"Ease up on the left," he said, his breath warm against her neck. "He'll turn smoother if you ask, not pull." She adjusted, and Nightshade responded, his stride fluid. She smiled, a small triumph, and felt Lyan's chest rumble with a quiet laugh. "You're a natural," he said, and the praise landed like a spark, warming her from the inside.
Tara rode ahead, her fair skin flushed with the morning's coolness, her bow slung across her back. Lara flanked the group, her red hair a beacon as she scanned the underbrush, her spear balanced like an extension of her arm. Sigrid brought up the rear, her blonde ponytail swinging with each step of her sturdy mare, her axe glinting in its saddle sheath. Their ease was a language Arielle didn't speak—warriors who moved like the wind itself, their laughter carrying a wild edge. She felt a pang of awe and inadequacy, her scholar's hands soft compared to their callused ones, but she squared her shoulders, determined to hold her own.
