The sun was barely rising when I pushed open the door to the stable.
The air smelled of damp earth, hay, and leather, a combination that had become familiar enough to soothe the constant hum in my mind.
My boots sank slightly into the soft ground, and Celeste whinnied as if sensing the routine that awaited her.
I didn't look back, didn't wait, didn't hesitate.
Saddle in hand, I walked straight to her, brushing her coat with deliberate, precise movements.
Every muscle, every motion, every breath, all part of the ritual I clung to when the world pressed too hard.
"You know," a voice said from the stable doorway, playful, teasing, impossibly persistent.
I didn't turn.
I didn't need to.
I already knew who it was.
"I think the horse might be tired of your perfectionism," Calix continued, stepping closer. Barefoot, sleeves rolled up, hands shoved into his pockets. "Maybe she wants a break."
I set the saddle down on the rack with a firm clink. "Celeste doesn't take breaks," I said evenly. "And neither do I."
He leaned against the doorway, casual, yet insistent. "That's harsh. Even warriors rest sometimes."
"I'm not a warrior," I said flatly. "I'm a rider. And I ride for myself. Not for praise. Not for approval. Not for lectures about rest."
He laughed softly. "You're impossible before coffee. And after. And probably in the middle too."
I didn't smile.
I didn't respond.
I merely adjusted Celeste's bridle, letting my movements speak louder than words ever could.
"You know," he said, stepping closer, "you could at least acknowledge my presence. I'm not going anywhere."
"I don't need acknowledgement," I replied. Voice calm, distant. Cold. "Presence is irrelevant unless it contributes to the task."
He didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. Just tilted his head, one corner of his mouth twitching. "And yet you notice when I'm gone, don't you?"
I paused briefly, running my hands along the reins. "Not particularly."
He shook his head, as if conceding to an invisible battle he would never win. "One day, Aurora, someone is going to push past that armor. And when it happens, you won't even see it coming."
I mounted Celeste, legs settling into place with practiced ease.
The saddle felt natural, like an extension of myself.
My hands gripped the reins, and my spine straightened.
I didn't need anyone to challenge me.
I didn't need anyone to see me.
I needed only the rhythm, the motion, the repetition.
Calix followed, walking beside us at the arena edge, still talking, still teasing, still trying. "You know, if you smiled even once, Celeste might go faster. Or maybe I could. Either way, it'd be fun."
I ignored him.
Not rude, not hostile. just cold, distant, untouchable.
Words were unnecessary distractions. I needed focus, precision, motion.
–
Hours passed like this.
Celeste responded to every command with unwavering exactness.
I pushed her through drills, cantered across the field, perfected turns, and executed precise shots.
Each movement released a fraction of tension I hadn't realized I was still carrying, the disappointment, the exhaustion, the constant weight of expectation.
Calix stayed near, persistent, playful, occasionally commenting, occasionally teasing. But I never wavered.
I didn't smile, didn't speak beyond what was necessary, didn't let him see the sweat on my brow or the fatigue in my muscles.
When we finally stopped, Celeste pawed at the ground, resting.
I dismounted, brushing the sweat from her coat.
My own shirt clung damp to my skin, hair tangled from exertion.
I didn't acknowledge the ache in my muscles, didn't even let myself appreciate the victory in execution.
I had accomplished what I set out to do.
That was enough.
Calix leaned against the fence, watching me, still playful, still insistent. "You really don't need me, do you?"
"I don't," I said, tone even, voice distant. Cold. "And yet, you're here. That's your choice."
He grinned faintly, that lazy, infuriating grin of his. "Some things are worth the trouble."
I didn't respond.
I simply took a deep breath, hands on Celeste's mane, letting the quiet dominance of routine wrap around me like armor.
He said nothing more.
He didn't have to.
His presence alone was proof enough that some battles were fought silently, some victories didn't need applause, and some defenses didn't need breaking.
And that was enough.
I adjusted Celeste's bridle again, ignoring the sun that had climbed higher in the sky, and pushed her into a slow, deliberate canter.
Each stride was controlled, precise, a rhythm I depended on to center myself.
"You're relentless," he called over the rising clatter of hooves. "I swear, no one works this hard all the time."
"I'm not here to impress anyone," I replied without turning my head.
Cold, distant, measured.
Just a statement.
Not defensive,
not confrontational.
Just fact.
He laughed softly, stepping closer. "Not even me?"
I gave a small shake of my head, voice even. "Not particularly."
He stopped near the fence and watched, silent for a moment.
Then he smirked. "You know, I could make this more interesting. Challenge you. Bet you can't…"
I didn't give him the satisfaction of finishing the sentence.
I urged Celeste faster, leaning into the rhythm, letting each stride release a fraction of the tension in my chest.
The movement of the horse was my language, my control, my release.
Words were unnecessary, human distractions irrelevant.
"You never give up, do you?" he asked softly, almost conversationally, as if I were supposed to answer.
I didn't.
Not even a glance.
My hands guided Celeste through tight turns, precise stops, exact maneuvers.
Sweat ran down my back.
My muscles burned.
My lungs ached.
And still, I kept going, relentless, untouchable.
Calix followed, occasionally calling out observations, teasing, pushing for engagement. But I didn't react.
Not a flicker of emotion, not a slip in concentration.
I didn't need him to see me succeed.
I didn't need him to witness my strength.
I needed only to be exactly who I was.
Hours passed.
Sunlight climbed higher, painting the arena gold.
Celeste responded perfectly, matching every command, every subtle shift, every silent order.
I was in control.
I was precise.
I was… untouched by the chaos of expectation, the weight of judgment, the ghosts of disappointment.
Calix finally sighed, resting a hand on the fence. "You're exhausting to watch," he said, voice soft, almost admiring. "And yet… I can't look away."
I paused slightly, glancing toward him without breaking stride. Cold. Distant. Unimpressed. "Then don't," I said simply. "I don't need an audience."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I didn't say I wanted to be an audience. I just… like seeing you like this. Focused. Unstoppable. Relentless."
I ignored the comment, urging Celeste through another drill, another turn, another release of energy.
He followed quietly, occasionally calling out advice or observation, but I never responded.
My world was composed of motion, rhythm, and discipline. Everything else, noise, distraction, concern was irrelevant.
By the time I dismounted, the sun was high, casting shadows across the arena.
My body ached, my muscles burned, my hands were calloused and raw.
Calix walked closer, careful, steady. "You know, I could help you. Lighten the load."
I didn't meet his gaze. "I don't need help," I said evenly, voice distant, cold. "I've managed this long enough on my own."
He nodded slowly, understanding or at least pretending to. "Fair enough," he said softly. "But don't think I won't try."
I finally looked at him, expression flat, indifferent. Not challenging. Not amused. Just… still untouchable. "Try all you want. It won't change anything."
And with that, I returned to the rhythm of the arena, of Celeste, of my own discipline. The day was mine.
The motion was mine. The focus was mine.
And despite his presence, despite his attempts, nothing. not approval, not encouragement, not his teasing persistence, could break the walls I had spent twenty-six years building.
He stayed near the fence, watching.
Persistent.
Playful.
Intrusive in the gentlest way possible.
I didn't care.
I wouldn't care.
And yet, unknowingly, his quiet presence became part of the background, like sunlight filtered through leaves, something constant, yet ignorable.