Sleepy Fox Hollow umber

colosseum watched him. watched the way the stallion’s body carried itself—barely, like loose hide slung over brittle bones. too thin. too torn. too late.

there was no rage in him. just resolve.

when maplesmoke stepped back, colosseum stepped forward—measured, slow, like the stone pressed down under his hooves was just waiting for an excuse to split.

his ears were flat now, teeth clenched behind drawn lips. not a sound, not a call. just the weight of his silence.

and then, without fanfare, without flourish—
he bucked.

a single, brutal rear and snap of his hind legs, hooves cutting through open air like blades. the force of it split a gust down the hollow, the echo thundered against stone.

he landed, hard.
tail lashing. neck arched. eyes sharp.

go.

his message rang clearer than any whinny could. he gave the stallion that moment—just one—to catch his pride, if there was any left.

the mares were not his.
the foals would never be his.
and colosseum was not the type to let ghosts linger.