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The wind whipped through Anora’s copper curls, transforming them into a living flame that danced against the afternoon sky. The ground sped beneath them in a blur of green and brown as Bakuul’s powerful legs devoured the distance, each stride sending them flying over the open road beyond Cedarcrest’s western gate.
“Faster!” Anora called out, her voice nearly lost in the rush of air. Her small green hands gripped the saddle horn, knuckles paling to a lighter shade of jade, but her face—her face was alight with pure, unbridled joy. She had practically begged for a gallop at full speed once they’d cleared the gate, and now, balanced perfectly before Mikhail, she stretched her arms outward like the wings of a soaring bird.
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