The silence that enveloped me as I entered the stable felt alive. It was in the way the northern grooms paused in their work, their eyes tracking my unfamiliar form as I led my mare to an empty stall. It was in the way they didn't offer to help but didn't stop me either, watching with arms crossed as I struggled with the heavy northern saddle. My fingers, clumsy with residual cold and fatigue, fumbled with the frozen buckles. It was a simple, stupid task, but in that moment, under those flat, assessing gazes, it felt like a trial by combat.
I refused to hurry. I refused to show frustration. I worked the leather loose, hefted the saddle onto the partition, and began methodically rubbing down the mare with a rough cloth I found hanging nearby. The familiar rhythm of caring for an animal was a small anchor in the sea of alien hostility. By the time I finished, my hands were raw, but my composure was intact. I gave the mare a final pat on her sweat-damp neck and turned to leave.
