Evidently so.

The stallion’s breath moved down his side, warm and steady. Every step matched by Macius’ restraint. He could almost believe it was a ritual — as if his most previous friend was suddenly his judge, and possibly his executioner.

The muzzle pressed lower, brushing along the curve of his barrel, then withdrew. A pause, as if the beast weighed something unseen. Another rumble, not quite threat, not quite comfort.

Macius did not move. To flinch would be to break. He held his ground, as he had before judges and lords, as he had before enemies at tourney.

The stallion circled again, slow, deliberate. Not hostile.

************************************

Not hostile. But not idle, either.

The stallion’s shoulder pressed into him, sudden and heavy. Not a blow — a shove. Enough to stagger him sideways, hooves scrambling for purchase.

His still unstablebody gave way, the hooves stepping into the cold water. He pulled back sharply, stunned by the cold water on the fur.

Another push followed, firmer, guiding. The beast was herding him, testing space.

Every instinct in this body screamed to give way, to fall in line. He locked his legs, **** them to hold. Knights yielded to no threat. Yet the stallion’s weight leaned harder, insisting.

The pressure grew until his ribs ached. Not rage — insistence. A test of place.

Macius gritted down on the urge to yield. He had held lines before, shield to shield, pressed near to breaking. He held now.

The stallion snorted, hot and sharp.

***********************************

The sound rattled through him, hot breath bursting against his hide. Then teeth grazed his shoulder — not a bite, not yet, but a nip sharp enough to sting.

Macius flinched despite himself. The stallion’s head came up at once, eyes fixed on him, as if noting the crack. Another shove followed, driving him a step sideways.

It was no charge, no killing blow. Only the language of beasts: move when I move, yield when I press.

Macius **** his hooves into the earth, heart hammering. A knight might yield to command, but never to instinct.