Chapter 102: War Of The Horses

It was already mid-morning when the groupfinally settled into the mansion.

Sunlight poured over the sprawling estate, gilding marble pillars and manicured hedges in molten gold. The place didn’t just look expensive — it looked untouchable. The kind of wealth that didn’t shout… because it didn’t have to.

Shay wasted no time.

With a squeal of excitement, she grabbed Sandro by the wrist and dragged him toward the North Wing playground. The two of them disappeared in a blur of laughter — toward polished slides that glinted under the sun, a miniature Victorian playhouse trimmed in white, twin swings swaying lazily in the breeze, and a painted seesaw that looked brand new.

Childhood, wrapped in wealth and privilege.

Lara settled into a wooden rocking chair under a tree, its gentle creak rhythmic and soothing. A leather-bound sketchpad rested on her lap. Her fingers moved with quiet precision, charcoal gliding over paper as she captured Shay’s bright smile, the tilt of her head, the wild joy in her eyes.

In the drawing, Shay wasn’t on a playground.

She was riding a pony.

Free and fearless.

Across the lawn, Scarlet moved differently.

She didn’t wander. She attached herself to Ares.

Wherever he stepped, she followed — a soft laugh here, a lingering glance there, her presence deliberate but disguised as coincidence. If Ares paused, she paused. If he turned, she turned with him. Like silk wrapping around steel.

Lara didn’t look up. But she noticed.

After a while, Shay came running back, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing.

“Daddy! I want to ride a pony!” she clamored.

Ares was already at the stables with the three Norse brothers, sleeves rolled up, discussing something that sounded suspiciously like a race.

The scent of hay and polished leather filled the air. Several purebreds stood in their stalls — sleek bodies, powerful legs, bloodlines that cost more than most people’s houses.

“The sun is too high,” Ares said without turning, adjusting a saddle strap. “Go play in the playhouse first. You can ride later.”

Shay’s lower lip pushed out in a dramatic pout — but she obeyed, trudging back toward the North Wing.

Scarlet seized the opening.

“Ares,” she asked softly, stepping closer, “can I ride with you?”

Her tone was light, but her gaze held expectation.

Ares inhaled as if to answer — but Logan cut in, grinning.

“Sis, ride with us,” he said, baring his chest. “I’ll teach you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Liam drawled. “Shouldn’t you ask first if she knows how to ride? Otherwise…”

Lucas snorted. “He wants another beating. Let him be.”

His gaze swept across the horses before settling on a white mare in the third stall.

“Sis, I’ve ridden that one before,” Lucas said, pointing. “She’s mild-mannered. Name’s Snow.”

Lara’s eyes flicked briefly toward the mare.

Snow was beautiful — coat like fresh winter frost, gentle eyes, elegant posture.

But her gaze didn’t linger.

It shifted.

To the chestnut thoroughbred beside Snow.

He was larger. Leaner. His coat gleamed like burnished copper under the filtered sunlight. There was a restless energy about him — ears twitching, hooves stamping lightly against the ground. Not unruly.

Just… waiting.

“Ares, can I take the white horse?” Scarlet stepped forward quickly, stroking Snow’s neck and feeding her a cube of sugar. The mare nickered softly in approval.

“Of course,” Ares replied without hesitation.

Scarlet’s lips curved in satisfaction.

She thought she’d won something.

Her eyes slid toward Lara, smug and triumphant — but Lara wasn’t even looking at her.

Her attention remained fixed on the chestnut thoroughbred.

Ares followed her gaze.

“That one’s Chestnut,” he said, walking over to pat the horse’s nose. The stallion huffed but didn’t pull away. “Hot-blooded. Spirited. Not easy to handle.”

Lara looked at Ares briefly. Was he giving her the horse?

Lucas tilted his head, studying Lara with interest.

“Sis, don’t tell me you know how to ride too?”

“I do,” Lara replied evenly. “I used to work at a ranch.”

The words were careful. Casual.

But inside her mind— a different memory flashed.

Not of horses in the battlefield, nor the dusty fences and quiet countryside.

But polished arenas. Spotlights.

A red hat. A pair of black riding pants. A red top.

She didn’t just ride into the arena.

She made an entrance.

The gates swung open, and she emerged beneath the floodlights, clad in sleek black riding pants that sculpted her long legs and a fitted crimson top that burned against the night like a warning flare.

The red wasn’t soft. It was deliberate. Bold. Dangerous.

Against the luminous white of her horse, the contrast was striking — fire and snow moving as one.

The mare’s coat shimmered like polished ivory under the lights, every muscle defined beneath satin skin. Even her mane seemed to glow.

And perched atop her, poised and unshakable, the rider tipped her red hat trimmed in black — a final touch that made her look less like an equestrian and more like a queen claiming her court.

The music began.

A slow, commanding rhythm rolled across the arena.

Jasmine, the white mare stepped forward.

Not walked — stepped. Each hoof landed in precise harmony with the beat. Controlled. Measured. Powerful. The white tail flowed behind her like a silk banner, swaying with aristocratic grace as she moved in collected strides, neck arched, ears alert.

Then the tempo shifted. The rhythm sharpened. And with a slight tug from Lara, Jasmine answered.

Her legs began to dance.

Not the wild gallop of a racehorse. Not the reckless charge of battle. This was something rarer — disciplined artistry.

Intricate footwork tapped against the sand in complex sequences, crossing, pivoting, lifting high with elegant urgency. It was as if the mare was performing a secret language only she and her rider understood.

Tap. Slide. Lift. Turn.

Four legs moving in flawless sync to the rising crescendo.

The crowd leaned forward, breath caught in their throats.

Horse and rider became indistinguishable — a single entity of muscle, precision, and pride. The red and black above, the blinding white below. Fire guiding snow.

As the music surged into its triumphant finale, Jasmine’s movements grew faster, sharper, more daring — yet never chaotic. Every step was calculated. Every motion elegant. Power restrained by mastery.

And then—

Silence.

The final note rang out.

The white horse halted at the center of the arena.

Still. Regal.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Then the impossible happened.

The magnificent white mare lowered herself, bending both front legs with controlled grace, dipping forward in a flawless, deliberate curtsy — a gesture so refined, so startlingly human in its courtesy, that it felt almost …

Surreal!

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