The rain grew heavier.

  Not the kind that falls quietly, but the kind that presses.

  Each drop struck the track with force, turning the ground slick and unstable.

  Wind roared from the side, pushing against my body as if demanding I slow down.

  Yet I refused to retreat, just as this horse once had... daring me not to back down.

  I pushed forward through the storm, forcing my legs to keep rhythm.

  I did not fight for first place yet.

  The horse ahead continued to pull away little by little, and I let it happen.

  Every stride I held back was an investment.

  Every breath I stole was fuel for what came next.

  Just endure.

  The track ahead curved upward.

  A slope.

  I tightened my legs and shifted my weight, driving my hooves harder into the ground.

  Uphill punished hesitation.

  With only three legs, any imbalance here would mean disaster.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  My muscles burned, but I welcomed the pain.

  It meant I was still in control.

  I knew without turning my head.

  The horse beside us had taken a slight lead.

  Not by much.

  Just enough to trigger panic in an inexperienced runner.

  But I had learned.

  I had failed too many times to be shaken now.

  Sir Roland leaned closer, his voice steady despite the wind and rain.

  “Don’t rush,” he said. “We’re right where we need to be.”

  I answered him without words.

  Our movements stayed aligned.

  His balance, my stride.

  His breathing, my timing.

  This wasn’t something taught.

  It was built, step by step, through falls, corrections, and silent understanding during endless training.

  "Not yet," I told myself.

  "A little more."

  The slope ended.

  The curve closed in.

  Rain blurred the edges of my vision as we entered the turn.

  The ground was treacherous here—

  Wet, uneven, unforgiving.

  My hoof slipped for a fraction of a second.

  I corrected instantly.

  Three legs meant zero room for mistakes.

  “Easy,” Sir Roland murmured near my ear. “I’ve got you.”

  His grip adjusted.

  Not to restrain—

  just enough to guide.

  We passed the apex of the curve.

  This was it.

  Sir Roland exhaled slowly, then spoke, barely louder than the rain.

  “NOW!”

  The riding crop moved.

  A clear command.

  Advance.

  I struck the ground harder and surged forward.

  Power answered intent.

  Step by step, we began to close the distance.

  The horse ahead was still leading but not pulling away anymore.

  The gap narrowed.

  Rain swallowed the crowd’s roar.

  The world reduced itself to the track, the rival beside us, and the pounding of my own heart.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  By the time we broke out of the turn and entered the final straight, less than five hundred meters remaining, we were no longer chasing.

  We were aligned.

  Side by side.

  Equal under the storm.

  I drew in one deep breath, feeling Sir Roland’s weight settle perfectly against my back.

  This wasn’t endurance anymore.

  This was the moment the race would choose who deserved to stand at the front.