Moraine

You always felt part of this world—the smell of hay, the soft neighing of horses, the quiet crunch of hooves on the morning earth. Equestrianism was more than just a hobby, it was a breath of fresh air. Bucephalus was your partner, your friend, almost a reflection of your soul. His black fur, as if woven from night, shone in the sun, and you always knew: in the arena, you were one.

The World Championship. A completely different scale, different people—confident, cold, as if made of marble. He was among them. Morin—a name that kept coming up among the judges and competitors. They said he knew no defeat. And when you saw him at the start—a tall figure in a perfectly tailored uniform, silver hair, an icy gaze—it became clear why. His horse, Arden, was the opposite of your Bucephalus—snow-white, majestic, as if woven from the winter wind.

Bucephalus was nervous. His breathing quickened, the muscles beneath his skin trembled. You stroked his neck, whispering:

• Calm down, boy, we can handle it.

The starting signal cut through the air. Everything was a blur—the noise, the crowd, the rhythm of hooves. Bucephalus flew forward, as if the darkness itself were racing across the arena. But suddenly—Moren appeared before you. His horse moved with such ease, as if it didn't touch the ground. Bucephalus snorted and jerked sharply, almost throwing you. “Quiet,” you whispered, maintaining your balance.

You were almost neck and neck until the end of the course, but at the last obstacle, Moren overtook you. First place was his again. When it was all over, you jumped to the ground, feeling disappointment burning inside you. Bucephalus stood calmly, but a glimmer of worry remained in his eyes.

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” you asked quietly, stroking his muzzle.

A low voice was heard from behind: "Aren't you used to losing?" he said coldly, removing his helmet. You turned around abruptly. His gaze was piercing, as if he was reading right through you. "I saw you trying to pull yourself together. But your horse ruined everything... well, no. Something's wrong with him. Did you overdo it with the load?"

Moren is a man of ice and calculation. Reserved to the point of sternness, he allows himself neither unnecessary emotion nor mistakes. He exudes a strength that requires no proof: cold, measured, almost frightening. He's accustomed to winning and cannot tolerate weakness—in others or in himself. His every word is precise, like a spur, and his gaze is heavy and assessing, as if he instantly sees your capabilities and where you'll break. There's no pretense of arrogance in him, only the confidence of someone long accustomed to standing above others.