The race did not begin with speed.

  It began with pressure.

  From the moment we took the lead, I could feel it pressing against my back like an unseen hand.

  Even without turning my head, I knew they were there.

  The sound alone was enough.

  Hooves tearing at the track, overlapping, colliding, growing closer with every breath I took.

  They were chasing us.

  Not just me.

  They were chasing the prince riding a three-legged horse that dared to run first.

  The stands erupted in chaos.

  Voices layered over one another, sharp and heavy, pouring down onto the track.

  Nobles from countless kingdoms leaned forward in their seats.

  Some praised loudly, as if victory already belonged to us.

  Others spat curses without restraint, angered by the sight of a crippled horse leading the race.

  I caught fragments of it all.

  Encouragement whispered with sugar, threats barked with steel.

  Hands feeding treats mid-race, hands raising riding crops without hesitation.

  This was no longer sport the pride made visible.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  We pushed on, reaching the midpoint of the race.

  The second straight after the first turn of the short track.

  My legs burned, but the rhythm still held.

  I stayed close to the inner line, guarding it instinctively, knowing that every inch mattered.

  At the start, when we passed through the gate, I had not once thought about rain.

  The sky had been cloudy, yes.

  A muted sun still lingered behind thin layers of gray.

  Nothing about it felt dangerous.

  Then we reached the descent, the warning arrived too late.

  Rain slammed down without mercy.

  A downpour.

  In seconds, the track transformed.

  Cold water soaked into my coat, weighed down my movements, threatened to steal my balance.

  For a heartbeat, shock ran through me.

  Then I remembered.

  I lowered my speed.

  Not because I was afraid, but because I had chosen this long before now.

  This was the strategy I had decided on after listening, day after day, to Mister Antonie and Sir Roland argue and refine.

  The same one Sir Roland reminded me of now, his breath close to my ear, his voice steady despite the chaos.

  “Careful,” he murmured. “Slow it here.”

  The riding crop flicked lightly against my side.

  Not a command.

  A confirmation.

  I obeyed.

  Down the slope we went, rain crashing over us, hooves fighting the ground for purchase.

  Each step was deliberate with shift of weight calculated by us.

  I forced my breathing to slow, pulling stamina back into my core without stopping.

  I could not afford another fall.

  The memory of collapsing of throwing him forward still burned too clearly.

  As we reached the straight, I allowed myself a fragile moment of recovery.

  Just enough to steady myself.

  The track was treacherous, and with only three legs, one mistake would erase everything.

  I adjusted.

  Balanced.

  Endured.

  The rain continued to hammer down, relentless, drowning the crowd into a distant roar.

  That was when I sensed it.

  Movement sharp and aggressive on my left.

  From the outside line.

  A horse surged forward, using the wider path to build momentum.

  I saw it clearly now, muscles straining, breath heavy, its rider leaning low, eyes locked onto us with a hunger that had nothing to do with victory alone.

  They wanted our place.

  My heart tightened.

  I lowered my head, hooves biting into the wet track as I braced myself.

  The distance between us closed rapidly, the sound of their stride overlapping mine, matching it—

  And in that moment, with rain blinding my vision and the ground threatening betrayal, I understood.

  The race had only just begun.