Ascento

Most people would walk right past the crooked wooden gate at the edge of Windlemoor Forest without noticing it. They’d miss the moss-covered path winding between trees older than time, and certainly wouldn’t hear the quiet clinking of hooves behind the leaves. But if you were very quiet, and very kind, and just a little bit odd, you might find yourself face to face with Ascento.

Ascento was a horse—or rather, a very small horse, no taller than a broomstick and no heavier than a watermelon. His coat shimmered like polished chestnut wood, his mane looked as though the wind had woven it with wildflowers, and he had eyes the colour of ripe plums. Ascento could speak, of course, but only to those who believed in talking animals, which ruled out most adults straightaway.

Now, just beyond the forest, in a cottage that smelled of cinnamon and books, lived a boy named Leo Windle. Leo had hair like a thicket of blackberries and an imagination as wide as the sky. He’d read every book on magic in the school library—twice—and had once convinced a squirrel to wear a hat, which he considered a major achievement in diplomacy.

Leo had a wand, too—not one from a fancy shop with velvet boxes and golden lettering, but one he made himself from a birch branch, a dragonfly wing, and a pinch of daring. He was a magician, or at least training to be one, and even though his magic mostly resulted in tea turning into soup, he never gave up.

One morning, while walking in Windlemoor with a satchel full of jam sandwiches and optimism, Leo heard a whinny. It was unlike any sound he’d ever heard—part laugh, part music, part thunder wrapped in velvet.

He turned toward the trees and saw him: a little horse, eyes wide, tangled in a net made of thorns and smoke.

“Help,” said the horse. “I seem to have annoyed a shadow.”

Leo blinked. “Did you just talk?”

“Of course,” said Ascento. “And I’d prefer not to be turned into a feather duster by a wraith, if it’s all the same to you.”

Leo sprang into action, muttering something that sounded like “Unwrappus Scramblitus!” and swiping at the net with his wand. Nothing happened.

“I’m new,” he mumbled.

“Try being louder,” Ascento offered, “and maybe don’t wave it like a breadstick.”

Leo focused, took a deep breath, and shouted, “Luxia solvi!”

The thorns burst apart in a flash of golden light. The shadow behind them gave a screech like a broken violin and vanished into a puddle of mist.

Ascento stepped free and gave a polite shake of his mane. “Well done, young magician. You’ve just saved the last Moon Pony in Britain.”

Leo’s jaw dropped. “You’re a Moon Pony? I thought those were only in fairy tales!”

Ascento grinned. “That’s what we want you to think. Makes life much simpler.”

They walked together along the mossy trail as the forest shimmered with hidden life—lantern-bugs flickered in the undergrowth, a fox in spectacles nodded politely, and somewhere far off, a tree sneezed.

“Why was that shadow after you?” Leo asked.

Ascento’s ears twitched. “Its master is hunting Moon Ponies. There are only a few of us left, and each of us guards a piece of the Forgotten Magic.”

Leo’s eyes widened. “You mean... magic older than wands and spells?”

“Exactly,” said Ascento. “Magic that lives in the bones of mountains and the laughter of children. You see, Leo, it’s not the spells that matter most—it’s the wonder. And you’ve got plenty of that.”

Leo beamed, unsure if he should say thank you or cry.

Just then, the path darkened. A tall figure stepped from behind an oak—cloaked in grey mist, face hidden beneath a shadowed hood. The air around him smelled of cold iron and old lies.

“The magician and the beast,” the figure said, voice like crushed stones. “Hand over the pony, boy.”

Leo’s hands trembled. He looked to Ascento, who said softly, “You don’t fight shadows with fear.”

“But I’m not strong enough,” Leo whispered.

“Yes, you are,” said Ascento. “You believed I was real. That’s more than most ever do.”

Leo straightened. He pointed his wand, not with panic, but with certainty.

“I am Leo Windle. I believe in magic, in Moon Ponies, in old stories and new beginnings. And you don’t belong here.”

The shadow laughed, but it faltered.

Leo took a step forward. “Go back to the dark that birthed you.”

Then he whispered something no book had ever taught him: “Remember the light.”

As if the words themselves carried sunlight, the shadow hissed and broke apart like soot in the wind.

Ascento gave a proud little stomp. “Well said.”

Leo fell to the ground, gasping, the wand hot in his hand.

“You did it,” Ascento said, bending to nudge him with his nose. “You’re not just a magician. You’re a guardian now.”

Leo looked up at the tiny horse. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Ascento said, “that this is only the beginning. Come. The other Moon Ponies will want to meet you.”

So they disappeared into the folds of the forest—boy and pony, light and laughter—vanishing into legend, where real magic always goes.

And if you’re ever near Windlemoor and hear the sound of hooves too soft for a normal horse, or a laugh that feels like it came from the stars, stop and listen. You might just catch a glimpse of Leo and Ascento, riding through the wild places of the world, where wonder still waits for those brave enough to believe.