When the race officially started, every single eye on the grand sporting grounds was locked onto the two riders.
An old, bearded minister who had merely been passing by for his morning walk found himself swept up in the excitement and volunteered to officiate. He raised his walking stick high in the air.
"One... two... three... start!" the old minister shouted, dropping the stick.
The arrogant nobleman immediately whipped his horse, surging forward in a desperate, muddy sprint to secure an early lead.
Heena didn't move an inch.
She just sat in the saddle, calmly leaning forward to pat the thick, muscular neck of her massive black warhorse. "Let's race, baby," she whispered.
The crowd erupted into confused, mocking murmurs. People were already loudly placing bets against her, thoroughly convinced that she had frozen in terror or that she had completely lost her mind. She hadn't even crossed the starting line yet, and her opponent was already a dozen lengths ahead.
