The Gentle One must have seen The Beast again.

  Grainne never knew what he was saying, but every time those small lips of his flapped about, the blue men tensed. Their eyes stared at the floor.

  The Gentle One saw him; she must have, that was the only thing that ever made her sad. She curled up next to Grainne. It couldn’t have been very comfortable. She sat on lines of the brown object she’d seen so many times. It wasn’t straw, like Grainne’s bed; straw was comfortable, straw was good. Straw was very good.

  Grainne only tolerated the best pens; she had her bed filled with straw, and the silver bowls filled with water—if they weren’t, she’d neigh, and neigh again. Someone always came, usually it was the Gentle One, her touch soothing and sweet. They shared a bond. Grainne needed her; she gave her yellow food and straw.

  Grainne knew she had it better than other horses; some of them knew Grainne had it better. They envied the straw in her pen, the extra water she got. The treatment her mane got, they went through it with some combination of straw and the hard brown object she’d seen so many times. It looked like trees, but the trees were not straight; they curved and roamed free, not like the brown stuff.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The Gentle One suddenly stood and drew her silver stick; she loved that stick; it was always polished, shiny and smooth, but sometimes Grainne saw it painted with red, maybe it was that fruit she hated when grazing in the wild. She learned what was nice: the small, round berries were good. The big round red one? No.

  The Blue One that gave her grain earlier jumped. Why was he scared? The Gentle One was clearly sad; she only ever made water from her eyes when she was sad, when she saw the Beast. Next time Grainne saw him, she’d kick him with her rear legs; that would teach him not to mess with her favourite servant.

  They continued to speak, words that meant nothing to Grainne; all Grainne understood was neighing and snorting. There was a lot that could be said through that, more than whatever the Blue Ones said to each other. Grainne stared off into the blue void before her, thinking about the pen she would stay in later. It was nice—very nice, but she preferred to be free, galloping through the wilderness, with the Gentle One on her back; that was better than any pen.

  Grainne neighed, letting her mane flutter in the wind. She was happy. Grainne was always a happy mare; she had a good servant and luxury living conditions. The other horses even looked up to her like a role model.

  Maybe she should call herself Princess.

  Princess Grainne.