"Wait."

The black horse's nostrils flared, a hot, wet snort blowing the hair back from Josette's face. The knight's blue eyes narrowed, and she gave the reins a downward tug. "Wait," she growled again, keeping her gaze steady with her mount's even as he pranced in place. He was a majestic creature, with a long, flowing mane and feathered hooves. Those hooves were the size of dinner plates, meant to accommodate his massive size. At sixteen hands, the horse was not especially tall, but he was built like a tank. Thick ropes of muscle rippled beneath his silky black coat, completing the overall package. The best horse in the region, the stable owner had boasted. Then the only horse he had available, when she asked for another option. She had preferred mares, or geldings, as stallions were too showy, too high-strung. This equine, who he had called Dante, was no exception. But the woman had haggled for an acceptable price, and made arrangements to sell the horse back when she was finished in Corone. One day, if everything went as planned, she could buy a horse without a return agreement. When that time came, it would not be an explosive Friesian.

"Wait," she commanded a third time. Wait and watch. Before she approached the wagon, the meeting place for the potential job, she preferred to collect some information. Reconnaissance was an important step for the knight, and she was not the sort to leap into anything without careful consideration. Granted, that was not to say that emotion played no part in her decision. Though she could use Letho's creature-hunting guild as her excuse for being there, her true reasoning was more complex. There was a town in danger, a town worth saving. She had not saved the other town, the other Stormhope, the other people who had looked to her for safety. Instead, she had brought it all down around her, and those flames still remained with her, months later. Saving one town would not bring back another, but perhaps it would work to cleanse her demons.

The crowd collecting appeared harmless enough, and the woman in the iron armor finally chose to approach after the bard arrived singing. A crooner on a mule? Was there anything less intimidating? So the raven-haired woman led her beast of a horse toward the waiting party, one gauntlet-clad hand on the reins, the other perched atop the hilt of her gleaming sword.