André stared blankly at the world outside the stables. The air was quiet, too quiet. Even the restless neighing of the horses sounded distant, like a whisper he didn't care to hear. The sunlight fell weakly through the open doorway, painting his pale face in a dull gold glow, but he didn't notice. He stood still, hands loosely hanging by his sides, as if his mind had gone somewhere far away.
The silence didn't last long. The soft rhythm of hooves and boots crunching on gravel echoed through the yard. Philippe appeared, holding the reins of Le Chevalier Noir—the Black Knight. The beast's mane glistened like midnight silk, its eyes fierce but calm.
"Your Grace," Philippe said, bowing his head slightly. "I have prepared Le Chevalier Noir for the lady."
