The elder Mr. Heaton chuckled, but there was no warmth in his laughter. His gray eyes widened, monstrous and abyssal, like something dredged up from the deep sea.

  "You think I'm filthy, but this money is what made the Heaton family flourish. This money is what keeps your so-called friends clinging to you. My son, if I am damned, you're destined to go to hell with me."

  "And this is the method of expansion you're so proud of? If our grandparents could see it, they'd call it nothing but disgrace. No wonder they said you were a misshapen monster."

  "Don't try to provoke me." The elder Mr. Heaton's eyes rolled slowly in their sockets, his mouth twisting into a grotesque smile. "It seems young master Heaton hasn't yet accepted his role as heir, complaining about the family business, of all things. Perhaps it's time someone taught you properly."

  At his words, four hulking men emerged from the shadows. They seized Vance and dragged him from the table, ropes lashing around his arms as they tried to pin him down. Vance's eyes flared with fury; he kicked one man to the ground, but he was soon overpowered.

  Elian, who had witnessed everything, turned instinctively to cry out for help—only to find another man standing right behind him.

  "Shhh—" The man wore the same uniform as the four inside. His expression was cool, touched with a chilling authority. His palm clamped tightly over Elian's mouth and nose, his skin clammy against Elian's face.

  "It's fine. You didn't see anything." His voice was low, coaxing, like someone soothing a child. "This is just the Heaton family's tradition, a game they play. As long as you don't tell anyone, I'll let you go."

  Elian struggled fiercely, but the man's grip only pressed tighter. His lungs screamed for air. At last, he nodded faintly.

  When released, he stumbled back toward the stables, his pulse racing faster than it ever had before. But worry gnawed at him. Against all reason, he crept back to the old manor and hid himself in a thicket nearby.

  Dusk fell, the air trembling with the last warmth of the sunset. Elian crouched there until evening, when at last he saw young master Heaton emerge.

  Vance's eyes were downcast as he walked along the stone path. He did not look back, and finally sat on the steps.

  Elian hurried closer. On Vance's cheek, a shallow cut marred his skin, the edges crusted with dried blood.

  "Young master, are you all right?" Elian asked softly, pulling a folded handkerchief from his shirt. "Do you need this to wipe your face?"

  Vance didn't answer. He simply looked at Elian's face in silence.

  "Did Mr. Heaton do something to you? Do you want me to get help?" Elian pressed.

  Vance had shown no expression at all until his eyes caught on Elian's unguarded, boyish face. Then, for the briefest instant, loathing surfaced in his gaze.

  "Fuck off."

  As a youth, Vance was like an icehouse packed with explosives, barbed from head to toe and brooking no closeness. Yet the fading glow of twilight blurred his sharp edges, and his voice—God, his voice—was the most beautiful Elian had ever heard.

  To Elian, young master Heaton's voice was like warm amber, like a low poem murmured against the ear. Restrained, tinged with distance, every syllable carried aristocratic poise. Even a rebuke delivered in that voice couldn't stir anger in him.

  Elian lowered his head. "Did I do something wrong?"

  "You shouldn't be here."

  "I was just worried about you. I saw you with your father... I didn't mean to spy, I only heard voices and happened to look in. Are you really okay? Do you need help? Did he hit you somewhere?"

  "Mind your own business. You'll only put yourself in danger." Vance's cold snort was sharp as a lash. "As for today's events, don't you dare repeat a single word to anyone."

  "Me? He didn't even hit me. Really, don't you want to wipe off the blood? Or I can bring ointment. Do you need ice? Do you want me to help you up? Or I can ask Uncle Jack to drive you to the hospital—"

  But as he caught the deepening furrow in Vance's brow, Elian shut his mouth.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Vance studied him again. He looked like a boy not yet old enough for middle school, and yet he managed to stir only irritation and anger.

  "You'd better know your place. Don't ever come back to Heaton Stables."

  "W-why? I really like it here."

  Because you're here. Because I like watching you ride.

  But of course Elian didn't dare say that aloud. Instead, he reached out, tugging timidly at Vance's sleeve.

  Gazing at Elian's wounded expression, Vance sighed, as if granting a rare mercy.

  "All right. If you want to stay at Heaton Stables, you'll follow three rules."

  Elian's eyes lit up.

  Vance cleared his throat.

  "First: don't call me young master.

  Second: whenever you see my father, hide.

  Third: Don't. Touch. Me."

  With that, he pulled his sleeve back, and Elian quickly withdrew his hand.

  "Why do I have to run whenever I see your father? Though honestly, even if you didn't tell me, I'd still feel like running every time..." Elian muttered under his breath.

  Vance gave no answer, only staring at the ground in silence. He looked weary, his mood dark, and it was obvious he didn't want to speak further.

  Then again, even when he was in better spirits, he had never shown the slightest wish to talk to Elian.

  Satisfied that Vance wasn't badly hurt, Elian finally slipped away.

  Ever since Vance had told him to stay away, Elian still shamelessly tried to strike up conversations. Vance almost never responded. He treated Elian as though he were thin air, invisible, and on the rare occasion when he tossed back a curt syllable or two, Elian was already content.

  Fortunately, aside from the young master, the entire stable offered plenty to hold Elian's interest. He loved hanging around the grooms, the coach, the trainers, even the other riders. Most of the time he just chatted with them, but now and then he would beg to be taught something new.

  "What are you learning this for? Your parents are paying good money so you can just sit pretty in the saddle. You don't need to learn all this." The trainer, pestered for the tenth time, finally lost patience.

  "Please? Daisy is my favorite pony. I really want to know how she's trained."

  "Favorite? You've got plenty of 'favorite' horses—don't think I don't know that." Still, faced with those wide, innocent eyes, the trainer relented. "All right, all right. Take the whip, I'll teach you something useful."

  And so, picking things up bit by bit, Elian's days passed happily, and he grew more and more helpful to the staff.

  That evening's incident faded like mist, and the cold, grim expressions of the Heaton family were buried deep in memory. It wasn't until a few years later, one summer at Heaton Stables, that Elian finally had the chance to speak to the young master again.

  That summer, for reasons no one could explain, it rained endlessly. The roads turned to mud, and the damp air seemed to weigh on everyone's mood.

  "So this rain might last until Saturday. By then, the cross-country course will be a mess—slick and muddy. When you hit the turns, slow down to play it safe."

  "What? I can't hear you!"

  Elian and his coach were seated under the rain shelter, trying to discuss the competition. Outside, the storm hammered down. A crash of thunder swallowed the coach's words whole.

  "This rain could last until Saturday. When that happens—"

  Another rumble rolled across the sky, drowning him out again.

  "What? I still can't hear you!" Rain blew into Elian's eyes, forcing him to squint as he shouted back.

  "I said—"

  The roar of a truck engine cut him off, followed by the shouts of workers.

  "Here it comes! Get ready! The truck can't pull into the shelter, so the horse will get soaked. It's already in a bad state—we need to move it quickly!"

  Several stablehands jumped up and hurried outside, shouting directions to back the truck in. They unlocked the cargo hold in a rush.

  "What are they doing?" Elian asked.

  "They're unloading a new horse that just arrived," one stablehand explained with a sigh. "Supposedly it's well-bred. But for some reason, its last owner went mad and abused it. Left it scarred all over—and vicious."

  The doors swung open. A massive black form exploded from the container before anyone could get a rope on it, bolting straight into the rain.

  "What the hell! Didn't I tell you to hold the line?" one of the stablehands shouted.

  The horse was huge, its pitch-dark coat like a storm cloud come to life. At the sound of pounding rain and rolling thunder, it reared and lashed out, shrieking.

  "What a waste of a fine animal," the coach muttered, shaking his head. "But that's not our problem. What matters now is Saturday's competition—we need to go over—hey! Where are you going?"

  For the umpteenth time, their conversation was cut short. The coach threw up his hands and gave up.

  The stablehands tried to corner the horse, but it lashed out at anyone who dared approach, hooves ready to strike. It spun in panic, bolting in circles, then reared again when it spotted people under the shelter, thrashing dangerously.

  Elian caught the wild fear in its eyes—then a hoof slashed past his cheek.

  "Out of the way!"

  He squeezed his eyes shut to shield them, bracing for pain that never came. When he opened them again, he saw the lead rope clenched in Vance Heaton's hand.

  "You're not hurt, are you?" Vance's voice carried down to him, the height difference lending him a commanding air.

  Vance's arms were clearly trained, muscles taut against the horse's frantic pull. Even with the beast fighting to break free, he held firm, steady and unshaken.

  "I'm fine..."

  Then Elian stepped closer, speaking softly, moving his hands in small, careful gestures. "I know you're in pain. I know you're afraid. But you're safe now. We won't hurt you."

  Little by little, the horse calmed, its tremors easing.

  Vance released the tension in his shoulders. After meeting Elian's eyes for a moment, he turned and led the horse toward the stable.

  "What's its name?" Elian asked.

  "Zephyrus." The reply came, unexpectedly, from Vance's back as he walked ahead.

  "Zephyrus? Doesn't that mean a gentle breeze?" Elian said.

  The implication was clear: how could a name so soft, so springlike, belong to something this fierce?

  Vance gave him a look, then, with forced patience, explained, "It comes from the god of the west wind in Greek mythology—Zephyros."

  Elian only stared back, confused.

  "You really didn't know?" Vance asked.

  "Was I supposed to?"