We stepped into the house, and I knew instantly—I was still on enemy ground.
The walls were decorated with horseshoes in relief, paintings of horses galloping across golden fields, and display cases filled with equestrian trophies instead of family memories. Everything gleamed with obsessive polish, as if every surface screamed at visitors:
Here, we worship horses more than gods.
There wasn’t a single corner that didn’t whisper: You don’t belong here.
At the center of the foyer stood a massive bronze sculpture of a rearing colt atop a pedestal of white marble. The plaque beneath read:
“First the horse, then the blood.”
I read it silently and shivered. I wasn’t sure if it was symbolic… or literal.
In Silver Lake, I wouldn’t rule either out.
Next to me, Lean walked like he already kn
