It shot straight up Basia's spine, rattling her teeth, and nearly unseating her. Ruin's front knees buckled slightly under the immense force, his iron shoes scraping frantically against the icy rocks hidden in the grass. He scrambled, slipping dangerously to the left. Basia lost her right stirrup.
She slammed her elbow hard against his neck to anchor herself, her thighs gripping the stiff saddle flaps with agonizing cramping force. "Up!" she screamed, her voice cracking raw in the cold air. Ruin snorted a desperate rattling sound. He dug his hind hooves in, found his purchase on the frozen dirt, and surged upright.
He took three massive uneven strides to catch his balance, ripping up long strips of turf, then slowed to a heavy shuddering trot. Basia hauled back on the reins. Her hands were shaking so violently, she could barely grip the leather. Ruin came to a halt.
His massive chest heaved like a bellows, thick white lather dripping from his neck, flanks, and the heavy iron bit in his mouth. They were on the other side. Basia slumped forward, resting her forehead against the hot, sweaty curve of his neck. Her heart was beating so fast, it physically hurt her ribs, a frantic bird battering against a cage.
She was laughing, but it sounded like a sob. It was a raw, ragged sound of pure adrenaline and miserable survival. She slowly turned the horse around to face the wall. On the other side, Henry sat frozen on his bay.
He looked like a man who had just watched a ghost step out of a freshly dug grave. The wall stood between them, massive and impassable, but Basia sat above it, looking down at him. She didn't gloat. She didn't smile triumphantly.
She just wiped a smear of dirt and sweat from her cheek, her chest heaving violently, and gave him a single stiff nod. Henry took a breath. It shuddered visibly in cold air, a plume of white smoke. The crushing, suffocating weight he had carried for a decade, the shame, the fear, the heavy armor of his own cynical detachment fractured.