Marengo, the Madcap Mare
At the outskirts of the Imperial Palace sprawled the vast imperial stables, a facility exclusively for the royal family.
This place wasn't your typical stable—it was more like another grand palace built just for horses, no exaggeration.
Considering the empire's roots as a nomadic people who revered horses, and how even now, as a colossal empire, they remained a vital strategic asset, it made perfect sense.
Far removed from the glittering, boisterous social gala still in full swing at the palace's main hall, the languid afternoon sun of the gala's second day stretched long shadows into this quiet corner.
Deep inside the stables, where the rich scent of premium dried hay mingled with the musky odor of beasts, a hearty conversation between two middle-aged men pierced the serene air.
“Your face looks terrible, Count. Did losing to that young prince from a defeated kingdom—the empire's top drinker—keep you up all night with heartburn?”
“Ugh... I was just following Your Majesty's orders to get close and probe him a bit, but somehow it snowballed into that...”
At the emperor's teasing jab, Count Gros clutched his pounding head and groaned.
Last night's brutal hangover still clung to his bones like tar.
“Aigoo, Your Majesty, please spare me. It feels like molten lava's bubbling up inside. Pouring straight 40-proof rotgut nonstop without a sip of water or a bite of food—Prince Ian looks scrawny on the outside, but he's forged from steel inside, no doubt.”
“Kuhahaha! Even the great Count Gros can't hold his liquor against time's march. After decades by my side, to kneel to a kid young enough to be your grandson? I should've had the palace painter capture you passed out—my one regret!”
“What kind of talk is that! If I'd been just five—no, three years younger, the outcome would've been totally different! Five years ago, that Sterling prince would've been groveling at my feet, begging for his life!”
Count Gros's indignant protest, veins bulging with wounded pride, only made the emperor nod and burst into uncontrollable laughter, as if he couldn't rein it in.
“Fair enough. I saw it up close—your younger self charging battlefields day and night, bottle in hand. Some victories were thanks to your drunken rages.”
They were comrades who'd forged this great empire together, crossing death's threshold countless times on blood-soaked fields—beyond mere lord and vassal.
Their bond predated the emperor's ascension, steeped in a deep, effortless intimacy that needed no stiff formalities.
“Speaking of which, you boldly wagered with that prince yesterday. Promised a grand gift if you won—what exactly did you have in mind? Hoping he'd demand the imperial treasury opened?”
“Ah, about that, Your Majesty. What I planned to give him was...”
Count Gros cleared his throat, about to continue, when—
“Aaaargh—!!”
A horrific, ear-shattering scream erupted from deep within the stables, slicing through haystacks like a knife.
The noble steeds, peacefully munching fodder, whinnied in fright and stamped their front hooves. The imperial guards snapped hands to sword hilts on instinct.
The emperor and count halted mid-stride.
“What happened?!”
Count Gros's bleary, hungover eyes sharpened into those of a battle-hardened general in an instant, barking the question.
One of the stablehands came sprinting up, face ashen, gasping for breath.
“C-Count! Marengo! Marengo's at it again! She bit clean through the groom's arm while he was feeding her!”
“What?! That lunatic's starting up again?!”
The emperor and count bolted toward the scream without hesitation, guards fanning out to secure the area.
“Gaaargh—!”
The scene was gruesome.
A groom writhed on the floor, clutching his right wrist where blood dripped steadily, body convulsing in agony.
Overturned feed buckets, scattered hay, and crimson splatters littered the ground. The emperor grimaced at the groom's wrist—gaping wound deep enough to expose bone—while the count shouted urgently.
“Stop his bleeding now and get him to the infirmary! Check for fractures or severed tendons meticulously and use top-grade healing potions for proper treatment!”
The count issued crisp orders to the gathering servants and knights. Once the groom was stretchered away, he glared murderously at the offending stall, breathing heavily in fury.
“What a hopeless beast. So what if she's purebred and sturdy? She won't let anyone near, let alone ride her! We've cycled through countless riders—none could even saddle her!”
“……”
“Every Akhal-Teke has a temper, sure, but she's the worst of the lot! Mares are usually docile, so why her…!?”
The emperor peered into the stall, brow furrowed sternly.
There stood a horse of pale gold, gleaming with eye-dazzling luster—perfection incarnate, fit for legends as the empire's finest steed.
Long, powerful legs; sleek, explosive muscle curves; a flowing, noble mane.
Sunlight made it seem dusted in golden powder.
But the pale golden mare, trapped in her stall, transformed the instant the emperor approached—as if she'd never savagely torn flesh from bone.
Her large, clear eyes blinked innocently; she poked her head through the bars, sniffing demurely, tail swishing like she craved his touch. Utterly tame and adorable.
Whether instinct recognized the empire's supreme ruler or she was slyly playing coy, Count Gros exploded in rage.
“That, that, that vixen of a mare's fooling us again! Look how she senses a higher-up and acts all sweet for Your Majesty. Was this the same beast raging like she wanted to kill moments ago?!”
Clutching his neck in disbelief, the count fumed. His face flushed tomato-red again, blood pressure spiking.
“Mark my words—turn your back, Your Majesty, and she'll roll her eyes back and go berserk like a demon. Already kicked two sturdy stallions to death with those hind legs, necks snapped clean. Thought breeding might tame her wild side, but she smashed the males' skulls from behind in one blow!”
“……Sounds like her temper's beyond vicious. Ride her into battle, and she'd devour our own troops first.”
“Tamed, she'd be peerless—but untamed, she's worthless. Better butcher her for jerky!”
At "jerky," Marengo whinnied indignantly. The emperor's eyes widened. "She understands speech?"
“Of course. But that psycho personality's the problem.”
“Akhal-Teke jerky, haha... Still, try taming her somehow. Done right, she'll be worth it.”
The emperor tsked in amusement but shook his head with a faint smile, clearly taken by her feral spirit.
Count Gros, saddled with this headache as imperial stablemaster, shot daggers at the now-placidly snorting Marengo—like a lamb before her enemies—and let out a earth-shaking sigh.
“Whether any rider in this vast empire can mount that mad bitch's back... Even I, who's handled thousands of steeds in my life, am starting to doubt it. Might be faster saddling a lion.”
“I believe in you. You're Count Gros, after all. You can do it. Chin up.”
“...I'll do my utmost, Your Majesty.”