The Workhorse

The tale begins in an age before cities crowned the horizon—when treasure maps were scrawled on weathered parchment, their edges tattered by wind and time. In this distant era lived a poor prospector named Juriel (pronounced “Zhuriel”), ever convinced that fortune lay just one more day’s journey ahead. He dreamed of riches beyond imagining, though in truth, his heart beat fastest for the glint of gold.

His sole companion was a horse—though “companion” was a generous word for how the animal was treated. Juriel had never given him a name, calling him simply “Horse,” as though he were nothing more than a tool to be used or traded. Yet Horse was no ordinary creature.

Tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a thick, muscular neck, he carried the grandeur of heroes carved in ancient stone. His coat was a flawless black, sleek and luminous like polished onyx, marked only by a tuft of white on his brow. His mane spilled like midnight silk, and his deep, unyielding eyes seemed to look straight into truths hidden from others.

That morning, Juriel’s temper flared. Furious at Horse for snapping a rope and devouring the sack of oats meant for sale, he raised his hand, the leather strap slicing the air with a sharp, dangerous hiss. Yet Horse did not move, meeting his master’s glare with those fathomless eyes—a silent testament to patience and loyalty undeserved.

Just as Juriel’s arm rose again, a voice drifted through the dusty street: “Why waste your strength on such a useless animal? Come—step inside.”

The speaker was a strange old man, framed in the doorway of an odd little shop—its walls warped and sun-bleached, its wooden frame worn by decades. Above hung a cracked, faded sign, its letters long surrendered to time.

Something in the man’s presence rooted Juriel to the spot. The whip fell from his grasp, and as if pulled by an unseen force...