The transition from the velvet-lined Sapphire Suite to the back of a mountain pony was, in corporate terms, a "Significant Downsizing."
We had been riding for three days toward the Iron Peaks, the jagged, snow-capped spine of the Empire that separated the civilized lowlands from the fierce, independent tribes of the North. The air was getting thinner, the wind sharper, and the "Corporate Perks" were non-existent.
"I hate this horse," I muttered, shifting my weight as the pony navigated a narrow ledge. "In my world, we had machines with leather seats and climate control. This... this is just a furry hazard with a mind of its own."
Bastian, riding ahead on his black stallion, let out a short, clean laugh. He looked more at home here than he ever had in the palace. The mountain air seemed to have burned away the last of his "Trash Prince" sluggishness. "The horse doesn't like your 'Productivity Metrics,' Elara. It just wants an apple and a stable."
