Sleepy Fox Hollow umber

colosseum watched him go.

not with cruelty.
not with pity.

just with that same, unflinching stillness he’d held since the stallion crested the rise—like the hollow itself had given him weight.
his ears flicked once at the sound of torn breath, of muscle giving beneath bone, the stagger in maplesmoke’s gait. a smear of red followed him, but colosseum didn’t follow. didn’t call. didn’t look back once the man crossed the line that marked the herd’s claim.

he huffed—a final exhale through wide nostrils, blowing dirt and silence from his path.

then he turned.

his hooves pressed into the earth as he strode back toward the band. no rush. no show. just the returning presence of the stallion they belonged to.

his muzzle found fancy first—an upward sweep along her cheekbone, soft and wordless, grounding. she’d known him. she’d called. and he had come.

then to selenia, a slower nuzzle to the ridge of her shoulder. a subtle thing. meant for her. not for show.