— "I've placed my bet on you today, Young Lord. Don't let me down!"
— "Thank you, Lord Pratt," Alex replied awkwardly.
The weather was sullen, as if the sky had forgotten summer had already begun. Heavy grey clouds drifted lazily overhead, the rain reluctant to fall — much to the relief of the gathered crowd.
— "Alex, eat something. Hunger won't do you any favor."
— "Yes, father."
The Young Lord obediently stepped away from the gathering. Race Day always left him on edge. His insides coiled tight in anticipation, and every sound rang louder than it should.
Lord Carlston was a man of few words, favouring solitude over society, books over conversation, and silence over noise. He stood in contrast to his wife and son — and their relationship remained strained at best. But the races were the rare exception. They had become the one thread that bound father and son.
Lord Carlston had loved horses all his life, and guarded their training with near-religious fervour. When he first noticed his son's gift for riding, he had wept with quiet pride. Since then, he trained Alex to compete in person, year after year.
The Young Lord loved horses dearly, too, but he rode not for the thrill of competition, rather to please his father. The races left him drained, the anxiety before the starting shot nearly unbearable. Bareback rides across the fields were something else entirely.
When Alex returned, he was met with encouraging words and practical advice.
— "Watch out for Altiva — she's running under number four. The Duke brought her from abroad, I hear."
— "The Duke?" Alex repeated.
— "Yes, the Duke of Blackthorn is attending the races today. Surprising, considering what happened in his past. You'd think he'd never set eyes on a horse again."
— "I look forward to seeing the Barbary mare," Lord Carlston replied. "But as for his jockey — he's no match for Alex."
The rest of the conversation was lost to Young Lord. He excused himself and headed to the stables, needing a moment to collect his thoughts. His anxiety had come earlier than usual.
"What is wrong with me? Why did that horse unsettle me so? She may be exotic, but that hardly guarantees a win. There are far too many variables at play."
Wrestling with his nerves, he walked with his head lowered, not paying attention to where he was going. He pushed open the stable door — and found himself face to face with the very source of his unease.
— "Young Lord Carlston! A pleasure to see you again. I should have remembered — your family races, too. Come to offer last-minute advice to your jockey? I saw someone disappear into the back a few minutes ago."
Alex wished, more than anything, that he could pretend not to have seen him — but it was too late. With effort, he composed himself and offered a silent bow.
— "Thank you for your concern, but I ride our horses myself," he said curtly, before moving past him into the stable.
For some reason, the Duke's words stung.
"Who does he think he is? We don't need outsiders to train our horses!"
Then Alex faltered.
"He couldn't have known… I've only been racing for two years. But still — his comment was uncalled for!"
Catching sight of his horse at last, Alex's scowl softened into a smile. Soul was a beautiful bay thoroughbred with a copper sheen — a proud creature, bred on the Carlston estate. Slender-legged, with a fine neck, a rich mane and large, intelligent eyes. She was both a trusted companion and a silent keeper of Young Lord's secrets.
He approached her, running his hand along her neck and murmuring reassurances for the race ahead.
— "The Carlston horses have always been splendid," came a voice behind him.
He hadn't noticed the Duke had followed — the sudden sound made him flinch. Alex didn't turn around to acknowledge him.
— "I sincerely wish you the best of luck today," the Duke continued, his tone light. "But I'm afraid I must disappoint you — you won't beat Altiva."
The words struck him like a whip across bare skin.
Alex spun around, took a few steps forward, and locked eyes with his opponent.
— "We'll see about that," his voice was unexpectedly low
The Duke looked genuinely startled by the confrontation. He smiled, bowed, and left without another word.
The race began. Alex sat atop his Soul, waiting for the start. He cursed himself for letting the Duke get on his nerves. That reckless promise he'd flung in anger now pressed down like a weight upon his shoulders.
I mustn't lose focus. I mustn't.
The announcer began listing the horses and their riders. The crowd buzzed with excitement, cheering their favourites. Alex closed his eyes and tried to breathe, forcing his body into calm.
The starting shot rang out.
In an instant, the horses surged forward — all but one. Alex had hesitated. He drove his heels into Soul's sides and took off, scrambling to make up for lost time.
Racing demanded quick decisions and sharp instincts — and his anxiety, oddly enough, helped. It flushed away distraction, drawing him into perfect focus.
By the second lap, while the others began to slow, Soul was just beginning to show her full power.
He knew her well: when she tightened with tension, when she relaxed, how she responded to every cue. He didn't race for speed alone, but with strategy — as his father had taught him.
One by one, he passed his rivals. By the second lap, he'd claimed second place. Thirty seconds to go. One mare still ahead — the dreaded Altiva.
The Duke's jockey was striking her, desperate to keep Altiva ahead. Alex, on the contrary, dropped his whip and leaned in lower. Soul responded better to shifts in weight and steady commands than to pain.
The wind lashed at his face, but he hardly noticed. Everything else seemed to blur. Altiva galloped beside them. Just a little more. Just a little further.
The finish line.
The crowd erupted.
People leapt to their feet, clutching at their hats, shouting over one another, clapping and arguing.
— "It was young Lord Carlston! I'm certain of it!"
— "No, Altiva crossed first, I swear it!"
— "The judge isn't sure himself — he's gone to confer with the others!"
Alex stared ahead, breathless. Still in the saddle, he could barely feel his legs or the reins in his hands.
Lord Carlston rushed toward him, already scolding.
— "How could you let that happen? What were you thinking at the start?! If you had moved with the pack, we would have no controversy at all!"
Alex stared at his father, hollow and speechless.
— "Still," the lord Carlston sighed, "You did well not to mimic the Duke's jockey. He was too harsh — I'd wager Altiva might've run faster without all that interference."
A wave of supporters swarmed around Alex, their joy drowning out his father's rebukes.
Then, through the crowd, he saw the Duke of Blackthorn himself. His expression was strained — clearly, he too awaited the verdict with bated breath.
The judge stepped onto the wooden platform and raised his hand for silence. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and declared the winner in a voice loud enough for all to hear:
— "After careful deliberation, we pronounce Soul of the Carlston family the victor of today's race!"
Applause broke out. Lord Carlston clapped his son on the back and began to celebrate with the others, receiving congratulations.
Alex felt as though the ground beneath him had vanished. He stared through the throng of people, barely believing what he'd just heard.
Then his eyes found the Duke.
Nathaniel had pushed through the crowd to stand before him, beaming brightly.
— "Sincere congratulations, Young Lord! Victory suits you! It would be a true honour to see you on Altiva one day."
That dazzling smile burned in Alex's mind, and the Duke's words sent a flush of heat to his face. Why was he smiling? His horse had nearly won — and Alex had been the one to take that victory from him.
Instead of triumph, the Young Lord felt only confusion and a strange, disquieting embarrassment.
His cheeks burned, and just as he began to speak, his father called him sharply to collect the trophy.
He stepped onto the podium. The touch of cool silver cup in his hands grounded him. Alex smiled warmly at the roaring crowd. The rest of the day passed in a haze of congratulations — but he did not see the Duke again.