Chapter Text
A chill wind blows through the cracks of the barn, causing the bridles to swing from their hooks. It brings with it the sweet smell of hay from the nearby loft, though it does a poor job of masking the overpowering stench of horses. Thankfully, Rhaelar had gotten used to the smell a long time ago; you had to if you were going to work in a stable. Horses shit where and when they please—such was one of the few truths the stable boy knew.
A cloud of black flies buzzes before his face, and Rhaelar does his best to shoo them away. The insects instead make their way to the chestnut mare, Zephyr, who gives an angry huff of hot breath and swats at them with her tail. Pesky things, He’ll be grateful for the winter when most of the insects die off. With a huff of his own, Rhaelar gets back to work brushing Zephyr’s sleek coat.
Several of the horses squeal and rear up in their stalls. Rhaelar hurriedly grabs Zephyr’s headstall. He attempts to soothe the wide-eyed animal—to no avail. To avoid taking a hoof to the head, he retreats from the stall and closes the gate behind him. Wolves, he thinks with certainty. It must be an errant scent that's disturbed the beasts. Then again, it would do less to explain why the stable proprietor, Andrej, is suddenly making conversation at the front.
“Welcome, friend! What can I do for you?”
A customer, then. With a hound about him, perhaps. He can’t hear their response over the ruckus. Given the late hour, it’s probably someone seeking to stable their animal for the night. Better he get ahead of things. He makes his way to the nearest empty stall to begin forking in fresh bedding.
“That’s a… that’s an interesting steed you have there, sir. Are you wanting to stable him for the night?”
Rhaelar rolls his eyes. If the old man is calling something interesting, then it’s probably something strange. He recalls with distaste the time someone had brought in a hooved, wooly creature about three times the height of a sheep. (He later learned it was called an alpaca.) The horses were in a literal pissing contest the whole night while the alpaca persistently spat at beast and men alike. Needless to say, he’d been left with quite a mess to clean up the morning after. On multiple occasions since then, he’s asked Andrej to adapt a horses-only policy for the stable, only to have it shot down each time. ‘Bad for business,’ he’d said—with all the ignorance of a man whose only expertise was collecting the coin off others' hard work. As far as the old oaf was concerned, anything with hooves was the same animal, like as not.
He doesn’t get paid enough for all the shit he puts up with. The room and board is nice, but sometimes he wonders if plucking maggots from horse wounds is worth it.
“What, you mean the boy?”
That catches Rhaelar’s attention. Are they talking about him? Andrej stopped being a boy half a century ago, and no one else around fits the description. Leaning the pitchfork against the wall—he’ll finish throwing in the bedding later, he swears—Rhaelar goes to busy himself near the opening of the barn. And if he just so happens to eavesdrop in the process, well, so be it.
All at once, chaos breaks loose; the four horses rear up onto their hind legs and scream. One of the white colts slams down onto its hooves and kicks the walls of his stall hard enough to send splinters flying every which way. Panic settles in Rhaelar’s gut: what’s gotten into them? The last time the horses threw a fit this bad was when a wolf pack had actually snuck into the barn and tried to eat one of the fillies. Frantic, his eyes scan the surroundings. No predators, and nothing seems out of the ordinary. He redirects his attention to Zephyr and grabs her headstall. The mare snorts, her hot breath misting in the cold air, and bucks wildly in his grip. Rhaelar attempts to soothe her, pulling her head down when he can. After a moment that feels like an eternity, Zephyr calms down enough for Rhaelar to stroke her mane.
“There’s a good girl,” he mutters. “What’s gotten into you?” A part of him wonders if he wants to know the answer himself.
Zephyr responds with a stomp of her hoof. Even in the dwindling light, he can make out the whites of her eyes. Once the chaos dies down enough for him to hear again, Rhaelar turns his attention toward the barn door. His ears strain to thresh the men's voices from the creaking eams, moaning winds, and rustling leaves.
“The dusk elves are to be contained to the encampment.”
“I don’t know what a ‘dusk elf’ is, but he ain't one of those. Half-elf, maybe, but—”
“Yes. Half human, half dusk elf.”
Idly, Rhaelar tugs at the pointed tip of his left ear. Now he definitely knows they’re talking about him. Curiosity getting the better of him, he gives Zephyr one last pat before creeping forward. Hands pressed against the barn wall, the half-elf peers outside. About 20 feet ahead, he sees Andrej talking to the palest man he’s ever seen. And perhaps the tallest, especially when standing beside Andrej’s slouched posture. The mystery man is dressed in a fine black vest atop a silk dress shirt. A dark cloak is clasped over his shoulders with a ruby brooch. Such regal attire is hardly befitting a visit to a stable, he thinks, or—as his eyes fall upon the black stallion at his side—horseback riding.
Rhaelar squints. Is that horse on fire?
Before he can make sense of what he’s seeing, the mystery man jerks his head in his direction. They lock eyes, and a chill grips Rhaelar’s body. He should duck away, he knows, pretend as if he hadn’t been eavesdropping, but his limbs feel frozen in place. His gaze is inescapable. The way the rising moonlight catches the man’s eyes gives the illusion of irises red as blood. The man smiles, a thin-lipped yet charming grin that causes Rhaelar to shudder.
“Eh?” From the corner of his eye, the half-elf sees Andrej turn to follow the mystery man’s line of sight. He frowns when he sees Rhaelar. “Oh. Boy, get over here.”
Warmth floods back into his body. Rhaelar sucks in a shuddering breath. He feels lightheaded. Using the barn wall to stabilize himself, he grudgingly creeps forward until he’s standing beside the stable owner. The tall man’s gaze never leaves him, and he does his best to ignore him by staring at his mucked-up boots.
“This here,” Andrej slaps him on the shoulder, causing him to jump, “is Rhaelar. He’s a proper lad. Like my own son, he is. Hardest working stable hand in the valley, I reckon.”
His voice comes out barely louder than a whisper. “Hello.”
The mystery man hums. “Well met, Rhaelar the stable hand.” His gaze burns into him like hot coals.
“Rhaelar, this here is—”
The stranger interrupts, “Do you know who I am?”
For the first time since catching his gaze, Rhaelar dares to glance at him, being mindful not to meet his eyes. The man has the long, dark hair typical of Barovians and the gaunt face of someone who hasn’t eaten in days. Strong features. Judging by the regalness of his attire, he can only assume he’s some sort of noble. “...You're the man on the coins.”
Andrej’s face turns red as a beet. “You show him some respect, you sorry sod! That is Count Strahd von Zarovich!”
The Strahd fellow gives a quiet chuckle. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Rhaelar blinks. “Who?”
Just as quickly as his face had flushed, all of the color leaves Andrej’s face. The whole thing would almost be funny if he didn’t know he was going to get backhanded later for his ignorance. “A lord, boy.” There’s a tremor to his voice that has the stable hand furrowing his brow. “Forgotten how to bow, have you?”
Rhaelar looks between the old man and the stranger. Strahd stares at him, though it's hard to read the emotion behind his eyes. With all the clumsiness of a man who has bowed perhaps twice in his life, Rhaelar ducks low at the waist.
“Please forgive the lad’s, ah, ignorance, m’lord. He doesn’t get out much. Never had much of a proper education outside of what it takes to rear horses.”
“I’d expect basic instruction on this valley’s leadership to be taught to even the most lowborn of Barovians.”
Andrej is the next to bow. “A thousand pardons, m’lord.”
Rhaelar chews on the inside of his cheek. Nothing here makes sense. Why is a noble visiting their shitty ranch in the middle of nowhere in person? Vallaki is a mile to the east. Do nobles really entrust the stabling of their horses to nobody ranchers? Don’t they have servants to see to all their needs or something?
“In any case,” Strahd places a hand on the pouch at his belt, “How much for your apprentice?”
“What?” Andrej sputters. He jerks up straight as a board. “To buy?”
“Indeed.”
The old man's mouth hangs open. “...What for?”
Strahd sets his jaw. ”My reasons are none of your concern. If you must know, however, I am planning on making him my understudy.”
“Your what?” His eyes look like they're about to bulge out of his skull. “You do not want this one, m’lord. He’s just a boy—”
“He is 18 years as of a moon ago.”
“—who cannot even read or write proper. He’s not good for war. He’s got no education. The only thing he’s good for is shoveling horse shit—forgivin' my language, m'lord.”
Rhaelar flinches at his words. He’s good for lots of things! Sure, maybe he can’t read well, but he can put a shoe on a horse with enough trial and error. He can cook an egg six different ways. He’s decent at tending the garden. The horses like him.
“He's not for sale, 'm afraid. I never had a blood son of my own, and I'll need someone to care for the horses when I'm old.”
“I shall compensate you fairly for the impact on your business. You'll be able to hire at least ten new stable hands with the proceeds.”
Andrej pauses for an uncomfortable amount of time, stroking his stubbled chin all the while. “...No. Forgive me, m’lord, but the boy isn't for sale.”
Rhaelar gives a sigh of relief. Thank the Morninglord. Life amongst the horses is life, at the very least. Noblemen play a bloody sort of game, and folks like him are the pieces they play with. It's no castle, but the stable is his home. He's not keen to abandon it to be some nobleman's cupbearer, bed warmer, or whatever else this "lord" wants of him.
Strahd sets his jaw. His voice deepens, taking on an alluring baritone. “I pray you reconsider, friend.”
The stable master’s head lolls forward, his eyes becoming glazed, before he jerks upright as if having been suddenly woken. He shakes his head. Andrej turns and closes the space between them. With Rhaelar being a head taller, he has to lift his chin to meet his gaze. “Rhaelar,” he begins, his voice soft, “you’re a man now. This ain’t my life bein’ offered up. What do you think?”
His mouth opens and closes. Rhaelar’s eyes dart between Strahd, whose expression suggests the choice is a simple one , and Andrej. He's quickly come to miss the minutes past, when alpacas were his biggest concern. The day had started off normal enough with him going through the same motions he has for the past decade. But then this strange pale man shows up and turns his life on its head. On one hand, he’d really like to see the old man take it easy for the rest of his years: his joints had started acting up real bad about three years ago, and Rhaelar has noticed from his grimacing just how much ranch life had been hurting him. But on the other hand, like Andrej had said, it is his life—one that he still has a good 80 years left of. Does he really want to spend them being a cupbearer?
An intrusive thought creeps into his mind: how did he know you’d recently turned 18?
No. He’d rather spend them with the horses, even if it means he has to clean shit from horseshoes for the rest of his years. They’re basically his family. What would happen to them if he left? He can’t trust a new hand to treat them right.
Rhaelar inhales deeply to steady his nerves. “No.”
Andrej’s bushy eyebrows meet his hairline. “You’re certain, son? This man could give you a nicer lifestyle than I can afford. There's a lot of honor in serving—”
“I don't care about honor!” he blurts. ”I want to stay here!”
He hears Strahd sigh through his nose. “Regrettably, that is neither of the two options I shall lay before you now. Option one is that you return to Castle Ravenloft and serve me. You'll have a position of honor, fine clothing, and warm lodgings. Option two is that you're dragged to the dusk elf encampment on the west edge of Vallaki to be with your kin. The Vistani will be your wardens, to ensure that the treachery in your blood is not allowed to idly bloom.” He spreads his hands outward. “The choice is yours.”
The half-elf’s stomach sinks. He looks to Andrej, who's staring off into the distance with the same clouded look in his eyes. Why does he suddenly seem so okay with this ultimatum when he'd said no but moments earlier? “Aren't you going to say something, Andrej?” he squeaks, his voice breaking.
“Lord Strahd is a just man. A fair man.”
He can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. They’d never met this man before. Judging by the cold aura radiating off him, the look of what he could only describe as maliciousness behind his jet-black eyes… He does not seem like a ‘just man’ in any sense of the word. Andrej had always taught him to listen to his gut, and his gut is telling him to stay far away from this stranger.
Manners be damned, Rhaelar sprints away, easily hopping over the fence that surrounds the ranch and into the surrounding forest. He pretends not to hear the old rancher calling out for him, just keeps running until his legs feel like they’re going to give. The dim, silvery wash of daylight has vanished behind the horizon by the time Rhaelar throws himself against a tree and sinks to the ground, lungs heaving. He closes his eyes and lets the breeze cool the sweat from his brow.
Once his heart feels like it’s no longer going to pound out of his chest, he sits up and tries to get his bearings. He’d been running for maybe half an hour. Probably not the wisest decision, in retrospect, but he’d felt like he was going to punch someone—nobleman or not—in the nose if he had to stay in that awkward, terrible situation any longer. Even with his darkvision, he can’t make out any paths. Just the endless stretch of evergreens all around him.
Shit. No, this definitely had not been a wise decision. Ever since Rhaelar was young, Andrej had reinforced two rules that superseded all others: always double-check to make sure you locked the stalls, and never, ever, venture outside the ranch at night. Wolves and monsters and whatnot. Once, he had spun a yarn about how night creatures would abduct straying Barovians and use their bones to flavor their soup, but he’d never repeated the tale after a young Rhaelar couldn’t sleep for half a moon afterward… Some good that did him now.
While he no longer puts much thought into the night creature thing, he very much believes in the threat of wolves. On more than one occasion he’s had to clean up the horse viscera they’d left in their wake. He’d rather Andrej not have to pick up his bones from the path.
But what if there are night creatures about?
No. He’s 18 now, no longer a child afraid of the night; he can find his way back without trouble. First, he needs to find north. With a renewed sense of determination, Rhaelar lets down his long, black hair to shield his ears from the cold and starts searching for the moon through the tree cover.
A low growl from the brush quickly has him reconsidering his previous confidence. Rhaelar presses his back flat to the tree, eyes darting about wildly. A large gray wolf stalks out from the cover of a bush, its upper lip pulled back in a snarl. Its bushy tail is held stiffly horizontal. Behind it, the half-elf can make out three more pairs of glowing yellow eyes ready to ambush.
Rhaelar swallows thickly. Never breaking line of sight, his right hand inches along the ground. His fingers brush against the rough bark of a branch, and he grips it like his life depends on it— which it might, he thinks. With a sudden rush of heroism, he leaps onto his feet and swings the branch out like a sword.
“Back! Get away from me!” he shouts. The wolves take a step back but otherwise don’t appear deterred by his wild swinging. Instead, another growl rumbles in the throat of the leading wolf. It crouches down as if to charge.
The thought crosses his mind: I’m going to die. I’m going to get eaten by wolves in the middle of nowhere, and no one will find my body. His hands tremble. Silent, he mouths a prayer to the Morninglord while widening his stance in preparation for an attack.
Before the creatures can lunge at him, there’s the unmistakable sound of hooves tearing into the soft earth. A man atop a flaming stallion rides into the midst of the wolves. The horse rears with an otherworldly whinny, great plumes of smoke billowing from its nostrils, and the pack scatters. The very earth seems to heave when it slams its massive hooves back down. Caught off guard, Rhaelar yelps and falls onto his backside, narrowly avoiding a stone that might have smashed his skull then and there.
Rhaelar swallows and clenches his shirt above his heart, chest heaving.
A deep voice cuts through the haze of adrenaline. “Are you wounded?”
It takes him a moment to recompose himself. To realize that the man on the horse is speaking to him. The voice is recognizable—the count from the ranch. “I’m, uh,” he pants, “yes, I’m okay. I’m alive. I think.”
Strahd chuckles. “Very much so. If I were a moment late, however, you may not have been. It’s ill-advised to stare down a wolf. They interpret such gestures as a challenge, and it increases the odds of them attacking. Though your theatrics with that mummer's sword were most amusing. ” With a flourish of his dark cloak, the stranger steps down from his stallion and approaches. He reaches a hand down as if to help him up.
Rhaelar stares at the offered hand for longer than is proper. It’s because of this man that he ran into the forest in the first place… Though Andrej had raised him to be a decent person. Grudgingly, he takes the offered hand with a nod of his head. His pale skin feels like ice.
The half-elf brushes the dirt and pine needles from his pants. “Thank you, uh, m’lord,” that’s how Andrej had referred to him, “for steppin’ in when you did. I was almost wolf food.”
“Yes, you were.”
He dares ask the question eating at him. “How did you find me?”
“Your shouting carried through the forest.” Strahd crosses his arms. “The proprietor of the ranch stated that you’d received no formal education, but surely this doesn't preclude you of the cautionary tales about wandering my woods at night?”
Rhaelar bites his tongue. He doesn’t like the insinuation that either he doesn’t have any common sense or that Andrej hadn’t taught him anything. “Yes. He told me those tales. He also told me to not trust strangers that show up at your door after evening.” He mirrors the man and crosses his arm. “Noble or not, it’s just rude.”
“Firstly, I arrived when there was still daylight. Secondly, my station affords me privileges not afforded to the common man. Thirdly, I am no stranger.” He tilts his head. “I find you to be surprisingly impetuous.”
He doesn’t even want to know what that word means. Impetuous. “How about this, then? You, some noble I’ve not even heard of much less seen, shows up at my door and threatens to either steal me away or squirrel me off to some—what did you call it?—some camp? All because one of my parents was an elf and fucked a human? Well, I’ve been raised by Andrej, a human, my whole life, and I don’t know anything about some… some dusk elves or whatnot. Forgive me if either option doesn’t sound appealing!”
“Most would be honored to have a spot at a count’s side.”
“I’m not most people.”
"And I find myself needing to remind myself of that fact." Strahd’s gaze pierces him, a look of cold fire with something simmering beneath the flames. Something unidentifiable that deeply unsettles him. Their eyes remain locked for an uncomfortably long time, each trying to read the other without much success. Strahd blinks, and for the briefest moment, Rhaelar swears he sees something akin to tenderness. It's quickly replaced by the stone-faced expression he's grown accustomed to in the short time they've known each other.
The man inhales through his nose and gestures to the steed as black as pitch behind him. “You enjoy horses. Would you like to pet him?” he asks softly.
The topic change catches him off guard. “Pet?” His eyes widen. “He’s on fire!”
“...I’m aware. Only his mane and tail are hot to the touch, however. The rest of his pelt is perfectly safe.” Proving his point, Strahd reaches out to stroke the side of the stallion’s sleek neck. The horse turns his head to nose at Strahd’s arm. It's clear to Rhaelar that the count and this strange horse share a deep trust in each other.
“His name is Beucephalus.”
Consider his curiosity piqued. “And what, ah, what is Beucephalus? If that’s not rude to ask?”
“Beucephalus is what is colloquially referred to as a nightmare.”
“Is he a horse?” Rhaelar considers how dumb the question is the moment it leaves his mouth. Of course it's not a horse—it's on fire!
Strahd hums. “Surprisingly enough, he is more related to a pegasus than your run-of-the-mill horse.” He pauses, lifting an eyebrow. “...A winged steed from the plane of Celestia.”
Rhaelar doesn't ask where ‘Celestia’ is.
The count gestures toward his mount with his chin. “Come. Keep your hands away from his mane and he shall not harm you.”
Rhaelar swallows thickly. Despite his better judgment, he approaches. The nightmare towers over him, taller than Strahd and even the sturdiest of draft horses. One kick from this creature would surely kill him. Radiating heat like a camp stove, Beucephalus’s warmth is palpable from a foot away. Rhaelar steps beside Strahd and places his hand where directed. Strahd gives an affirming nod, and Rhaelar strokes the creature’s side. His coat is surprisingly sleek, and the skin beneath radiates heat like stones by a hearth, yet, as Strahd had said, it doesn't burn him. Rhaelar finds himself huffing in disbelief, the corners of his mouth turning upward. Beucephalus snorts. There’s a thrill to it, like the heartbeats before breaking a stallion. A creature with a flaming mane and glowing eyes, and he’s petting it just like he might Zephyr! He wonders what it would be like to ride him, with a trail of smoke billowing behind them and embers at his hooves illuminating the path ahead.
“How fast is he?” Rhaelar blurts out.
“Fast, and faster still.”
”Does your castle have its own farrier? How does he take a shoe?”
"Some time ago, Castle Ravenloft had its own farrier, yes, but not anymore. Beucephalus’s hooves, due to his high body heat, are not suitable for shoes. However, I have never had an issue with his hooves wearing down. I would reason that his hooves are more durable than iron." There’s a certain pride in Strahd’s voice as he speaks.
Rhaelar continues to stroke the nightmare’s flank. “There used to be a farrier in Krezk that Andrej would hire for our horses, but I haven’t seen him in a while. I’ve been trying to learn the art of farriery myself, but it’s challenging. Probably one of the scarier jobs in raising horses, I reckon. It takes a lot of courage to stand beside a horse and mess with their feet. Andrej once told me a story about how he saw a horse kick in a man’s skull—blood and brains everywhere.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Nothing like an ill-trained horse to humble a man.”
He feels the man's eyes boring into him once more. Glancing over, he sees Strahd looking at him with that same thousand-yard stare from before. Begrudgingly, Rhaelar pulls his hand away from Beucephalus to narrow his eyes at the man. “What?”
Strahd says softly, barely audible over the breeze rustling through the pines, “Apologies, I was lost in thought. It's rare for Beucephalus to let those that aren't his master approach, much less caress him.”
Rhaelar takes a healthy step back, erecting his walls once more. “And you encouraged me to pet him?!”
“Yes.” Strahd trails a hand up along the steed’s nose. Beucephalus’ glowing eyes close, a plume of smoke rising from his nostrils. “It was a test. They say that horses, especially pegasi, are excellent judges of character, after all.”
This is strange, Rhaelar thinks to himself. The whole situation had already been strange, but this man had to come in and somehow make it stranger still. “Don’t bother ‘judging my character’ or whatever. I already told you ’m not interested.”
The nobleman's jaw tightens once more. “So you’ve said.” Strahd brushes his hands off and adjusts the belt at his waist. “You’ve wondered, ‘Why me?’ Is that correct, Rhaelar? Why has the count of Barovia, a man I’ve never seen before, shown up to my ranch with the intent of making me his understudy?”
Rhaelar shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t remember voicing that, but he’s not wrong. The half-elf shrugs.
“In truth, I have known of you for some time, though I was waiting for you to become a man before I made myself known. I would argue I know you better than you know yourself. Your ancestor, a dusk elf, served me for most of his life.”
The air feels as if it has been pulled from his lungs. “My father?”
Strahd smirks. “Something of the sort. All things considered, he was a good man. Loyal to a fault. He served me in many capacities, including general and chamberlain.”
Rhaelar’s eyes widen. “My father was a Barovian general? In the military?” He doesn’t know what a chamberlain is, but he doesn’t want to seem dumb in front of a noble.
“Indeed. For over four generations, he served the Von Zarovich household. As a sword. As a mentor. As a…” his eyelids twitch, ”dear companion.”
The world around him seems to go quiet, the only sound the thrumming of blood in his ears. If what this man is saying is true, does that make him a noble as well? Blood and inheritance and all that?
“I see much of him in you.” Strahd rolls his wrist in his direction. “The raven-colored hair. The same steadfastness. Stubborn to a fault. But it’s your eyes that stripped me of all doubt.”
He steps forward. Rhaelar wonders how the ground doesn't shake beneath his footsteps. Even the fucking grass feels like it's kneeling before him. “Green, like swathes of fir obscured by the encroaching dusk. There is a haunted look behind them, one that seeks to put your stamp on humanity. Yours is the look of one who refuses to bend to the whims of the weak.” Strahd reaches out to cup his chin between forefinger and thumb. His limbs feel heavy, and he finds himself cemented in Strahd's gaze even as he lifts his chin. “My Rahadin. Returned to my domain in the body of a wretched, mortal half-elf.”
The way he says the name Rahadin causes his breath to catch. Strahd’s eyes are like bottomless oceans of void drawing him in. In this light, he realizes he hadn’t been mistaken. The man’s eyes really are red. Not red like the auburn hair of a farmer's daughter. Not red like a chestnut mare's coat. Red—like blood. Rhaelar wets his lips. He struggles to enunciate the words, “Andrej said my parents didn’t want me.”
”Perhaps not, Rhaelar. But I do. Your ancestor would have wished to see you fulfilling your purpose by serving a greater purpose. I am merely carrying out his wishes by being here today.”
”Ancestor.” The word feels odd on his tongue. He hadn’t thought much about his family since he was little. Andrej never spoke much about the day he’d taken him on as his ward. His parents really must not have wanted him if they were willing to dump him at a ranch to be raised by a human, he reckons. He doesn’t think of them often, much less higher up the family tree. He’s Rhaelar. He’s a half-elf stable hand earning his keep. Andrej is enough of a father figure for him. Though to think that he had royal family on his elven side… Life is funny like that sometimes.
The half-elf is pulled from his thoughts by the grip on his chin lessening and Strahd taking a few steps back. The moon at his back gives him an ethereal glow. “I entreat you: carry forth your ancestor’s legacy. Serve me, rise above your humble beginnings once more, and in time you will seize the glory from your past and make it your own.”
He holds out a hand, palm facing upward.
Rhaelar’s ears dip. He glances from the offered hand to the menacing steed casting an orange glow on the surrounding trees, then over his shoulder, wondering if Andrej is waiting for him by their front door with the lantern lit. The gratitude he holds for Andrej feels so far away right now, lost beneath the tide of promise, of opportunity, of this 'Rahadin.'
His deep voice rumbles, “Remember that this is what Andrej wanted. To see you flourish. Even he knows that you serve a greater purpose.”
He swallows the lump forming in his throat. The offered hand. The menacing steed. Over his shoulder. The red eyes of the man seeking to steal him away from all of this.
His bottom lip trembling, Rhaelar takes the cold hand of Death.