Harimad-sol's performance during yesterday's laprun trials astounded me. Throughout her brief training, I feared her Homelander ways would make her inadequate. She cut my worries in two as we wove in and out of the other Hill riders. Like a deadly cobra, she struck at the sashes of her enemies. Blues, greens, and golds fell to the sand as Harimad progressed.
My heart pounded and my nostrils flared. My hooves thundered over the desert, banishing my opponents to the dust cloud created by my pace. Other horses whinnied, neighed their heritage, and proudly asserted their rider's skill; but I cared nothing for it. I was Tsornin, Harmiad-sol's warrior horse. None except our King came close to my ferocity or the golden kelar of Aerin's heir that day.















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