Colt? Really?

He lifted his head from the water. The stallion was closer now, silent on the grass, watching.

Macius braced. A colt against a full-grown stallion stood no chance. One kick, one bite, and bones would break. Instinct clawed at him to yield, to flee.

But the charge never came. The warhorse only stepped in, slow, deliberate. Neck arched, nostrils flaring. A breath against Macius’ shoulder — hot, searching. Not a blow. Not defiance.

The beast was not hunting a fight. He was… testing. Claiming.

Macius held still, every muscle tight. Knights endured worse. This was... different, though. He felt the power of massive muscles through his body. His large teeth and hooves could easily maim a human. However, he knew a colt, or a juvenile, held little chance faced with a fully grown battle stallion.

His --former-- mount kept advancing... Another step, heavy, measured. Hooves pressed the earth as if each stride carried judgment.

Macius’ ears twitched at every shift of weight, every breath. The beast circled half a pace, head tilting, dark eyes fixed on him.

Closer still. Muzzle brushed his neck, then his flank. A low nicker rumbled out, questioning, testing.

Macius **** stillness. He had faced lances, arrows, steel. This was slower, heavier. Not a charge. Judgment. In a weird way, it reminded him of his confirmation ceremony, barely adult, hair cropped short, wearing a shirt of coarse cloth, standing in front of twelve fully armored knights. None had been expected to strike him down, but the feeling was very similar.