The horse trembled beneath her touch, uncharacteristically unresponsive at first, but she did not move away. She adjusted her stance, keeping herself close enough that he could feel her presence, her hands steady despite the chaos around them.
“Easy,” she murmured. “Easy. I am here.”
One of the trainers spoke urgently behind her. “Something is wrong with him, Your Grace. Something is very wrong.”
Anne did not look away from Tempest. Her hand moved carefully along his neck, her attention shifting as she began to register what others had missed in their panic. The signs were subtle but unmistakable to someone who knew him.
Her gaze dropped immediately to the nearby feed trough, then to the bucket that had been left partially full beside it. Something about the arrangement felt wrong, too careless for a stable that took great pride in its appearance.
She stepped forward without announcing her intention and examined it quickly, her fingers brushing the rim of the bucket before she smelled it.
“This was not an accident,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise.
The nearest trainer turned toward her. “What do you mean?”
Anne lifted her hand slightly, showing the residue on her glove. “This feed has been tampered with.”
The words silenced the immediate panic for a second, then disbelief followed almost instantly.
“That is impossible,” someone said quickly. “Everything is monitored.”
“Then your monitoring has failed. I know what he eats, and I know how it smells.”
The horse shifted again beside her, his movements less frantic but still unstable. She returned her attention to him immediately, continuing to steady him, her voice never rising despite the tension building around them.
It was only moments later that Dorian arrived. He had crossed the yard at speed, having clearly been summoned mid-arrival from elsewhere on the estate. The moment his gaze landed on the scene, the controlled detachment he usually displayed in public vanished entirely.
His attention went straight to Tempest, then to Anne, then to the feed. He did not ask what had happened. He simply understood.
One of the trainers began speaking quickly, trying to explain, but Dorian lifted a hand sharply to silence him.
“How long has he been like this?” His voice was controlled in a way that felt more dangerous than anger.
“No more than a few minutes,” someone replied quickly. “It happened during training. He just collapsed.”
“It was the feed,” Anne interjected, her voice quieter.
Dorian’s gaze shifted toward her. For a brief moment, something unspoken passed between them, and suddenly the last several days did not matter. If Tempest could not race, the entire structure they had built around the stable’s recovery would collapse with him.
Dorian looked back down at the bucket, his expression hardening further as the implications sank in. Someone had tried to sabotage them, and they had attacked a defenceless animal to do it.
Anne did not move away from Tempest, and neither did Dorian. For the first time that evening, neither of them was thinking about anything except the very real possibility that someone within their walls had decided to destroy them.
Dorian ordered the stables locked before anyone had fully recovered from the shock. His voice carried across the yard witha finality that left no room for argument, sharp enough that even the senior trainers moved without hesitation.
Gates were secured, doors checked, and every remaining worker was accounted for under his direct instruction. No one was allowed in or out without his permission.
Anne barely registered any of it. She remained with Tempest.
The horse had been moved carefully into his stall, his breathing uneven but no longer ragged. He stood with difficulty, his head lowered. Every so often, his legs shifted slightly, as though uncertain whether they could fully support him, and each movement ratcheted up her anxiety further.
“It is all right,” she soothed, though it was unclear whether she meant it for him or for herself. “You are safe. I am here.”
The words did not fix the situation, but she said them anyway.
The stables emptied gradually as the remaining staff were dismissed or reassigned under Dorian’s strict instructions, until only a few lanterns remained lit and the sound of movement outside faded entirely.
Anne did not leave. No one asked her to, and no one would have been able to convince her even if they had tried.
