Sleepy Fox Hollow umber

his head lifted from grazing, nostrils flaring wide as the stench hit him. copper. rank. male.

the sharp breath from fancy cut through the air like a whip, and that was all he needed.
he was moving before thought caught up to him—hooves thudding low and sure against the hollow floor, cutting across wildflowers and stone, drawn by the stink of old wounds and the kind of rot that only lingered on men who overstayed their welcome.

as he neared, he touched selenia’s hip—just a brush. silent reassurance.
then a softer sweep of his muzzle across fancy’s shoulder, hot breath and flared nostrils saying what he didn’t need to voice: i’ve got it.

and then he was in front of her.

between the mares and the man.

he cut across the trail, blocking the path with his full weight—head high, tail lifted, ears pinned. the muscles along his chest rippled with the slow coil of a predator backed into patience. no trot. no dance.

just the cold, bracing stance of a stallion who owns this land.
his eyes locked onto maplesmoke—the drag of his gait, the blood on his chest, the coward’s quiet that hung around his ribs like shame.

colosseum huffed through his nose again, a wet, aggressive snort that sprayed earth and noise into the air between them. no welcome. no warmth.

just warning.
come any closer, and he’d find out quick that blood meant nothing to a stallion ready to spill more.