At the Starting Line
I stood at the starting line. My hands gripping the reins hung low. The black horse let out a short breath. It wasn't a nervous one. If anything, it carried the eager anticipation of a run about to begin. This one knew, too. Knew that we were about to race. I gave the horse's neck a light pat.
“It's all right.”
The black horse's ears flicked, just barely.
The jockeys each prepared in their own way. Roman Pike kept his head low, eyes fixed only on the line. His body was light, his posture low on the horse—typical of a professional. He clearly intended to take the lead from the start. Mila Nere tapped her horse's neck with her palm, as if checking its breathing. Jurgen of the Imperial Guard Cavalry wore the stoic expression of a soldier. And then there was Valen de Leohardt. He was positioned just behind and to my right. I could feel his gaze. Brazen, light, and unpleasant. He'd been the same last time—approaching someone who wanted nothing to do with him, forcing conversation, smiling as if waiting for a reaction.
The fact that he'd targeted me didn't matter. Insults about the North were nothing new. I already knew how the capital nobles viewed the North. Cold. Rough. Barbaric. A backwater that knew only horses and swords. Their prejudices were stale, shallow, and tedious. I had no time to get angry over every petty remark. But he had touched my prince. My Noel.
The moment he dismounted. The slight stiffness in his hands. The face that feared heights yet refused to show it. The hands that clung to my waist, trembling. The voice that opened his eyes to the lake and exhaled softly. All of it remained vivid. Slowly carving itself into my heart. He had interrupted that moment. So I challenged him to a duel. Not with blades—there was no place for that—so with a horse race. In the way he wanted. In the way he could understand. In the way that would shame him before the largest crowd.
“Your Grace.” Valen's voice came from beside me. “Your Grace.”
I kept my eyes forward.
“It seems His Highness the Prince is cheering for you again today.”
I didn't answer.
“How enviable. The Grand Duchess of the North receiving the Prince's favor.”
A laugh laced the end of his words. I adjusted my grip on the reins. The black horse's ears twitched slightly backward. Even the horse seemed to find the words ridiculous.
“You're rather quiet,” Valen continued. “Nervous before the race?”
At that, I looked at him for the first time. He was smiling—the face of someone convinced he held the advantage. Foolish. I spoke low.
“The mouth is the most useless muscle at the starting line.”
Valen's smile faltered for a moment.
“Focus on getting ready to run.”
With that, I turned forward again. The clown raised his hand high. The noise from the stands gradually faded. It was an odd silence. So many people gathered, yet everyone held their breath. Nobles were like that. They pretended not to expect while expecting, pretended not to be excited while excited. Their applause was restrained. Their laughter, subdued. Even their surprise was hidden. Tiresome people. It would be nice if they could be a little more honest. Then again, perhaps I was no different.
The clown's hand dropped. A trumpet blared. Ten horses surged forward at once. Dirt flew. Wind brushed my face. The horse's muscles flexed. The black horse tried to charge straight ahead. I pressed the reins down ever so slightly. Not yet.
Right after the start, Roman Pike took the lead as expected. His reaction was quick, befitting a professional. His horse ran low to the ground, claiming the front. Derrick Howl and Jurgen followed close behind. Valen moved near the top three. He didn't push too far ahead from the beginning. He was waiting for me. If I moved to the outside, he'd try to push me out; if I went inside, he'd block the path. I stayed in the middle pack. The black horse exhaled loudly, as if frustrated.
“Just a little longer,” I whispered low. “Not yet.”
The first straight. As we passed the stands, countless gazes pressed in. The imperial seats. The noble seats. The Silver Feather Guild's betting board. Among them, one I didn't need to search for. The Prince was watching. The thought made my hands grow warm. I exhaled shortly. This was a race. Unnecessary thoughts had to be set aside. But the heart rarely obeyed commands.
We entered the first corner. Roman still led. Derrick clung right behind him. Valen held third. I was around fifth—mid-pack. Only the sound of hooves filled the track, occasionally broken by applause and low gasps. Even the nobles' excitement was restrained. Still tiresome.
Valen shifted slightly outward, trying to read my path. I slowed my horse instead. No reason to take the route he'd prepared. His horse made an unnecessary adjustment, and in that gap Mila Nere surged up from behind.
Second corner. Mila Nere suddenly accelerated. Her horse cut inside. The stands stirred.
“It's Mila Nere!”
“The Eastern representative is making a move!”
“Can she hold that speed?”
Mila quickly broke into the top three. Valen seemed momentarily flustered—he'd been too focused on me to react in time. I saw the opening. Good. Now.
I gave the black horse permission. It responded instantly, surging forward as if released. The wind grew stronger. My vision narrowed. The horse's breath and hoofbeats rose through my body. Valen noticed my movement from the side and tried to block again. Too late. The black horse slipped just outside him, then cut sharply inward. No wasted motion. The horse lowered its neck; I lowered with it. Our position climbed. Fifth. Fourth. Third.
Valen's horse drew alongside. I clenched my teeth.
“Adel!”
One voice cut clear through the noise. Noel’s. Everything else faded—the nobles' murmurs, the horses, the clown's shouts, the commotion at the betting board. All of it blurred. Only that voice reached me, strangely distinct.
“Adel! You can do it!”
A second shout, louder this time. The silence in the stands shattered. I drew a light breath. My lips curved upward on their own. Something warm stirred in my chest. Strange. It was only cheering. Just the wish that I would win. I hadn't expected it to move me like this.
I lowered my head. The black horse surged faster. The wind split around us. Another voice rose from the stands.
“Your Grace! Keep going!”
Elena van Laque. Laughter colored her tone. A low male voice followed.
“Adeline!”
Prince Cayen. When someone from the imperial seats called my name, the air in the stands shifted. Nobles glanced at one another, faces tight with the need to maintain dignity. Once a line was crossed, it was hard to restore. As if that had been the spark, cheers erupted from all sides.
“Roman! Keep going!”
“Derrick! Catch up!”
“Mila! Mila Nere!”
“Lord Valen!”
Voices burst out one after another. At first they were awkward, as if people were cautiously opening a door, afraid of being seen. But the horses ran. Positions changed. Every movement on the track stirred the stands' breath. Until moments ago, everyone had been spectators—sitting primly, hiding expressions behind fans and glasses, calculating who would win, who would lose money, which house would save face. But as the hoofbeats quickened, those calculations frayed. Tat-tat. Tat-tat. Tat-tat. With every strike of hooves, the stands' hearts seemed to race too. The horses ran on the track, yet it was the seated people whose breaths grew short. Someone gripped the railing. Someone leaned forward. Someone stopped fanning themselves. Someone parted their lips without realizing.
And someone called a name. At first it was small, barely slipping through the cracks of dignity. But the moment that name flew toward the track, people seemed to realize: Ah, it can reach. Just because I'm sitting here doesn't mean my heart is bound to this seat. A voice can cross the fence, pass the dust, and follow the runner's back. The moment they understood, the air in the stands changed.
“Roman!”
“Mila Nere!”
“Derrick! Catch up!”
“Lord Valen! Stay there!”
Names flew upward one by one. Until just before, nobles had applauded cautiously, afraid that too much cheering would damage their dignity, that showing too much desire would reveal their true feelings. Even placing their hearts on the outcome had seemed vulgar. But now it was different. The horses were running. The wind kicked up dust. Positions flipped in the blink of an eye. Before such speed, dignity was too slow. Poise couldn't keep up. So the people raised their voices. Whether because of the money they'd bet, the house they supported, or simply the desire to cheer for someone—the reasons varied. But in the moment their voices broke free, they were all the same. Win. Catch up. Hold on. Just a little farther.
It wasn't spectating anymore. It was wind. Since they couldn't run themselves, they wished their voices would. Since their hands couldn't reach, they called names to push from behind. That wind pressed against the jockeys' backs. Smiles spread across their faces as they met the oncoming breeze.
The final corner. Valen surged ahead first. His horse took the inside path, cutting between Mila and Roman to claim the lead. The stands erupted.
“It's Valen!”
“Leohardt's heir is in front!”
I closed in right behind, taking second. His horse tilted slightly inward. If I went outside, the distance would lengthen. Between his horse and the fence—a narrow gap on the inside. In a snowstorm, paths are never wide. Sometimes you must run along a cliff's edge. Sometimes you must find space between a monster's claws and a soldier's spear. Those who choose only the safe path don't live long.
I lowered my body. Almost pressed against the black horse's neck. I shortened the reins.
“Let's go.”
The black horse answered with a burst of breath. We slipped inside. I felt Valen glance sideways. Too late. The black horse's shoulder wedged into the gap. The fence was terribly close. Wooden posts blurred past. Valen's horse was right beside us. No room to spare. The slightest waver and we'd collide. But the black horse didn't waver. It lowered its breath. I trusted the reins, trusted the horse, trusted my body.
And then—
“Adel! Win!”
A short cry. That was all. Yet strangely, everything slowed. Hoofbeats. Wind. The fence. Valen's hardened face. The finish line. And the Prince's voice.
I crossed the finish line. First.