WitchHunter ✔️

The Stable Boy

Stable Boy

I plunk two copper coins into the merchant's hand. "Thanks, Davon."

"Any time, Boy. Say hello to your horses for me."

I give him a friendly smile, hucking the 60 lb bag of grain up onto one thin shoulder. I get glances as I usually do, walking back up the ridge toward Fortress. My tan Par'lok skin isn't often seen on Octaven soil. Not to mention the absurdity of my little body carrying 60 lbs of grain. There were always plenty of ways to make fun of me growing up on the Ridge. My height and apparent lack of muscles were the least of my worries.

The sun is surprisingly warm for the middle of December, the last warm day we'll get for a while. My thick burlap trousers hang low on my hips, evidence of my constantly fluctuating weight. Some days the food comes more easily than others.

The town ends a couple hundred yards downhill from Fortress. On the Southwest side of the building stand the stables and a long fenced pasture. My home, sitting squat in the late morning shadow of the Hunters'. The grass is still rich and green as I leave the cobbled road to get to the stables. The first frost has yet to come.

The structure I call home is a small one story affair housing 11 individual horse stalls, all in one long line, the building only partially enclosed. I step up through the doorless archway onto the thick raw wood floor, covered in hay and dust. It smells like alfalfa and dirt, with only the barest hint of manure. 7 horses blink lazily back at me from within their stalls, their peachskin noses hanging over the stall doors. "Good morning, Loves. It's time for breakfast. Only 7 customers this morning, I see. Business is low."

The other 4 are already off. The Raven had come to fetch them this morning. They had ridden out just before I had gone on my errand.

I take care pouring their grain into their feed racks, right on top of the yellow hay left over from last night, greeting each marvelous, kind eyed beast as I do so. I am much more at home here than with people. The horses understand. The horses are kind. They don't hate me for the way I am, the way I was born. Horses wouldn't kill me if they understood what I am.

No one is around. I feel the warmth grow in my hand as I point my palm toward the large trough of water. A thick stream bubbles up, arching through the air, filling each bucket in the stalls. Once full, I allow the stream to break, and look up at my friends. Their kind eyes stare lazily back at me, none the wiser to my secret.