Sleepy Fox Hollow pumice

Her answer was steady, her tone resolute, yet there was a weight in her words that tugged at something deep within him. He could not ignore it, nor did he wish to.

He had been raised differently than most stallions—by the wisdom of a cul-de-sac of mares who had taught him not dominance, but respect. Theirs was a way of nurturing strength without cruelty, of leading through steadiness rather than force. It had shaped him into what he was now: a protector, a listener, a quieter kind of presence.

His warm breath brushed against her neck as he leaned closer, offering a gentle nudge of reassurance. Then the foal will grow strong, he murmured, his deep voice carrying a quiet certainty. With you as it's mother, it couldn’t be any other way.

He stepped back slightly, his gaze soft as it lingered on her round belly. And when the time comes, you’ll have me here—for whatever you need.

Then, over his shoulder he beckoned with a chort. There is a patch of flowers, hidden by snow. A filling, delicious sort of greenery— rare, but preserved. For you.