The cold wind swept along the road, carrying with it loose flakes of snow and the distant scent of smoke drifting from smaller villages nearby. The silence between them was piercing, only the sound of hooves breaking the frozen crust of the road filling the space.
Yes, it was starting to get cold. And the temperature was already beginning to drop.
Damon kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, but within him a whirlwind boiled. The black horse responded to the slightest movement of his legs, almost as if it didn't need reins. There was a sensation of raw power beneath him—something untamable, yet somehow willing to be guided by him. As if it had recognized in Damon a reflection of itself.
He ran his hand through its mane once more. The horse tossed its head and snorted, but didn't resist. Damon gave a dry smile, more to himself than to anyone else.
