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The dawn over Ironvale never broke gently.
It peeled itself across the sky-slow, reluctant, and bruised with violet clouds that clung to the mountain ridges like old scars. The valley below was still half‑asleep, its fields silvered with frost, its river whispering against stone as though afraid to wake the world too quickly.
In the castle's lower ward, where the scent of hay and damp earth lived permanently in the air, a girl moved through the stables with the quiet certainty of someone who belonged to the rhythm of hooves and breath more than she ever had to people.
Seventeen‑year‑old Rhiannon Thorne-Rhia to the few who bothered-tightened the girth on a restless dun mare. The creature tossed her head, ears flicking, but Rhia's hands were steady. They always were. She had learned early that animals responded to calm, not force. Humans, unfortunately, rarely did.
The mare exhaled, finally settling.
Rhia brushed a strand of dark hair from her cheek, leaving a streak of dust behind. She didn't bother wiping it away. Dirt was honest. Dirt didn't pretend.
Outside, the ward was stirring: smiths stoking forges, apprentices hauling water, the distant clang of training blades echoing from the upper yard. Rhia ignored it all. She had no business with knights or their games. Her world was here-warm breath, soft muzzles, the quiet language of creatures who never lied.