The morning was already filthy-hot, and the road felt like it was cooking the soles of my feet. Lady Shackleline’s latest brilliant idea was to make us run with our heads yanked back, reins pulled so tight that all we can see is the sky. She jerks the bit so hard my jaw feels like it’ll crack, and with my chin forced up, the world turns into blinding light and burning lungs.

At least the path is smooth—no stones, no ruts—so we can trust her to keep us straight. But the track is unbearably long, and I knew from the first few steps that she was going to run the soul out of me today.
I hate the bit. I hate how it stretches my mouth until it feels like it’ll tear. As if the running weren’t enough to choke me, this damned piece of metal is determined to finish the job. My mouth dries out instantly; licking it doesn’t help—the heat just bakes every drop away.

I swear I’ll collapse before she ever lets us stop.