My heart tightened before my body did.

  Like a spring wound too far, storing everything I had left.

  My heartbeat accelerated, sharp and controlled, syncing with each stride.

  Muscle followed instinct.

  Instinct followed resolve.

  This was the last spurt.

  I released everything.

  The track vanished beneath me.

  I no longer counted steps and measured breath.

  I only drove forward, my legs striking the ground with intent, each impact stealing distance from the finish.

  Sir Roland’s breathing was ragged now, loud against the storm.

  He wasn’t holding back anymore.

  Neither of us were.

  The cold should have numbed me.

  Instead, it tore something open.

  A heat surged through my chest—

  Raw, violent, undeniable.

  My spirit flared, drowning out pain, exhaustion, and doubt.

  There was only forward.

  The crowd erupted.

  Voices crashed together, names slicing through the rain, mine, and Sir Roland’s.

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  “Sir Roland!”

  “Crown Princess!”

  Over and over, layered and relentless.

  Others were cheered too.

  Horses and riders locked in their own desperate battles, but the sound following us was different.

  Demanding for victory.

  Beside us, a shadow kept pace.

  Mort.

  His posture was ruthless, precise, eyes fixed ahead without hesitation.

  Beneath him ran a black horse like a blade drawn from night itself, Nocturne Heirs.

  I recognized the movement.

  The discipline... the pressure...

  This wasn’t coincidence.

  They had been trained for this.

  Not just to win, but to deny.

  Sir Roland had told me.

  So had Mister Antonie.

  Mort hailed from the rival kingdom, an enemy bound by history to Charlton.

  Their objective had never changed.

  Crush Roland.

  Crush the symbol.

  Here, in the final stretch of The Rizz’s Olimpia Race.

  Rizzel’s most prestigious stage, the race we were no longer racing for medals.

  This was combat without blood.

  The distance collapsed fast.

  Two hundred meters.

  One hundred.

  The rain blurred the world into streaks of gray and silver.

  My hooves struck harder, faster, driven by a rhythm that no longer belonged to fatigue.

  Sir Roland leaned forward, voice breaking through the storm.

  “Just a little more,” he whispered. “Tighten it—faster, Angela.”

  The riding crop moved, not in command, but in unity.

  I answered.

  Fifty meters.

  Our shoulders aligned.

  Nocturne Heirs’ breath burned hot beside me.

  Mort’s presence pressed close, suffocating, predatory.

  The barrier flashed in my peripheral vision.

  We were centimeters apart.

  Then—

  Impact.

  From behind.

  From the left.

  No chance to brace.

  Nocturne Heirs slammed into my flank, the force brutal and deliberate.

  My balance shattered instantly.

  With only three legs, there was no recovery.

  The ground vanished.

  I crashed sideways, my body skidding violently into the iron barrier on my right.

  The shock tore through me, stealing air, sound, thought.

  Metal screamed.

  The world twisted.

  Sir Roland was thrown forward.

  I felt his weight leave my back.

  Felt the rain swallow his shout.

  The track rushed away as my body collapsed, cold iron biting into my side.

  The crowd’s roar snapped into chaos.

  Gasps, screams, confusion—

  drowned beneath the storm.

  I lay there, breath broken, vision shaking.

  The race did not end.

  But for us—

  It had been torn apart.

  And as rain poured down harder than ever, one thought burned through the pain, sharper than steel.

  This wasn’t an accident.