The stable had gone quiet.

  Not the comfortable kind—

  But the kind that comes before something important is said.

  I noticed it just as I finished my second apple.

  Footsteps approached.

  It was measured and familiar.

  The trainer stopped beside the prince and lowered his head.

  “Your Highness.”

  The prince inclined his head in return. “Go on.”

  The trainer straightened, his gaze steady.

  “The invitations have been answered.”

  That single sentence pulled my attention sharper than any command.

  “How many?” the prince asked.

  “Most of them,” the trainer replied. “The Rizz Olympia Race has drawn more interest than expected.”

  Rizz.

  I flicked an ear.

  So that was the name, not just of the race, but of the land itself.

  “One of the continents,” the prince said casually, as if reading my thoughts. “This kingdom sits at its center.”

  He smiled faintly.

  Not boastful, yet certain.

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  “There are six kingdoms across the Rizz continent,” the trainer continued. “Five will be sending representatives.”

  “And the total?” the prince asked.

  “Fifteen kingdoms, Your Highness.”

  Fifteen?

  That number carried weight.

  “Each will bring a horse,” the trainer added. “And a jockey. Some are professionals, royal trainers raised for competition.”

  “Some?” the prince echoed.

  The trainer hesitated, then allowed himself a thin smile.

  “Some are… exceptions.”

  The prince chuckled softly. “Let me guess.”

  “Yes,” the trainer said. “Other princes, the kings or the queens, one king's or queen’s daughter.”

  I stiffened.

  Royalty riding their own horses.

  Not for spectacle.

  For pride.

  “They’re bringing their warhorses,” the trainer went on. “The ones they trust with their lives. Not all are bred for racing.”

  “But they’re favored,” the prince said.

  “Exactly.”

  The prince’s eyes lit up.

  I had seen that look before.

  Not excitement.

  Challenge.

  “They’re coming because of you,” the trainer added carefully.

  The prince blinked. “Me?”

  “You started this,” the trainer said. “A royal stepping onto the track himself. They followed.”

  For a moment, the prince said nothing.

  Then he laughed, quiet and genuine.

  “I almost thought this was a terrible idea,” he admitted. “That no one would accept an invitation meant only to honor the warhorses.”

  “You still might,” the trainer replied dryly.

  “But it seems they see it as a battlefield now,” the prince continued, his voice steady. “And… so do I.”

  He turned slightly, his hand resting against the stall door.

  “This isn’t just a race,” he said. “It’s a statement.”

  The trainer nodded. “Yeah, like a battlefield.”

  The word settled heavily in the air.

  Battlefield.

  Something in my chest tightened.

  I understood that language.

  Victory measured in inches.

  Failure decided in seconds.

  “For a kingdom that’s never lost a war,” the prince continued, eyes burning now, “losing here would be… unacceptable.”

  I felt it then.

  That fire.

  The same one I used to feel before the gates opened.

  Before the crowd roared.

  I was a jockey once.

  An athlete who lived for that edge.

  And now—

  I was the horse.

  The irony almost made me laugh.

  The trainer cleared his throat. “We still have time to prepare.”

  The prince nodded. “We’ll use it.”

  He glanced at me.

  Not as a symbol.

  Not as a tool.

  But as a partner.

  “We’ll stand at the starting line,” he said quietly. “Together.”

  The stable fell silent again.

  This time, it wasn’t calm.

  It was anticipation.

  And somewhere deep inside me, a realization settled, slow, and undeniable.

  This race wasn’t calling for my legs.

  It was calling for everything I had been before.

  And everything I had become.