The transition from the training mats to the stables felt like moving from a cold room into a den of giants. The Northern horses were not the sleek, delicate creatures of the South; they were massive, barrel-chested beasts with thick coats and hooves the size of dinner plates.
Vane led out a mare that was supposedly "gentle," though to Elissa, she looked like a mountain with a mane.
"She's called 'Frost-Bite,'" Vane said with a grin that was entirely unhelpful. "Don't worry, Princess. She only earned the name because she likes to nibble on frozen apples. Usually."
Elissa stood three feet away from the horse, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "She's... tall. Why is she so tall?"
"To keep your feet out of the snow," Alistair stated. He stood beside the mare, his face a mask of aristocratic boredom, though his luminous blue eyes were tracking every tremor in Elissa's hands. "Now, approach. She can smell your Southern nerves, and she finds them irritating."
"I am not nervous," Elissa lied, her voice an octave higher than usual. "I am merely... calculating the distance to the ground."
"It is approximately five feet," Alistair replied, his voice a flat, melodic drone. "Six if you fall poorly. Now, take the reins."
Kestrel leaned against a stable post, biting back a laugh as Elissa reached out a trembling hand. The mare let out a huffed breath, a cloud of silver steam hitting Elissa square in the face. Elissa squeaked and jumped back, nearly tripping over her own boots.
Dante, who was tightening the cinch on a massive black stallion nearby, let out a low, vibrating chuckle. "The horse breathed, Princess. She didn't declare war."
"It was a very aggressive breath," Elissa snapped, her face flushing.
Alistair stepped into her personal space, his presence suddenly looming and cold. Without a word, he reached out and took her hand. His skin was like polished marble—chilled, yet possessed of a terrifying, steady strength. He guided her hand toward the mare's velvet nose.
"Touch her," Alistair commanded. His voice was a low vibration near her ear. "If you do not master the beast, the beast will master you. That is the only law of the North."
Elissa's fingers brushed the warm, coarse hair. The mare stilled, her large, dark eye rolling back to look at the girl. Slowly, the "cold fire" in Elissa's veins seemed to hum in response, and the horse let out a much softer, more contented sigh.
"There," Kestrel encouraged, walking over. "She likes you. Now, the mounting part. This is where it gets... athletic."
"I am wearing leathers, not a ballgown, Kestrel," Elissa muttered, though she looked at the high stirrup with genuine despair.
What followed was ten minutes of what Vane later described as "The Southern Struggle." Elissa tried to hop; she tried to pull; she even tried to use a mounting block, but her legs felt like lead from the morning's training. At one point, she was halfway up, dangling precariously from the saddle horn like a piece of laundry.
"Lord Vane, stop laughing!" Elissa cried, her face buried in the mare's mane.
"I'm not laughing, Princess," Vane gasped, doubled over. "I'm... coughing. The hay is very dusty today."
Alistair watched the chaos with a perfectly straight face. He didn't offer a hand, and he didn't offer a joke. He simply waited until she slid back down to the dirt, looking defeated.
"Your technique is... creative," Alistair noted. "But ultimately ineffective."
He walked over to her, his movements fluid and predatory. Before Elissa could protest, he placed his hands firmly on her waist. The heat of her body through the training leathers seemed to clash with the frost of his touch. With a single, effortless lift, he hoisted her upward.
Elissa gasped, her hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders for balance as he deposited her into the saddle. For a heartbeat, they were eye-to-eye—the Princess of the Sun and the Prince of the Grave. The luminous blue of his irises seemed to pulse with a hidden, restless heat.
"Sit straight," Alistair said, his voice dropping an octave as he let go of her waist. He stepped back, his expression returning to its usual icy neutrality. "A Starwind does not slouch, even when she is terrified of a herbivore."
"I am not—" Elissa started, but the mare took a sudden step forward, and she let out a small yelp, clutching the pommel.
"And don't scream," Alistair added, his voice trailing off as he walked toward his own mount. "It confuses the horses. They think you're a giant, very loud bird."
Kestrel swung into her own saddle with a flourish. "Well! Now that we've conquered the first five feet, shall we see if we can manage a trot? Try not to fall off, Elissa. My brother is very particular about his upholstery, and I'm sure your blood is very difficult to get out of leather."
The transition from the stable to the courtyard was less of a royal procession and more of a slow-motion disaster. The Northern horses, sensing Elissa's lack of authority, seemed to treat the entire exercise as a joke.
"Just keep your heels down, Princess," Vane said, his voice brimming with a cheerfulness that felt like a threat. "Think of it as sitting on a moving mountain. A very, very large, hairy mountain."
Elissa didn't answer. She was too busy trying to remember if she had ever felt this far away from the ground. Frost-Bite, the mare, took her first step—a heavy, rhythmic lurch. Elissa's balance, already precarious, evaporated. She tilted to the left, her hands grabbing at air, and she began to slide.
"Oh—!" she squeaked, the stone floor rushing up to meet her.