The morning taught me something brutal.

  Standing wasn’t the goal.

  Enduring it was.

  The first attempt came without warning.

  The trainer’s voice was calm, almost casual, as if he were asking me to take a step rather than challenge gravity itself.

  I pushed anyway, front legs forward, knees braced, back following a moment too late.

  The weight arrived instantly.

  Not pain. Pressure.

  A deep, overwhelming presence pressing through my bones, dragging me downward as if the ground had remembered me first.

  I lasted only a breath before my legs folded, and my body returned to the straw.

  Heavy. Unforgiving.

  "So, this was what it meant to exist like this."

  The days that followed blended together. Not by date, but by repetition.

  Push.

  Hold.

  Collapse.

  Each time, I learned something small.

  Where my balance failed.

  How my knees compensated.

  Which muscles screamed first.

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  Day by day, the seconds stretched longer.

  My body adjusted in ways my mind could only observe.

  Sometimes, I felt eyes on me.

  The trainer never hid his focus.

  The doctor hovered closer than necessary, hands ready, mouth already forming warnings.

  Even the stable guards learned to quiet themselves when I moved.

  And the prince—

  He stayed back.

  Always watching. Never interfering.

  When I faltered, his expression tightened.

  When I lasted longer, something in his shoulders eased.

  Sometimes, when the trainer turned away, I heard his voice.

  “You’re doing well.”

  “Just like that.”

  Quiet words.

  No pressure.

  They reached me more deeply than commands ever could.

  Once, impatience took over.

  Three legs.

  The shift felt controlled for half a second, then the world tilted.

  Balance vanished.

  Straw scattered as someone shouted.

  I fell before hands could reach me, breath tearing from my chest.

  “Stop!”

  The doctor’s voice cut sharp through the stable.

  I stayed down, heart racing, lungs burning. The concern around me pressed heavy, almost suffocating.

  …Damn it.

  From then on, the sessions changed.

  Stricter.

  Shorter.

  Safer.

  The doctor no longer panicked, but his caution sharpened.

  If he said stop, everything ended.

  Even when my legs still felt steady.

  Even when I wanted one more attempt.

  Sometimes, the prince argued softly.

  “She hasn’t—”

  Which earned him a scolding from the doctor, some time.

  I almost laughed.

  Progress came anyway.

  Slowly. Relentlessly.

  Standing stopped feeling like defiance and became negotiation.

  My knees steadied.

  My back followed.

  My breaths aligned with the weight instead of fighting it.

  Some days, the reward wasn’t praise.

  A hand on my head.

  A careful touch along my neck.

  The warm fingers resting against my back.

  Each time, my ears twitched before I could stop them.

  Then came the smile.

  “Good girl, Angela.”

  My chest tightened.

  That wasn’t my name.

  I was Eliza.

  I had lived another life.

  Raced on other legs.

  Earned victories that belonged to a different body.

  And yet—

  This body had its own history.

  A horse that had never failed its master.

  I understood that kind of loyalty.

  That kind of resolve.

  When I finally stood without shaking, no one spoke.

  The silence felt deliberate.

  And for the first time, a thought surfaced.

  Clear and unsettling.

  Standing was no longer progress.

  It was permission.

  Permission for what came next.