Macius angles away... or attempts to.

The stallion clung close, step for step. Not striking, not chasing — shadowing. His bulk pressed at Macius’ flank, shoulder brushing, breath rolling down his side with every stride.

Macius angled away. The beast curved with him, patient as iron. He lengthened his pace; the stallion lengthened too. He slowed; so did the shadow. Not pursuit. Not rivalry. Custody.

Pressing at his hip. Nudging his flank. Nipping, sharp enough to sting, never enough to wound. Half-rearing, forelegs brushing, then settling back with a grunt. The rhythm dragged on, each move deliberate, ritualistic.

Macius had seen it before, in stable yards and on marches. The stallion’s dance: sniffing, pressing, circling, rearing. Not play. Not trial of arms. Courtship.

The thought struck like a lance under the ribs. No. Impossible.

The shield leaned against the tree, its mirror boss flashing in the sun. He staggered toward it, head low, breath ragged, eyes fixed on that hard, polished circle. Proof. A knight tested himself against steel, against truth.

He stopped before it, lowered his head until the image sharpened. His own form reflected beside the shadow looming close behind. The stallion’s barrel broad, jaw square, chest deep, sheath hanging heavy, certain.

His body in contrast: neck fine, chest narrow, jaw smooth, the line beneath his belly bare. Nothing.

Then hot breath flared again at his haunch. The muzzle pressed low, nosing under his tail, sniffing deep where no colt could be mistaken. His legs buckled, shame flooding him.

The reflection held, merciless.

No rival. No beta colt.

A mare.