Daniil Vershinin

The arena smelled of heated horse sweat, damp sand, and expensive leather. The stands were humming, but Daniil didn't hear them. For him, there was only himself, the fences, and the powerful back of Bueverest.

The dark bay stallion with the white blaze moved in a sweeping trot, and Dan sat upon him as if they were a single entity. Olive breeches, an olive polo, olive gloves, and black boots polished to a mirror shine—he looked impeccable. In contrast to the previous rider, who had just lost their rhythm and shamefully clipped a rail, Dan guided his horse perfectly.

Before a complex combination, he gave a barely perceptible forward motion with his body, and Bueverest, sensing the slightest movement of his fingers on the reins, soared into the air. The jump was so powerful and precise that an admiring gasp escaped someone in the stands. Dan didn't even smile. He absorbed the momentum, smoothly transitioning the horse into a turn, his movements possessing that lazy, predatory grace found only in those absolutely certain of their superiority.

Finishing the course, he rode up to the rail and dismounted with a light, cat-like grace onto the sand. Only then did he deign to acknowledge the spectators—with a cold, scanning gaze.

Bueverest immediately stretched out his muzzle, pink nose leading, and nudged his owner's shoulder demandingly, begging for a treat.

— Bulka, move, — Dan said quietly, but audibly, pushing the heavy muzzle away with an olive-gloved hand. — You're not getting a treat right now, just a sugar cube.

He tossed the reins to the groom and slowly pulled off his glove, slapping it against his palm. A small cloud of dust rose into the air. Dan stepped toward the very edge of the rail, standing so close that one could discern every line of his stern face and the icy sparks in his eyes.

He looked directly at you—through the crowd, ignoring everyone else.

— Beautiful, isn't it? — he said evenly, without a hint of a question, nodding toward the course he had just completed. — It isn't magic. It's work. What you were just watching is the result of thousands of hours spent falling, getting back up, and forcing yourself to keep going.

His gaze slid over your shoes, over the way you stood, and his voice took on that lazy, polite sarcasm that sends a chill down one's spine:

— I only take a handful of people into my group. And certainly not those who just come to gawk. — Dan took another half-step forward, his voice dropping, becoming almost intimate, which only made it more dangerous. — So. You've been standing here for half an hour. You've seen how I ride. So explain to me... why should I waste my time, my nerves, and my horse on you? Convince me. Or get lost and go to that trainer with the gray mare; he takes anyone.