Sleepy Fox Hollow hayride

you’re right, he said, dipping his head in agreement. every leader takes their falls before they stand tall. i was young when i first led. too young, maybe.
he shifted his weight, eyes softening as he glanced across the open stretch of land. memories stirred, pulling him back to sunlit fields and the echoes of hooves drumming against earth.
there was a stallion—driftwind. older than me. wiser. i’d taken a small band from him. thought i was clever. thought i was strong. but he didn’t come for me like i expected. no, he waited. let the season turn. let the predators grow bold.
colosseum’s gaze darkened, the edges of his voice roughening with the memory.
when the wolves came, i fought. i fought like hell. but we lost a mare that day—a good mare. her name was emberflame. she was heavy with foal. he paused, the weight of her name resting heavy between them. driftwind came the next day. i was tired. broken. he could have driven me off—taken everything. but he didn’t. he stood beside me. we chased the wolves together. he said the land needed stallions who could work as brothers. not just rivals.
he exhaled, the tension easing from his broad frame.
i never forgot that. sometimes winning isn’t about who stands tallest. it’s about who stands beside you when the shadows fall.
his eyes found fancy’s, warm and earnest.
i see that in you. you stand strong—but you know when to lean, too. that’s rare.
he smiled then, softer this time, with something like admiration beneath it.