The Cursed Warhorse · The Tyre Compatibility DLC · Chapter 001
TL;DR / Situation Summary
After the smith restored the waning wind in the warhorse’s left fore-iron, the charge vanished again during five undisturbed days in the stable. All four ancient irons now need replacing.
The horse had once been bred for war.
He was black from mane to fetlock, broad-chested, ill-tempered in precisely the aristocratic fashion, and said to possess the strength of three hundred and sixty-seven ordinary horses.
On his shoulder hung a small maker’s shield bearing three letters: AMG. The Arcane Mount Guild had promised unrivalled speed, legendary endurance and unquestionable superiority. The guild had been less forthcoming about maintenance.
There were songs about him.
Most of them were no longer sung, because his master now rode him to buy potatoes.
On a cold morning, the knight heard a sound he had never heard from the beast: a faint, hollow knock from the left forehoof. The enchanted iron was weakening. Its captive wind, which should have been sealed inside for a lifetime, was escaping.
The other three hooves struck the cobblestones with their customary contempt.
The left made a noise like an old man clearing his throat.
At the village forge, a smith with one eyebrow and no visible patience attached a brass bellows to the shoe.
"Air of the northern mountains," the smith said, working the handle.
"Isn’t that just air?"
"It costs more if you call it that."
He filled the enchanted chamber until all four irons sang in harmony. The horse stamped once. Sparks scattered across the road. Somewhere a cabbage fell off a cart.
The knight paid. The beast returned to its stable.
Nothing moved for five days.
No wars. No raids. No journeys through marsh or blizzard. The horse slept under its own roof, beneath a blanket that cost more than the roof.
Yet on the fifth morning the knock had returned.
The same hoof. The same weakness.
The knight stood beside him for a long time.
If the horse had galloped through the Black Pass or charged a regiment of skeletal cavalry, a damaged shoe would have been understandable.
But it had spent five days eating hay and judging everyone who walked past.
The smith’s charge had simply vanished.
The horse watched his master with the solemn dignity of a creature entirely unwilling to discuss his medical history.
And then the knight noticed the hairline fractures.
Not only in the left iron. All four ancient shoes showed the fine scars of too many seasons: tiny rivers in dark metal, ending nowhere. Nine winters had passed since their binding, perhaps ten. Even enchantments had an expiry date.
The knight laid his hand on the horse’s neck.
"We shall find you new shoes."
The horse exhaled, as if relieved.
The knight had no idea that four horseshoes were the most difficult objects to acquire in the kingdom.
At midnight, beneath the floor of the empty forge, something in the old iron answered with a quiet click.
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