I learned the truth after I woke up.

  Not from pain, not from panic but from weight.

  My body felt wrong in a way I couldn’t name at first.

  The ground pressed back when I tried to move, as if my balance no longer belonged to me.

  When I finally opened my eyes, white filled my vision.

  White hide.

  Scarred muscle.

  And one missing leg with name of Angela.

  That was when the memory returned.

  I had become a warhorse.

  Veteran, white-coated, and incomplete.

  A horse that had survived battle yet paid for it with its front leg.

  From there, everything moved quickly.

  While I stood in silence, pretending to understand my new body, voices flowed around me.

  The trainer and the prince spoke as if I were equipment, but their tone carried respect.

  They discussed my condition, my limits, my potential.

  That was how I learned their names.

  Sir Roland, the prince.

  Sir Antonie, the trainer.

  I learned them not in a hall, but on the training track, during short-distance walking drills.

  When Sir Roland mounted me for the first time, my body jerked in shock.

  The sudden weight, the unfamiliar balance.

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  It nearly sent him tumbling.

  For a split second, a ridiculous thought crossed my mind.

  “Riding me.”

  The word carried meanings I shouldn’t have entertained.

  I shook my head hard enough to dispel them.

  "Get a grip. You are a horse now."

  The early runs went better than expected.

  I focused on the start.

  No delay. No hesitation.

  When the signal came, I moved immediately.

  My timing was clean, my stride steady.

  For a moment, I thought maybe... just maybe... I could do this.

  Then the distance caught up to me.

  Before even reaching half of the short track, my strength drained fast.

  My three legs worked hard, but compensation had limits.

  My body tilted forward—

  And I fell.

  At the same moment, Sir Roland was thrown from my back.

  Before we hit the ground, I felt it, the riding crop cutting through the air.

  A command from him.

  "Don’t stop. Run."

  But my body had already decided.

  The ground rushed up.

  That fall changed everything.

  From that training onward, I understood something essential.

  Racing was not just about speed.

  As a horse now, I had to think differently.

  Stamina management mattered.

  Timing mattered.

  When should I dash?

  How fast could I push with three legs?

  What distance suited me with what kind of strategy?

  Was it about taking the lead early?

  Controlling the pace and forcing others to follow?

  Or hanging back, waiting for the moment to surge forward?

  These were not questions I had ever asked as a human, as a jockey

  Training intensified.

  I was made to pull heavy loads.

  Old-fashioned methods used to build the stamina of warhorses.

  The weight dragged behind me like an anchor, burning my muscles until my vision blurred.

  I sparred with cavalry horses, matching power against trained bodies meant for battle.

  I lost more than I won.

  Every session was hell.

  And through it all, I remained alone.

  I could not speak.

  I could not explain.

  No human. No animal.

  Only my thoughts echoed back at me.

  Days blurred together, bound by exhaustion and repetition.

  Yet slowly, something changed.

  My body adapted.

  My breathing steadied.

  Then, today arrived.

  I stood behind an official iron gate from wood gate.

  The noise beyond it was different from the training grounds.

  Louder. Heavier.

  Nobles from countless kingdoms filled the stands, their eyes sharp, their expectations sharper.

  Each horse beside me carried banners, colors, reputations.

  This was not war.

  This was display.

  Kingdoms no longer proved strength through blood—

  But through speed.

  I lowered my head and breathed.

  This was my first official race.

  And whether I failed or not—

  The gate was about to open.