The stables were quiet, save for the soft rustle of straw under shifting hooves. Moonlight spilled through high windows, painting long silver stripes across the floorboards. Isa moved slowly, each step deliberate, letting the darkness and scent of hay fill her senses.
Mina was restless. The silver-gray mare paced near the far corner, muscles tense, ears flicking toward every creak and whisper in the night. Her nostrils flared, sending puffs of breath into the cold air. Most riders would have raised a hand, a whip, a voice. Isa did none of these.
She lowered herself onto the straw, keeping her movements small and deliberate. She breathed with the rhythm of the horse, matching the slow rise and fall of Mina’s chest from across the stall.
Minutes passed. Mina’s eyes never left Isa, cautious but curious. The mare snorted, shifted, then shifted again—closer this time. Isa extended her hand, fingers loose and relaxed, letting Mina decide the distance.
A delicate step. Nose brushing fingers. A soft exhale.
Isa whispered in Portuguese, the sound barely more than a breath, “It’s just us tonight. No one else. You can trust me.”
Mina froze for a heartbeat, then lowered her head, letting Isa’s palm graze the curve of her neck. The tension in her body slowly melted, muscles unwinding like coiled silver rope.