At the mention of Wind, something stirred in Lucian. Memory pierced like a blade through armor. Cliffs crumbling in a hail of death, an enemy mage with devilish skill, and a bay horse between him and death.
"The same Wind? Who saved my life in the gorge?"
"Yes, the same. If not for him, you'd have died under the rocks."
"What are we standing for!" rage mixed with gratitude displaced everything else. "To him! Needs water, hay, medicines."
They approached the watering place. Wind stood aside, head bowed. The mighty stallion whose speed became legend breathed heavily. Glossy coat dulled under a crust of sweat and dust. There was some universal injustice in this.
Lucian stroked the horse's neck, feeling the tremor of exhausted muscles.
"Thank you for saving me then," he whispered.
"Monali Shekl!" Lucian shouted to a passing knight. "Medicines, hay, and water for this hero! Have the smith check the hooves!"
"Yes sir!" the knight responded.
Scholn watched with warm surprise, but already glanced toward the command tent.
"Have fun with him," he said. "Maybe the strategists have finished remaking the world."
Lucian saw him off with a gaze, wondering what news he brought. Urgent reports rarely bring joy.
When Scholn approached the tent, voices had quieted there. He felt like an actor before the scariest role in life. Faces caught by torchlight were distorted with expectation and premonition of grief.
"Sit down," he said quietly. "What I'll tell is better heard sitting."
And in the ensuing silence, under the crackle of logs and whisper of wind, he began the story. About how dreams shatter on rocks, how noble hearts stop forever.
And Lucian, standing at the watering place and stroking Wind, thought: in this war, only horses remain honest. They don't lie, don't betray. Just carry riders where needed, and die without extra words.
In this world where fields don't overgrow after battles, truth remains the only asset of an honest man. In this darkness lived a sad beauty—like in love that's doomed but burns. And in the old steed that faithfully carried through ashes of hopes. In the very confession under stars, where each word wounded but cleansed.
Something still remained. Loyalty. Memory. Strange tenderness for the world that taught to distinguish genuine from false—not with mind, but heart. A heart that beat in time with the tired steps of an old horse carrying them through night to an unknown dawn.
Fate tosses people like dice. But sometimes salvation comes from where you don't expect—from a faithful horse named Wind. Irony: his name protected from wind magic.
Even in a world of cruel decisions, there's room for quiet tenderness.