Snow falls from an overcast sky like pinpoints on a canvas of grey.

In the dead silence of the winter night, a lone horse charges through a dense forest, carrying its overweight rider past gnarled tree trunks and naked bushes.

“Come on, come on.”

The armored stallion’s breath steams the air as its hooves thud into the snow. He's exhausted from galloping through two cycles of the moon without rest. Still, the fat man on his back urges him onwards, forcing him to squeeze between gaps barely big enough for him and not nearly enough for his rider.

"Damn the goddesses."

He hears the rider curse as a branch snaps across his pudgy face.

“We’re losing him, Grey Wind. Hurry.”

The stallion’s ears prick up at the sound of his name uttered in the rider’s uncouth tongue. Born of different gods, here in this world of stillness they are both intruders, bringing chaos where it does not belong. The stallion pushes past these disconcerting thoughts, past the pain in his muscles and his lungs to continue serving his master.

This is his purpose after all, the reason he lives.

The stallion’s efforts are rewarded when the trees begin to clear, opening up like a wound across the dark skies. A clearing greets them. Not far from them is a ragged black rock, piercing out from the snow. The stallion begins to curve his path to avoid the ugly smudge of darkness but without warning, his rider yanks on his reins. The stallion's head snaps back. He screams, his front legs kicking.

“Stop right there!” the rider shouts, his sword drawn in a scraping of steel. “Show yourself, in the name of Nranhana and Sharn, the twin goddesses of the realm!”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The stallion stumbles, barely avoiding the snow patches under its hooves. He watches, wheezing, as the rock unfolds from the ground to reveal a hooded man. He had been crouched over the steaming carcass of a many-armed creature, one which the stallion knows to be an abomination between gods, something neither beast nor man.

The stench of death is immediate, making the stallion reel. The desire to run is overwhelming. His rider yanks the leash tight and utters a command for him to stay. So, he must.

The hooded man rises, blood rivering down the corners of his upturned mouth. The stallion’s rider shouts again. This time his voice comes out pinched.

“Who- what are you? What have you been doing so close to Gandolia’s borders? In the name of the goddesses, I command you to tell me the truth!”

The man’s smile grows wide, showing rows of bone-white teeth, glistening brighter than the snow. When he speaks, his voice is silky but cold as ice.

“Can’t a king enjoy a stroll outside his own walls?”

“Blasphemy!” the rider yells in fury. “You dare spout such nonsense in the face of a Gandolian Knight?!”

The stallion feels a swift kick in the underside of his belly.

“Gandolia is a free nation and all who wish to rob her of her freedom shall die!”

The rider yells the command. The stallion lurches forward into a blind charge, closing the distance to the man in a few heartbeats.

But the man stays where he is. He holds his arms out as if to embrace the duo, and with a thunderous bang, a pair of flashing steel wings erupts from his back, shattering the air into lightning.

The stallion waits for the pull of his reins. It does not come quickly enough. He barrels down towards the man, screaming.

There is a quick moment of searing pain, followed by the weightlessness of falling, followed by the soft coldness of the snow.

When the stallion can see again, the world is lying on its side and veiled in a thick mist of red. He tries to rise but his body is a slab of ice, unmoving, unmovable. He can make out the shape of his rider not too far away; a fat cut of flimsy cloth and leather against the oozing, dark snow. The rider’s wide fleshy face is turned to the winged man, his mouth agape in a silent cry.

Even though exhaustion has overtaken him and his eyes begin to drift closed, the stallion knows that he and the rider are still alive. And as long as this is the case, the rider must have instructions to give and the stallion must be ready to obey. Such are the laws of the world, after all. So even as the stallion lays there in the snow, sleep blanketing his burning limbs in a wooly blanket of numbness, he is still waiting for his rider’s words to reach him.

But what comes instead is the voice of that man, calm and mirthful and laced with the tolling bells of death.

“I think it’s time this wayward nation has a king, don’t you agree?”