Sleepy Fox Hollow Delta Dawn, what's that flower you got on?

colosseum stilled.

the hollow had a rhythm, and this—it was off.

the breeze brought it first: not the rot of carrion, not the usual musky piss of predators, but something cleaner, sharper. fur, fresh. the pulse of danger without the stench of blood. not yet.

he lifted his head from the patch he’d been tearing at, ears swiveling like radar. somewhere to the north—no more than a few paces—there was movement. soft, staggered. multiple feet. too light for elk. too quiet for deer.

wolves.

his ears pinned, lips tightening. he didn’t scream. didn’t run.

instead, the stallion moved.

slow at first. he turned his body broadside—an unmistakable wall of roan muscle and flared heat—and stomped one heavy forehoof into the soft belly of the earth.

a warning.

another step forward, into the open, chest lifted and tail arched. he didn’t see them yet, not all of them, but he didn’t need to. the air had changed. the mares would feel it too.

he blew through his nostrils once—harsh and hot—and raked the ground with a sharp, pointed kick.