horse for a short while. He knew the moment had come. Left foot in the stirrup, hand steady on the saddle, he swung up and over, landing light across Zephyrus's back.

  "Please don't throw me off," Elian muttered under his breath.

  Zephyrus shifted uneasily, then, after a few tense seconds, settled again.

  "Good. Now—just like I taught you before. A few steps forward." He pressed his heel gently to the horse's side.

  And, miraculously, Zephyrus obeyed, stepping out into the familiar track and circling along the hoofprints.

  "Yes! That's it! I knew you could do it, you're amazing!" Elian shouted, his voice breaking with exhilaration. He could have cried with relief.

  Laughing aloud, he knew then that Zephyrus wouldn't be slaughtered or sold off cheaply. He could stay.

  The afternoon sun streamed down on boy and horse, wrapping them in a halo of pale gold. The boy's features, once soft with youth, now opened with a brightness that blended innocence and vitality, as if the whole world had bloomed with him. The joy was so pure it was almost impossible to look away.

  —And all of it was seen by Vance Heaton, watching silently from a distance.

  The trainer, standing beside him mid-conversation, turned his head and couldn't help but exclaim, "Wow! Who'd have thought the kid would actually pull it off?"

  "His patience with horses... it rivals most trainers, don't you think?" the man added.

  But Vance didn't answer right away.

  His gaze lingered, long enough that when he caught himself drifting, his brows drew together ever so slightly. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned his eyes away.

  Beep, beep, beep—

  Elian woke in his single dorm room to the plain white ceiling above him.

  Last night he'd dreamed of something from long ago, and the memory still clung to him with a strange unreality.

  He shut off the alarm. It was four in the morning—time to get up for training. These days his routine was set: a run at dawn, breakfast, warm-ups for the horse, then a series of jump exercises and video reviews of past competitions.

  "Elian, you're watching tapes again?" Ariya asked as she passed by.

  "Yeah."

  "What do you even get from watching the same clips over and over?"

  "You have to slow it down: watch the riders' legs, sketch the course in your head, count strides."

  "No wonder. You've already replayed this segment five times."

  "There are so many variables: takeoff timing, speed at the fence, footing. Time in the saddle is too precious. If I don't run the course a hundred times in my head first, I'll never surpass the others." Elian's eyes gleamed with conviction.

  "Well, you look fired up at least."

  "I've already signed up for the event in Vermont at the end of next month."

  "That soon? But you're planning to go in without a coach?"

  "That's the problem." Elian raked a hand through his hair. "The coach isn't here yet. I've got a ton of questions and no one to ask. I can't just go to the other riders at the stables... What, should I just march up to Mr. Heaton and ask him?"

  "Not impossible," Ariya said thoughtfully, scratching her chin. "Mr. Heaton's won more gold medals than anyone here."

  "What? Don't joke about that! He'd kill me with one look!"

  Ariya grinned. "Exactly. I want to see that look on your face when you run into him."

  "The coach is already on his way from the Netherlands," came Vance's voice from behind, making Elian nearly fall off his chair. He spun around, only to see Ariya had already slipped away, laughing at her own mischief.

  "B-boss! How long have you been standing there?"

  Vance didn't answer. Instead he frowned. "Why do you startle so easily?"

  Elian admitted he did overreact every time Vance appeared, but he couldn't bring himself to say, Because you're terrifying.

  "Are you afraid of me?" Vance asked, as if reading his mind.

  Elian choked on his own spit. "No!" he blurted.

  Vance gave him a long look, unimpressed with the act.

  "The coach is Jasper Jelle," he said, pulling a folder from under his arm and flipping it open. "Learn from him—he'll have plenty to teach you."

  "You mean Jasper Jelle?"

  "Yes."

  "The one who won the Olympic three-day eventing title?" Elian's voice shot up an octave.

  "That was more than thirty years ago. He's been coaching ever since."

  Before Elian could jump up with excitement, Vance added, "But there's a condition. Jelle says he'll only take you on after he sees your performance in Vermont. He won't give you guidance for this event. How seriously he trains you afterward depends on what he sees there."

  Elian's heart sank. He had hoped for instruction right away; instead, the stakes of the upcoming competition had grown even heavier.

  "What's the matter? Can't handle it?" Vance's voice carried no mockery, just a flat question.

  "I can handle it!" Elian shot upright at once.

  Even so, this would be his first competition in years, and Vermont would bring far more seasoned riders than he was used to. Nothing about it was certain.

  "Focus on your own performance. Don't worry about anyone else's." Vance tossed the folder back onto the table and walked off without another glance.

  Was that encouragement?

  Probably not.

  Elian scratched at his hair, laughing at himself for even thinking it.

  The added pressure drove him harder than ever. He pushed through sweat-drenched core workouts in the gym and drilled Zephyrus relentlessly—repeating jump courses, correcting strides and angles again and again. Zephyrus excelled at jumping and cross-country stamina, but dressage was another story.

  In three-day eventing, the dressage test was simpler than in stand-alone competitions, but still strict: each missed cue, every toss of the head or twist of the neck, meant lost points. Zephyrus was too restless, sometimes grabbing at the bit, sometimes throwing his head, every flaw laid bare.

  Elian hadn't found a perfect solution. His only plan was to take the edge off Zephyrus the day before, but not so much that he'd be drained for the next two phases.

  Soon the day arrived. The night before, Elian rode with Zephyrus in the transport truck, staying by his side all the way to Vermont.

  The venue was outdoors. By early morning, the lot was crowded with trucks, and families and teams were already gathering.

  "Rider number seven, Elian Lien—please report to the prep area." The announcement echoed across the grounds.

  The arena stretched wide, its footing laid in sand, with the judges' box opposite the stands. As expected, the first day's audience was sparse, consisting of some families and a few teammates waiting their turn.

  Scanning the top rows of the bleachers, Elian spotted familiar figures.

  "Elian! Go get 'em!" Ariya was shouting and waving.

  Beside her stood Vance Heaton, his assistant Simon, and a man in a hat.

  Vance? Here? Wasn't he supposed to be too busy?