The steady horsebeat feels like a drum—an old call that summons the forgotten war drums of forgotten kings, the slow pulse of a buried god’s heartbeat, the echo of a ritual that once rode through stone‑bound valleys. When that rhythm rolls, the shadows remember the stories of ancient battles, the old tales of how the earth itself sang to the rider. It’s a quiet, reverent drum that only the night can hear.

I listen to that pulse, letting the quiet of the saddle match the horse’s breath. When my own heartbeat syncs with the rhythm, it feels as if the horse and I share a secret language, a shared calm that whispers the old stories back to us. The ride then becomes a dialogue, not a command.