We left Fort Teton before dawn. The first sign that something was wrong was the sunrise.

I'm a horse--a Morgan horse, to be specific, like the rest of my comrades. My name is Sergeant Greyfell. I was the leader of this company, and my human, Sergeant Rigbee, was the leader of the humans. Four of us were sent out on this patrol to make sure no Indians raided the fort during the night. The humans said they had black magic. I don't know what's wrong with the color black, since that's the color of my coat, but I do love my humans. They said the strangest things.

We also had one horse with us who was not a Morgan: Ace of Hearts, a tall dapple-gray mare who belonged to the company's cartographer. She was a new addition to Fort Teton, from a faraway place by the water where humans lived in stables that stretched to the sky. Although she was bred to withstand the cold, she knew nothing about climbing, or swimming, or which mountain grasses tasted the best. She stepped high and daintily, and her human held on to the reins with both hands. Neither of them were suited to this land.

The sun rose blood-red in the sky, lighting up a valley filled with fog. My nostrils flared. The fog smelled strange, oppressive. Perhaps this was the black magic that Sergeant Rigbee spoke of? He pressed more tightly into the saddle, hoping I would not buck. Of course, I was too well-trained to fear this haze.

But the sun was not the only thing rising, as we soon found out.

From the other direction of the sun, another blood-red light appeared over the ridge. I finally understood: fire.

The flames spread quickly through the lodgepole pines, jumping downhill from one to another like a burning tide washing the mountainside clean. Sergeant Rigbee spurred me in the opposite direction. We were going to have to run.

Ace immediately bolted, the instincts taking over as she ran at full speed away from the fire. Her rider tried to stay on her back, but the full gallop was too much for him. He was flung against a tree trunk, blood leaking from a crack in his neck. I shuddered.

I looked to the other three Morgans, my company, whose ears flattened against their heads as their eyes rolled back and dilated. They were terrified, and I couldn't blame them, but we had to stay calm for our humans' sakes. "Don't panic," I nickered, even as I felt the primal instinct to run building inside me. "If we lose connection to our humans, we lose everything. Follow my lead, and for heavens' sake, breathe."

Seconds after I finished speaking, Monte bucked his rider and bolted. The human fell, his blue coat staining with dirt and mud. Just a few yards down, the horse tripped over a log in his panic and fell as well. He neighed, a terrified sound that was drowned out by the flames.

I looked back at him. We locked eyes. One of my company, my horses, was about to die a fiery death. I couldn't let that happen.

Sergeant Rigbee tried to spur me away, but I wheeled around too fast. His grip on the saddle slipped and he fell. I now faced a choice: my human, who I loved, or my horse soldier, who I was duty-bound to protect? I knew what Sergeant Rigbee would say: A true leader puts their followers before themselves.

I didn't get to choose. The flames came too fast, their heat singing the hair on my coat even from several dozen yards away. I couldn't stay. I couldn't pick anyone up and hope to escape. So I ran like a coward from the coming blaze, letting my training dissipate as the instincts of an ancient horse--the drive to run from danger as fast as possible--overtook me.

Some sergeant I was. I couldn't even lead my followers to safety.

The smoke followed me.

It clawed at my throat and filled my lungs with bitter ash, but still I ran. Branches lashed against my flanks. Stones slipped beneath my hooves. The world had become a blur of heat and red light and the thunder of my own heartbeat.

Run. Run. Run.

That ancient command drowned out everything else—training, discipline, loyalty. Even Sergeant Rigbee’s voice, which had always guided me as surely as the reins, faded into the roar behind me.

At last the slope leveled. The air cooled. The crackling grew distant, like a storm retreating across the mountains. My legs faltered, then stopped entirely. I stood trembling in a meadow ringed with blackened stumps, the grass singed but not yet burning.

Silence settled around me.

Not true silence. My ears still rang with imagined flames, with imagined screams. I turned in a slow circle, nostrils flaring, searching for the scent of my herd—my company. There was only smoke.

Rigbee was not on my back.

The realization struck harder than any spur.

I whinnied, sharp and loud, a call meant for one human and three horses. The sound echoed uselessly against the hills and died. No answering nicker came. No jingling bit. No creak of leather.

I was alone.

My knees threatened to buckle. I had left them. My human. My soldiers. I had run and left them all to the fire.

Some sergeant I was.

The thought dug deeper than the smoke in my lungs. A leader did not abandon his company. A leader did not flee while others fell. I lowered my head, breathing in the scent of scorched earth, and wished with all my might that I could be the kind of horse Sergeant Rigbee believed me to be.

A gust of wind shifted, carrying with it a different smell—sweat, leather, and something sharp and metallic. Blood.

My ears snapped forward.

Somewhere behind me, past the ridge I had fled, a faint whinny drifted through the haze. Weak. Frightened. Alive.

Monte.

My heart lurched. He had not burned. Not yet.

Instinct still screamed at me to keep running, to put more distance between myself and the devouring fire. But another voice rose to meet it, quieter but stronger. The voice that had learned commands, formations, patience. The voice that remembered every morning drill and every approving pat from Sergeant Rigbee.

A leader does not run when his soldiers call.

My legs shook as I turned back toward the smoke. Every step felt like wading into deep water. The heat grew again, pressing against my face. My eyes watered. The ridge loomed ahead, crowned with drifting sparks.

I hesitated only once.

If Rigbee still lived, he would be somewhere behind that wall of haze. If he did not… then he would still expect me to do my duty.

“I’m coming,” I whispered, though horses have no words. I hoped Monte would hear it anyway. I hoped Rigbee would too, wherever he lay.

Then I gathered what courage remained in my chest and charged back toward the fire.