My Malera sits down in the Steppe, muscles carved like Ala Mhigan granite, abs glistening with sweat from brooding under the morning sun, wearing nothing but tight leather pants and regret. Don’t ask why a man like me trains horse girls, the pasture called and I answered.
They say Suzuka runs like the wind, I run from my past. We are not the same.
I lean against the stable door, tail swaying slowly like the pendulum of judgment. Suzuka trots by, ears twitching. I look away. I can't get attached again, not after what happened to Rice Shower...

"Morning, Trainer," she says, her voice soft like the brush of reins against bare skin. I nod silently. I don't trust my voice around her, too many things I'd neigh. I mean say. I watch her stretch, the arch of her back could cripple nations. Hips like a chocobo in heat. I pray to Nald'thal I don't bray.
"We doing long-distance today?" she asks. "No," I mutter, voice gravel soaked in whiskey. "Today, we sprint. No reins, no mercy." She doesn't flinch. Gods, she's perfect.

I blow the training whistle. Nothing happens. I forgot I threw it into the sea during a moment of weakness last week. I whistle with my lips instead, it's oddly sensual. She bolts, legs pumping like twin ceruleum engines. Grass explodes beneath her hooves. I pretend not to watch her tail swish. I fail. Sweat pools at my collarbone, not from the heat, but from restraint.

The wind picks up, my nipples harden, even my tail tenses. I clench my fists, not because I'm mad, because I have to pee like a racehorse. She finishes the lap, chest heaving, ears up, smiling, asks if she did well. I nod. I don't trust my mouth to form words without making them illegal in six city-states. "You'll go far," I say, finally. "But only if you stop running from yourself."

She blinks. I vanish into the mist like a hoofbeat in the night. I leave only a single carrot on the bench. Don't look back. Never look back. Look back once, a Miera took the carrot. Fucking Miera...