Chapter 10: The Last Birthday

I turned over one charred body after another. Finally, I found Big Ben, dead by the Foster River. His body had been hacked to pieces. In his hooves, he still clutched the daylily wreath I’d given him for his last birthday.

I fell to my knees beside him, fingers shaking as I touched his mane—still warm, still smelling like summer grass. I laughed and cried. This Big Ben, always so proud—he always complained about that wreath, saying something so flashy was unworthy of a mighty legend. But secretly, I’d seen him wear it many times, admiring his reflection in the Foster River, grinning like a fool.

My tears streaked down through soot, voice breaking as I pressed my forehead to his. Memories came in waves—our jokes, his awkward gallop, the way he’d chase squirrels for fun. Gone. All gone.