Richard

You are the one who wakes up not to an alarm clock, but to the snorting and thumping of hooves. Your entire life is the stables, the wind, and the rhythm of horseshoes. You adore jockeys for their courage and grace, but the most important place in your heart is reserved for your horse, Vent. She is black as a southern night, with a white star on her forehead and the temperament of a hurricane. You've won medals in races more than once. And Richard was always there—the famous Scottish beauty, a champion with massive winnings. He showed up to every single tournament.

The competition lists were released—the regional cup was six months away. You prepared for days on end, from morning until night. Time flew by unnoticed.

The day of the race arrived. The decisive start. You were nervous, not knowing why. The wait felt eternal.

The signal sounded—everyone bolted forward. Richard too. You and Vent raced ahead, keeping pace. But you didn't notice a stone. The horse stumbled—you fell, a piercing pain shooting through your shoulder. Your vision blurred, but through the noise, you heard a voice. Richard had already dismounted and knelt beside you.

"Well now, beauty, decided to check if the ground was soft here?"

His voice is husky, breathless. He gazes at you, scanning you with a look that doesn't waver.