I was ready.

  That was the lie I kept repeating—

  To myself, to my legs, to the air pressed tight around the gate.

  Everything was prepared.

  I was prepared.

  Sir Roland sat firmly on my back, his posture steady, his breathing controlled.

  Mister Antonie watched from afar, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

  And somewhere beyond the noise, beyond the banners and colors, the parents of Sir Roland were surely seated in the stands.

  Knowing that made my chest tighten.

  I lowered my head and listened.

  The referee’s raised signal.

  The pause that stretched too long.

  And the trumpet.

  I had learned its meaning from overheard conversations between Sir Roland and Mister Antonie.

  That sound was not just a signal.

  It was a verdict.

  Once it rang out, hesitation became failure.

  The trumpet goes signal for running.

  The gate opened.

  I launched forward the instant wood released iron, forcing my body into motion before fear could catch up.

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  My chosen strategy was clear!

  Lead from the front.

  Break away early.

  Escape the pack before they could surround me.

  The ground rushed beneath my hooves, three legs striking in rhythm I had drilled into muscle and bone.

  The air tore past my face.

  I did not look back.

  I refused to return to obstacle training.

  I refused to fall again.

  I had to win.

  Slowly... carefully... I increased my speed.

  Gradual acceleration, holding pace while sharpening it over time.

  Each breath measured, each stride counted.

  Behind me, I could feel them.

  Many horses.

  Most of them running pace strategies.

  Some holding back, saving strength for the end.

  Others hovering between early restraint and late burst.

  I sensed their presence like pressure on my spine.

  Focus.

  I spoke to myself because no one else could hear me.

  I understood now what a jockey truly was—

  Not just someone who rode, but someone who trusted.

  I would carry Sir Roland forward.

  I would bring them victory.

  The crowd erupted.

  Their roar rolled across the track like thunder, layered with the sharp, heated voice of the commentator driving them into frenzy.

  The sound vibrated through my ribs, through my hooves, through my skull.

  I could not see Sir Roland’s face.

  But I felt him.

  His resolve pressed against me through weight and balance. His breath brushed my ears, steady and close, and then his voice.

  Low, firm, almost intimate.

  “Come on, Angle. I know you can do this.”

  My heart stuttered.

  That single sentence burned hotter than the sun above us.

  It stirred something dangerous.

  Something I did not have time to name.

  Pride...

  Trust...

  Or something softer, deeper, that made my stride tighten instead of falter.

  I ran not just for victory.

  I ran for him.

  And for a name whispered only in my thoughts.

  Eliza Moreau.

  A legendary jockey.

  A name tied to glory, rebirth, and impossible comebacks.

  If I could carry Sir Roland forward...

  If I could make him win...

  Then perhaps, in this world, that name would run again.

  The track stretched on.

  My breath shortened.

  And somewhere ahead, the race waited to decide whether belief alone was enough.