The Ashes of Malric
The rain had been falling since dawn, a thin grey drizzle that turned the cobbles of Highreach's lower yard slick and dark. Alaric bent over the hoof of a chestnut mare, pick in hand, working loose a stone wedged deep in her shoe. Steam rose from the horses' flanks in the stable's dim warmth, and the air smelled of hay, manure, and the tallow candles that guttered along the walls. It was honest work, unremarkable work, the kind that let a man disappear into the rhythm of his hands and forget, for an hour at a time, who he really was.
"Easy, girl," he murmured, running his palm along the mare's leg. She shifted, ears flicking, but held still. He had always had a way with the animals — a calm they seemed to sense before he even spoke, as though something in him spoke a language older than words. He told himself it was nothing. A knack, like a talent for whittling or singing in tune. He had told himself that for nineteen years, and mostly he believed it.
Mostly.
"Tomas!" Old Bregan's voice cracked through the stable like a whip, and Alaric flinched at the false name before he caught himself. Tomas. That was who he was here — a stablehand of no particular family, no particular…