Book 1: Chapter 27 - Plotting, Cookies, & Banditry [Part 2]

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Seraphina knew she needed a different sort of mount to face the upcoming challenge—something that was a weapon in its own right. And that was her father’s warhorse, Kicker.

The Aranthian equivalent of an expensive sports car.

She could not help but smirk wryly at the unimaginative name her father had bestowed upon the stallion. Duke Anatoli had a remarkable lack of creativity when it came to naming. Kicker, a destrier bred for war, was a towering sixteen hands of raw muscle, intelligence, and aggression. His coat was sleek chestnut, gleaming under any light, and his mane flowed like a dark river. An aura of barely restrained power surrounded him; the stallion looked every bit as dangerous as his reputation suggested. The beast was infamous in the stables for biting stablehands and delivering kicks that had sent more than one groom to the infirmary.

Veteran stablehands had tried to warn the young Lady Seraphina about the devil in horseflesh, their eyes wide with genuine concern. They whispered tales of his viciousness, of how even the bravest among them approached his stall with trepidation. They insisted that Kicker allowed no one but the Lord Duke Anatoli to ride him. But Seraphina would have none of it.

After all, the key to improving Skills in this world was novelty, and what could be more novel than riding a new horse—especially one as formidable as Kicker? With her features set in lines of determination, she strode purposefully toward the stall, her boots echoing against the cobblestone floor. The scent of hay and leather filled the air, but beneath it lurked the metallic tang of challenge.

She reached the stall door and paused, locking eyes with the snorting warhorse that fixed her with his dark, intelligent gaze. The moment stretched—a silent battle of wills. The stallion pawed the ground, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling beneath his glossy coat.

Steeling herself, she entered the stable with an air of authority, her hard emerald eyes never leaving the stallion. Kicker snorted, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her with suspicion. The space between them was tense, crackling with an unspoken challenge. It was as if the very atmosphere held its breath, waiting to see who would make the first move.

"Enough of this nonsense," she muttered, stomping her foot hard against the stable floor with all her considerable Strength. The impact reverberated through wood and stone, causing the walls to tremble and dust to drift from the rafters. Kicker shied back, startled by the sudden quake, his nostrils flaring wider as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Panic flickered in his eyes, but there was something else—a spark of recognition. The scent of the girl carried traces of his master, the Duke, giving him pause.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

But the hesitation was fleeting. Instinct and training kicked in; the stallion prepared to rear up and lash out at this impudent human. Muscles coiled like springs, ready to unleash fury. Before he could strike, however, Seraphina moved with all her considerable speed. Her hand darted out like a striking viper, delivering a firm slap to his muzzle. The sharp crack echoed in the confined space. The shock of the action froze him, and in that moment, she seized his forelocks, pulling him down with a Strength that belied her slender frame, forcing him to the stable floor.

The proud warhorse trembled, his fierce spirit warring with an unfamiliar feeling of submission. Seraphina's grip was unrelenting but not cruel, her calm gaze boring into his. Her breath was steady, her heartbeat unwavering—a stark contrast to the chaos within him. Against all the odds, the warhorse wanted to bolt and flee from this horrid situation.

Slowly, Serphina’s other hand produced something small and sweet. A sugar cube was forced into the horse’s mouth, then another. Kicker hesitated, his confusion palpable, but the sweetness overwhelmed his resistance. The granules melted on his tongue, a simple pleasure cutting through his turmoil. By the fifth sugar cube, fear and aggression melted away, replaced by cautious curiosity.

"You're a good boy," she said softly, her voice honeyed but edged with sharp steel. The tone transcended language, transcended species, and Kicker understood. There was praise in her voice but also a dire warning. He recognized the authority, the strength, the unyielding will.

The stallion snorted, a low whinny escaping in reluctant assent. He would obey—for now.

"That's better," Seraphina murmured, releasing her hold on his forelocks. She stepped back gracefully, allowing him to rise. The tension between them had shifted, and as she rubbed his muzzle, Kicker felt something strange—a forgotten sensation from his youth. Happiness. Pure, unguarded joy at this little human's regard. Even animals, it seemed, were not immune to the girl’s unbridled Charisma.

For the first time in years, the warhorse felt pride not born of dominance but of connection. Seraphina smiled, her touch gentle now as she admired his Strength and beauty. Kicker, for all his fire, found himself lowering his head to her, an unspoken truce forming between them. He quested for more sugary treats from those delicate porcelain hands, his massive frame seeming almost docile.

"Good boy," she repeated, her smile widening. "We are going to do so many great things together, you and I."

With a fluid motion, she swung herself onto his back with ease, mounting the mountain of horseflesh bareback. The warmth of his body radiated through her, the power beneath palpable. With a soft kick, she guided him to start moving.

As they emerged from the stables, the sunlight glinted off Kicker's fine coat. Together, they made an imposing sight—a warrior princess and her warhorse, both exuding an aura of raw physicality and strength.

"Have Kicker saddled with half-barding. I will be leaving within half an hour," the blonde girl commanded the gaping stablehands from atop her mount, her voice firm and carrying. The stablehands exchanged astonished glances before scrambling to obey.