He stands, on all four. "Upright" of sorts.

He moved towards the fresh water, thirsty. He wobbled still, albeit less.

The wobble drew a snort. Not from him — from the stallion. The beast raised its head from the grass, ears pricked, dark eyes fixed on him.

Macius felt the look like a lance-point. That horse had carried him through battle, obeyed his hand on the reins, trusted his voice. Now there was no hand, no reins, no voice. Only a creature's body quivering on uncertain legs.

The stallion took a step closer. Not hostile, not yet, but curious. Testing.

Macius **** himself still. He remembered drills: never show fear to a beast. But the instinct gnawed — telling him to yield, to turn away. He ground his teeth, though all that left his mouth was another involuntary whicker.

Macius **** his gaze from the stallion and staggered on, clumsily. Thirst burned sharper than fear. He reached the pool at the edge of the camp and lowered his head.

The surface rippled with his breath. He drank, and the shock of cold water steadied him. Then he saw it — the face beneath the ripples.

Not his own. Broad muzzle, dark hide, eyes too wide, ears pricked high above. He jerked back, heart hammering, but the image followed him, every line inescapable.

Horse. No doubt. No trick of light.

The pool stilled again. This time he **** himself to look, knight’s discipline over terror. And there it was, plain as truth: not stallion’s jaw, but finer. Softer lines. Almost juvenile.