The entire stable seemed to hold its breath. The strong smell of hay, sweat, and iron mingled with the tension in the air. The black horse whinnied softly, snorting like a bull about to charge, muscles throbbing beneath its dark coat. Damon, standing beside it, slowly ran his hand through its shaggy mane.
Hilda, leaning against one of the posts, had her arms crossed and a frown on her face.
"If you're going to die, at least don't scream too much, boy. You'll scare the other horses," she murmured, half-ironic, half-serious.
Damon cast a quick, humorless glance in her direction. Then he climbed onto the makeshift saddle, placed his hand on the saddle—which Hilda had fastened with surprising speed, even though she grumbled with every buckle—and mounted.
The silence that followed was almost absurd.
