I am here for his. The White Horseman’s. The pale beast who was the first to breach the portal between Heaven and Earth. Since this stable has twice the guards, I figured it had to be the one housing him.
Below, stable hands move through the rows, tending to the animals in their partitioned stalls. Guards patrol the central walkway at measured intervals, while armed sentries stand watch at both entrances.
With food scarce and meat even more so, this place and the others like it are considered a gold mine. Animals are transportation and food. The horses could mean easier travel, so some of the population could venture beyond the city limits to find a safer place to rebuild and harvest. But few know about what’s housed here. How the Soul Serpent has managed to keep this a secret is a mystery. My guess is with mind manipulation, but I’m not sure.
What I do know is that he’s not providing aid to his people as he has promised. All it would take for him to have a full-scale riot on his hands is to leak this location to a few random citizens. Chaos would ensue.
Sure, most people are growing their own food, but acquiring the seeds means money or the ability to make a fair trade. Rarely do people have both. This is why the city is now rife with theft. People are getting desperate. Which, in turn, has led more families and skilled farmers to take up arms to defend their food stores or crops, so the crime rate and public punishments have tripled in recent months.
Hunger makes monsters of men. And there’s no need for it.
I wonder how the White Knight intends to address such unrest—or if he will simply persuade the people to believe they’re not starving.
The power of the sigil grows as I move forward, a subtle steadiness guiding my balance. I extend my hands, feeling the air, trusting the mark etched into my flesh as I make my way across the beam.
There’s a tingling sensation and heat as it works its magic.
Thankfully, the steady noise of the men and animals masks my movement. Even so, I tread carefully. The gripping rubber I applied to the soles of my boots helps silence each step I take on the beam.
I pass a wide section where cows are being milked, their low, patient sounds blending with the soft clink of pails. Beyond them are the chickens, crowded inside a coop with straw spilling from its doorway. A half dozen wander freely nearby, pecking at scattered feed the workers spread across the ground.
The sheep come next. Their thick wool coats press together in the gated enclosure, the space too small for their number. They bleat softly and shift as if agitated. Their bodies are packed shoulder to shoulder.
Above me, a bird nesting in the corner of a higher beam squawks suddenly.
I freeze.
Dropping into a crouch, I remain perfectly still, listening for any change in the rhythm of the stable below. Minutes pass before the bird settles and the sounds of routine resume. Only then do I rise and continue.
At the next crossway, I turn left, keeping close to the outer wall where the shadows gather thickest.
Minutes pass as I search. Finally, I find the White Horseman’s steed in the largest stall near the end.
The moment I approach, the horse—standing at the center of its gilded enclosure—lifts its head. His unnerving pale eyes fix directly on me. A low chuff escapes him, his muscles rippling beneath his sleek hide. Cool ghostlike vapor curls from his nostrils in slow bursts.
He snorts again and shifts his weight, settling into a powerful stance.
Before dropping on the ground from the perch at the top of his stall, I pause and watch him, gauging the danger he might pose to me. He is a magnificent beast, really, but one well-placed kick could easily send me crashing into the wall.
This is why I came prepared.
After steadying my breath, I secure the rope around my waist and fasten the other end to a nearby beam. I slide the satchel from my shoulder and search inside until my fingers close around a carrot. Holding it out where he can see, I wait.
His nostrils flare.
He steps forward, curious, and a small smile tugs at my mouth.
This may just work. There’s a good possibility I might lose a hand for my optimism, but it will grow back, so at least there’s that. However, knowing the white beast can’t kill me still doesn’t make approaching him any less daunting.
The great white beast lifts his head, scenting the air further—testing either me or the offering. I toss the carrot into the corner of the stall, not far, careful to remain within his sight at all times. He hesitates, then moves toward it with cautious steps. When his lips curl back, his teeth show—large, blunt, and powerful enough to crush bone.
I grab the rope and start lowering myself down to the floor, careful not to startle him. The last thing I want is to provoke his temper.
My boots touch the straw with a soft rustle.
He tenses instantly.
His head lifts and drifts toward me, ears pricked forward. Muscles flex along his flank, and his tail thrashes through the air. A harsh, displeased sound rumbles from deep in his throat.
