Thunderous hooves pounded the earth as Ryan clung to his steed, the blurring landscape racing past him. His eyes widened.
This has to be over 100 kilometers per hour.
The world record for a horse's speed was barely 70 kilometers per hour—yet here was Duskstrider, clad in full armor and bearing his weight, hurtling forward like a living storm.
The beast showed no strain; its stamina seemed limitless. After ten relentless minutes, it hadn't broken a sweat.
No ordinary horse. Maybe not even mortal.
A village loomed ahead. Ryan tugged the reins, and Duskstrider slowed to a trot. The townsfolk gaped, then scrambled to kneel. A knight—or perhaps a noble—demanded reverence. Whispers trailed him:
"The inn! Some fool's tossing gold coins around!"
Ryan's brow arched. Here, gold coins were like dumping a sports car's worth of cash on a bar table. Even nobles rarely flaunted such wealth. He guided Darknight toward the commotion.
Inside the inn, a drunk youth slammed gold coins onto a table. His clothes were roughspun and his manners were crude. "Bring out your best! I've got plenty more!"
The crowd parted as Ryan entered. The music died. Dancers bowed.
The youth—Eric—turned and paled when he faced the armored warhorse and its rider. Ryan loomed over him like a predator amused by prey.
"Name."
"E-Eric, sir!"
"Bow, Eric."
The boy dropped like a stone. Ryan studied him. No noble bearing—just a commoner drowning in inexplicable gold.
*Fool.*
Eric's hands shook. "May I leave, Sir Knight?"
Regret oozed from him. He'd drawn a wolf's attention, and wolves always took what they wanted.
—