Chapter 39: Of Leather, Breath, and Dangerous Familiarity
Lyria's POV
I had just finished the last bridle.
The leather lay darkened and supple beneath my hands, its surface freshly worked with oil and careful cloth, every buckle polished until it caught the thin slant of afternoon light that filtered through the high stable windows.
My fingers ached. My body ached too, with that slow, heavy soreness that came from long, unbroken labour.
I wiped my hands against the rag I carried at my waist and lifted the bridle carefully, mindful not to let it drag against the ground. The hooks along the tack wall were nearly full now. Only one empty iron peg remained.
I crossed the narrow aisle and hung it in place.
For a moment longer than necessary, I allowed myself to remain standing when I finished.
The stable breathed around me.
