Page 25 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“Do you enjoy riding, Mister Tenebra?” Emillie asked, filling the quiet night with words.

A beat of silence, then he shifted in his saddle and said, “I do. And yourself?”

“I do.” Emillie looked at Ariadne again, browns raised. “Not as much as my sister. She is the one who insists we forgo the coach so often.”

Azriel blinked in surprise and turned to look at Ariadne. His sudden scrutiny made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. It was a familiar feeling she could not place, though the studiousness reminded her of Madan. Families resembled each other in more ways than one.

“Do you ride often, Miss Harlow?”

Ariadne lifted her chin a bit. “Quite. It is a favorite pastime of mine.”

“Why is that?”

“Why the interrogation?”

“Two questions is hardly an interrogation.”

“Be nice, Ari,” Emillie hissed, her mouth twisting as she fought to keep the smile from her face.

“Horses do not ask questions,” Ariadne said, making a face at Emillie. She looked up at the guard, and her breath caught at the intensity in his eyes. “Spending time with Astra helps me.”

“Interesting.” Azriel tilted his head, then looked away to scan the tops of the trees. “I find riding helps me as well.”

Ariadne almost laughed. The bastard guard, raised by a high fae in a town as fine as Asterbury, could have hardly found himself in much trouble. Petty crimes like theft or pickpocketing, perhaps, but nothing greater than a tavern brawl. The likelihood of him running from anything was so slim, she could not help the small smile that swept across her face.

“Helped you get this job?”

He did not look at her. When he responded, his gravelly voice lowered. “Yes, Miss Harlow, it helped me get this job.”

Something about the way the words crackled told Ariadne she had hit a nerve. Her stomach churned. She should not have said that. If Madan had done the impossible and retrieved her from the dhemon keep, there was no reason to believe Azriel did not have a similar skill set.

“Well,” she said, hoping to lighten the mood again, “you are an excellent rider.”

Now he looked her way, a brow arched. “As are you.”

“It must be all the riding you both do,” Emillie said, her eyes trained ahead. She was acting strangely.

“Indeed,” Azriel agreed.

Ariadne clicked her tongue. “I do not believe it is the number of hours that creates a skilled rider.”

Now it was Azriel’s turn to huff back a laugh. “And what would you attribute it to?”

She mulled it over for a long minute. She swept a hand down her mare’s silky gray neck. The muscles flexed and twitched under her touch. “Passion and a love for the horse.”

“That’s all?”

“Without those two things,” Ariadne explained, “there is nothing to strive for. You believe mere practice would be sufficient?”

He raised both brows now. “Yes.”

“Riding is like anything else in life,” she said, her voice rising with untamed imperiousness. “One will not maintain consistency or enthusiasm without having a love for it. The most beautiful dancers? They adore what they study. Cooks with the most delicious meals? Food is their passion.”

“So you believe the dancer or cook doesn’t practice their crafts?”

“I never said that.”

“You implied—“

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