He's... not. Though he might want to be.

As the pale light of the Sun started warming his body, Macius stirred and whinnied.

He was lying on the side. This was... unexpected. He felt heavy, too. His hand sought the blanket, but struck nothing — no fingers, no palm. Only a blunt weight. He tried to sit. He just... rolled over.

Macius opened his mouth to curse, but the sound that burst free was a shrill, equine cry. It startled him more than his own fear.

He froze. That sound hadn’t come from a man’s throat. His ears caught it again, flicking high on his head, and the motion made his stomach twist. He tried to rise. Four legs scrabbled against the ground, heavy and uncoordinated, until at last he stood—shaking, breath loud in his chest.

The blanket slid from his back. Dark fur bristled where skin should have been. A tail lashed behind him, answering some instinct that wasn’t his.

Macius stared at the world from a height both too low and too high, and knew with sick certainty: this was no dream. Decades of training took over.

Things were wrong. It happened. Other knights had suffered mishaps before. One of his great-uncles had spent a decade, frozen as a stone statue in a cursed tower. He still remembered the unbridled hate the old man held for pigeons. The idea didn't really help, though. Action would.

Surroundings. Observe surrounding. Plan action.

Macius, carefully, moved his abnormal body around, checking the place. He was near the tree, right in the middle of the campsite. A bit further, he could see the beach. His stallion eating fresh grass. No threat seemed to be present anywhere. He relaxed a tiny bit, then tried to move.

He wobbled.