The weeks after Okino's sudden appearance blurred into a quiet rhythm, each day folding into the next like the slow drift of winter fog. Frost Heart found herself watching him from the corner of her eye more often than she intended—his careless posture, his crooked grin, the way he somehow balanced irreverence with sharp, piercing observations that dug straight into the marrow of her running. She could feel his attention like a current, brushing against her awareness, teasing her focus, yet somehow making her sharper.
Spica existed only in name for now, a seed waiting to grow. The dorm was quiet, save for Okino's occasional presence. Most evenings, the corridors echoed only with the soft padding of Frost Heart's hooves as she moved from room to room, retrieving gear, checking her form in the mirrors, reviewing her own stride against the memory of the previous laps. The silence pressed in at first, almost suffocating, but gradually, she learned to find comfort in it. There was clarity in being alone. There was purity in measuring herself against herself alone, without distractions, without the noise of other umamusume.
Mornings began before sunrise, when the frost still clung to the edges of the track. The air was sharp, almost metallic in its coldness, but it carried a clarity she had come to crave. Each breath was visible, fleeting, dissolving into the thin veil of mist that lingered above the turf. Each lap became a meditation, each stride a syllable in a wordless conversation with her own body. She listened to the sound of her hooves striking the frozen ground, the subtle shift in the wind against her cheeks, the rhythm of her heartbeat mingling with the track's pulse. Every detail mattered. Every small imperfection could be honed, refined, erased.
"Up early again," Okino drawled one morning, lounging against the fence, lollipop precariously balanced in his mouth. He squinted against the pale light, watching her rhythm, one eyebrow raised. "Most people sleep through frost before dawn. Not you."
"Discipline does not require comfort," Frost Heart replied, her voice carrying the faint chill of winter, a tone so even it could have been mistaken for part of the wind itself.
Okino nodded, a ghost of approval on his lips. "Good. Today, endurance circuits. Then pacing drills. I'm thinking something special to test your reaction under pressure. You'll thank me later." He paused, letting the words hang. "Or maybe not. Maybe you'll hate me a little. That's fine too."
Step by step, lap by lap, Frost Heart honed herself. Weighted vests made each movement heavier, parachutes tugged at her stride with resistance, and sudden obstacles—raised hurdles, shifting track segments, slanted platforms—tested her reflexes. Okino's methods were unorthodox, chaotic even, but each exercise drilled a single truth into her core: control is power, inevitability is strength, and instinct cannot replace awareness. She adapted. She learned. She became something more than herself.
Nights were no different. Frost Heart would sometimes return to the track under the faint glow of lanterns, her breath forming small clouds in the air, the frost crunching faintly beneath her hooves. The dorm around her was silent, yet her mind buzzed with analysis, review, perfection. She remembered each lap in detail—the placement of her hooves, the subtle rotation of her shoulders, the wind's shift across her body. She ran in the wind, ran through drizzle, ran when the turf was slick with frost. Every condition was simulated, so nothing in the coming race could unbalance her.
Okino appeared sporadically during these late sessions, leaning against fences or crouched on the turf, observing with his half-lidded yellow eyes. Occasionally, he would crouch lower, gesturing at her muscles or stride, muttering about inefficiencies she could not see but instinctively adjusted. Frost Heart had no way of knowing whether his observations were precise or merely random, but the results were undeniable: she became sharper, faster, more inevitable.
---
Each morning, she began with warm-ups across multiple terrains. Frost Heart ran laps on grass, dirt, and synthetic turf, sometimes barefoot on carefully prepared surfaces to feel the subtle pressure beneath each hoof. Okino introduced sand pits to force her to stabilize against uneven footing, shallow water tracks to challenge her stride's rhythm, and weighted sprints to stress her endurance. Every drill was exhausting, every repetition precise, and yet she relished the challenge. She welcomed it.
At times, he would suddenly call a sprint, a short but brutally fast burst across the track, forcing her to adjust her rhythm instantly. "The race doesn't wait for hesitation," he said once, squatting low to watch her stride. "You'll encounter moves you can't predict. If your body doesn't adapt before your mind even thinks, you lose."
Frost Heart absorbed his words silently, letting them fuse with her rhythm. She didn't argue. She didn't protest. Each drill became a conversation between her body and the track—a dialogue of movement, speed, and control.
---
By mid-December, Okino laid out the Hopeful Stakes plan in detail. The dorm's common room became a map of strategy, charts and diagrams taped across walls. Red lines traced competitors' patterns, time splits, stride lengths, acceleration tendencies, and race finish positions. Frost Heart studied each meticulously. Every lap, every corner, every potential move was analyzed.
"Everyone will expect you to win, yes," Okino said one evening, lollipop balanced carefully between his teeth. "But controlling the race—that's your gift. We test it there. The track is a river. You decide the current, the flow. Not the other way around. If you get pulled along, you're just driftwood."
Frost Heart listened quietly. Her silver hair caught the light of the single bulb overhead, casting faint shadows across the room. Then I will run, she thought. Not to dominate, not to prove a point, not for recognition—simply to move forward, to control what she could, to embody the rhythm she had cultivated.
Okino's drills became more elaborate as the event neared. One day, he introduced a series of moving obstacles designed to disrupt stride and timing. Another, he had her run in pairs with imaginary opponents, forcing her to maintain pace while predicting the "competitor's" moves. "Anticipation is everything," he said. "Don't just run. See the race before it happens."
Frost Heart's days blurred together. Each lap tested her body, each evening reviewed the past hours. Even her dreams were layered with the track—the rhythm of her hooves echoing across snowy fields, wind slicing past, a constant reminder that perfection was a moving target.
---
The morning of the Hopeful Stakes arrived with brittle clarity. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of frost and anticipation. Frost Heart moved through her routine with meticulous calm: stretching, loosening joints, short sprints to awaken her muscles. Her silver hair shimmered faintly under the pale light, every motion precise, deliberate.
The stadium swelled as spectators filled the stands. Families, trainers, students—voices overlapping with the crisp winter wind. Frost Heart entered the gate, posture untouched by the crowd's roar. She was calm, silent, an inevitability moving among chaos. The gates clanged behind her, and in an instant, she surged forward.
The pack reacted immediately, pressing in with the chaotic energy of dozens of competitors. Yet Frost Heart's stride, honed over countless mornings and evenings, flowed like water over ice—inevitable, smooth, commanding. She did not flinch. She did not panic. Every movement was calculated, each breath in perfect rhythm.
Halfway through, challengers pressed close. Hooves struck the turf with thunderous insistence, yet she remained steady. The world narrowed to the contact of hoof and ground, the wind against her face, the rhythm of her heartbeat—calm, unwavering, inevitable. She anticipated the pack's shifts before they happened, adjusting her stride by fractions of a second, responding with a precision that was almost preternatural.
The finish line approached. Frost Heart crossed alone. The stadium erupted, the sound crashing over her like waves she barely acknowledged. Hopeful Stakes—hers. First G1 victory.
Returning to Spica afterward, the dorm was quiet, walls echoing her soft steps. Okino leaned against the doorway, charts in hand, outlining the path forward: Satsuki Shō, Derby, Kikka Shō—the Triple Crown. Frost Heart listened, absorbing each detail with calm focus.
Step by step. Breath by breath. Stride by stride.
For a moment, she allowed herself a rare glance at what lay ahead: a path of victories yet unwon, challenges yet unmet, teammates yet unknown. Gold Ship and others were not here—chaos, laughter, unpredictability—all absent. Spica remained a name, a seed, yet within that empty dorm, Frost Heart felt the first stirring of purpose beyond herself.
Alone, but no longer entirely solitary.
The snow may fall alone, but it shapes the earth. And Frost Heart, first and only member of Spica, was ready to shape her world.