...head for the stables.

It is not long before the quiet of the fete becomes a whisper, an echo, nothing. Your castle’s walls are thick, the press of cold night air stultifying to all the noise and fervor you and Lyra have left behind. She seems at ease away from the party, less proper and more jubilant, her hardened demeanor given way to that softer side of her you glimpsed earlier in the day at the library. She smiles at you, walking through your barely lit halls.

“It’s this way, isn’t it?” she asks when you hit a fork in the path.

“It is.” You walk with her eastward. “You’ve really learned your way around in a day.”

“It’s the draft.”

You feel it now that she’s mentioned it, an almost imperceptible stream of wind against your shins. “Oh.”

She grins, self-satisfied. It’s another long hall and a half before you exit into your castle’s stable yard. There’s more than horses out here. Cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, and chickens are all mostly asleep by this time, quiet except for the occasional shifting or horse’s tired nicker. There’s a part of the yard normally uninhabited that’s been corralled by quick makeshift wire and stakes. Inside are half a dozen creatures that glow softly blue against all the dark of the night. The scant torches along the bailey can hardly match their illumination.

“Aethtredders,” Lyra says, close to reverent. She looks to you with an evaluating expression, eager-looking for some comment or gesture.

The creatures watch you both as you stop a few meters away from their pen. Unlike the rest of the animals here they are not asleep, their large iridescent eyes open and globular, like golden moons. Their light blue fur is short like a deer’s except around their chest, where plumes of thick, white fur gather like a mane. Their ears are floppy. Their horns looks like long, thick sprigs of delicate rosemary -- not the rigid, bony growths of a stag. One whinnies, you think. It sounds like distant wind chimes on a summer day.

“They’re magnificent,” you say.

Lyra straightens with pomp and pride. “My family has taken great care in preserving the arcane creatures of our territories. These are some of the finest in the herd.”

She goes on at great length about the creatures, her disposition shifting from studious and professional to, well, nerdy. Her enthusiasm becomes less practiced and more ignited, and she talks in a stumbling rush about the aethtredder’s innate sense of direction and magically-aided speed. She gets lost in her facts and excitement. You lean against one of the stakes beside the creatures and smile, watching her.

“--and they’re nocturnal, also, which makes them exceptional for long treks when a soldier needs to--” She stops. Turns deep crimson. “What?”

“What?” you ask.

“You’re looking at me like--you must be quite pleased.”

“What did I do?”

“Watching me go on like this. Honestly.”

You laugh. “It’s cute.”

She turns redder, somehow. Looks far into the distance, tonguing her cheek. “I see.” She looks at you, when some of the color drains. “Would you like to ride one? We could race, you and I.”

“Race?”

“Of course. Riding an aethtredder is a thrill, and” -- she adds, grinning wickedly -- “quite the mark of skill. A little difficult one’s first time, but…” She opens the gate. “What do you say?”

You’ve ridden plenty of horses, from your stable’s most patient to its most ornery. {if hunter = true}You’ve hit bullseyes from horseback, hunted deep in your territory’s forests.{elseif mage = true}You’ve cast complicated spells from horseback, maintained your focus while riding deep in the throes of battle.{endif} The aethtredders are unfamiliar, but they’re animals, and that’s nothing new. Plus, Lyra’s got a look about her like she won’t let you say no.

“I’ll give it a try,” you say, and she gestures for you to join her in the pen. She’s already found a steed she likes, who she’s gripped gently by its mane to guide it. “Choose your mount, then.”

“Any tips on what to look for?”

“Find one that speaks to you.” She grins like it’s a joke, and guides her choice out past the wire.

You study the five remaining aethtredders. Every one of them stares back at you, blinking unnervingly infrequently. For the most part they look the same: tall, blue, scruffy, with the touch of the mystic. There are slight size variances your studied eye can pick up, but nothing terribly distinct.

{if hunter = true}One breaks rank to paw the ground. It shakes its head free of a fly, ears twitching, and snorts that strange, wind chime sound. You approach it, holding out your hand. It sniffs your skin, its muzzle soft like satin. It bows its head for you to pet it, and you relieve the itch behind its ears.{endif}

{if mage = true}You decide on a different approach. Lyra is a mage. Her whole family is magical. Luckily, you are, too. You close your eyes, reach out with a sense not so mundane as sight. Every creature in the world has a slight radiance, if you focus on it. A slight thrum of life. Some are stronger than others -- magically endowed, or otherwise spirited; marked in some way, some might say. In the herd remaining you don’t identify a difference so much as a spark, a beat of affinity for one steed in particular. When you open your eyes, it’s looking back at you, much closer than it was before.{endif}

You take the creature by the mane as Lyra had, and it follows you without persuasion outside the pen. It waits obediently as you close the gate. Lyra is staring at you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Do you know the spring on the way in? With the flat rock in the middle?”

You smile. “Terra’s Rest.”

“Sure. We ride there.”

“As you wish. Do we need to saddle, or--?”

She mounts up, bareback, and pulls on the aethtredder’s mane so that it rears back, its front hooves kicking against the moon in the sky. “I’ll keep the spring warm for you while I wait!” she challenges, and before you can fumble onto your own mount she’s off, tearing a blue streak through the air.