The frost of December had barely begun to yield when Frost Heart returned to the quiet rhythms of her dorm and training track. The echoes of the Hopeful Stakes victory still lingered in her mind—a victory earned not through luck, but through relentless discipline, intuition, and the subtle guidance of Okino. Yet, even as accolades rippled through the academy, the air was far from still. The track was silent now, but the currents of anticipation and expectation hummed faintly beneath the frost, teasing the edges of a season yet to come.
Okino was already waiting, leaning against the railing of the track, a lollipop balanced lazily between his teeth, his yellow eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to slice through the morning mist. "Well," he said, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance, "you survived your first G1 without visibly breaking a sweat. I suppose congratulations are in order."
Frost Heart merely inclined her head, her silver hair catching the early sunlight like shards of glass. "The victory was as anticipated. There is nothing to celebrate beyond acknowledgment of the outcome."
Okino chuckled, his voice carrying over the frozen turf. "Right. No fuss, no fanfare. Classic Frost Heart. But you see, the celebration I care about isn't the crowd clapping—it's understanding why you won. Knowing why your stride was perfect, why your timing never faltered, and why the pack never managed to unsettle you."
She tilted her head slightly, the faintest crease in her brow betraying attention. "I am aware of the factors. My form, pacing, and response to pressure were optimized. My body obeyed instinctively."
"But why?" Okino pressed, stepping closer, tilting his head, observing the minutiae of her posture as though he could read her entire training history from it. "Because instinct is one thing, but understanding that you control the race? That's the difference between an uma who runs and an uma who dominates. I want you to see it."
The early morning wind carried his words with a chill that brushed her face, and Frost Heart exhaled, sending a thin cloud of vapor into the air. She adjusted her stance at the starting line, eyes tracing the curve of the track as though the asphalt itself whispered strategies. "The race was controlled. The rhythm was maintained. Victory is a natural consequence."
"Good," Okino said, nodding, and tapped his fingers against the railing with a slow, deliberate rhythm. "But now we take the next step. Spica isn't a one-night phenomenon. That race was merely a foothold. We're building something—something that others will talk about for years. And if we're going to rise, it can't just be you, Frost Heart. But… we'll cross that bridge when the time comes."
For the first time, Frost Heart's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "The team exists only as a concept. The work is singular."
"Concepts become reality when people understand their purpose," Okino replied, tilting his head. "And people? They notice what they can't explain. That's where popularity comes from—not showmanship, not noise, but presence. You've already started that ripple."
Weeks drifted by, each day folding neatly into the next. Frost Heart's mornings began before dawn, the frost still clinging to the edges of the turf, glinting against her hooves as she moved with absolute precision. Weighted sprints, endurance circuits, pacing drills, resistance runs—all executed under the watchful, often mischievous eye of Okino. His methods were unpredictable: one day a timed sprint through a sand track, the next a sudden series of obstacle simulations to test reflexes, then a cold-weather endurance lap designed to see if she could maintain mental clarity under stress. Each drill was a conversation between Frost Heart and her own body, the track a canvas upon which her discipline painted inevitability.
And as Spica quietly began to take shape in whispers throughout Tracen Academy, curiosity about the one-girl team spread. Other students spoke in hushed tones, drawing attention to the silver-haired figure whose stride was already legendary. "She's… impossible," one murmured in the halls. "A first-year, and she's already dominating G1s?"
"Spica, right?" another replied. "They say the trainer's methods are… unusual. Personalized, unpredictable. No one knows exactly how he does it, but the results are undeniable."
Frost Heart remained unaffected by gossip, yet the awareness of being watched was a subtle wind against her focus, one she could neither ignore nor dismiss. Presence mattered, she realized, even if she chose not to indulge in it.
It was on a particularly cold morning, just as she had finished a rigorous set of pacing drills, that the dorm's door slammed open with the force of someone unaware of boundaries. A crash of luggage against the floor followed, accompanied by a voice that was impossibly loud, impossibly cheerful.
"Senpai! I'm here! This is it! Spica is officially MY team now!"
Frost Heart froze mid-stretch, silver eyes narrowing at the whirlwind of energy that had just entered the otherwise quiet dorm. The figure standing in the doorway was impossibly bright: long silvery gray hair, eyes wide and sparkling, and a grin that seemed determined to defy the laws of both space and etiquette. She was small but somehow radiated chaos.
"Who—are you?" Frost Heart's voice was precise, cold, slicing through the warm chaos of the room.
"Name's Gold Ship! And I like you guys. I like the vibe. I like… well, everything about this team!" The newcomer kicked a bag across the floor with a dramatic flair. "So technically, I just joined. Hope that's cool!"
Frost Heart blinked once, then inclined her head slightly, as though she had simply registered a curious object in the room. "You did not ask permission. That is… unusual."
Gold Ship laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls like sunlight in a canyon. "Permission is boring. Rules are boring. You, me, Spica—we're going to make it interesting!" She bounced toward the empty bed beside Frost Heart's, clearly claiming it without further ado.
Okino, observing the scene from the trackside window moments later, allowed himself a faint, approving smirk. He had seen this chaos before—unpredictable, potentially disruptive, but invaluable for someone like Frost Heart. "Excellent," he muttered under his breath. "Let's see how the ice handles fire."
From that moment, the dorm's quiet rhythm shifted. Training, once a solitary meditation, now included an unpredictable variable. Gold Ship was loud, persistent, and utterly insistent on being involved at every turn. Morning sprints were interrupted by her joking challenges. Pacing drills required Frost Heart to adjust not only to the track but to the constant presence of a junior intent on testing her reactions.
"Senpai! You think you can handle a three-lap sprint with me tailing you?" Gold Ship called out one morning, her grin wide, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Frost Heart's stride faltered not a whit, but her eyes sharpened. "I am capable of completing the task without interference. Your presence is irrelevant."
Gold Ship laughed, ducking low and darting alongside her. "Oh, it's relevant, alright! That's the whole point! If you can keep your focus with me messing around, you're unstoppable!"
Even as Frost Heart maintained perfect form, the subtle pressure of Gold Ship's antics forced her to react faster, anticipate movements, and adapt her mental rhythm in real time. Each day became a new test—not of pure speed or endurance, but of mental acuity under unpredictable conditions.
Over the weeks, Frost Heart's precision grew sharper. Her stride became a blend of measured inevitability and adaptive reflex, honed not only by Okino's meticulous drills but by Gold Ship's constant, chaotic disruptions. The two became an unlikely pair: the stoic senior and the mischievous junior, their dynamic a tension of discipline versus unpredictability, control versus whimsy.
Meanwhile, Spica's reputation quietly grew. Trainers, students, and even competitors began to notice the one-girl team with a sudden G1 victor and the bizarre newcomer now attached to her side. Conversations in the hallways shifted from speculation to fascination. "That's Spica, right? The silver-haired first-year with that… gray one?"
"She's going to make things interesting. I can feel it."
The Academy's early winter festivals passed in a blur of drills, small competitions, and internal assessments. Okino took the time to reinforce his philosophy: every horse girl trained not only for physical stats but for mental resilience. He emphasized trust, instinct, and personalized strategy, all while letting Gold Ship's unpredictable energy act as a real-world test.
"Remember," he said one afternoon, chalking out a diagram on the blackboard in the common room, "Spica is not about copying what others do. It's about understanding yourself and your team. Frost Heart, your rhythm is inevitable—but anticipation is now crucial. Gold Ship, your chaos is a tool, not a liability. Learn how to direct it."
Gold Ship tilted her head, grinning. "So I'm officially a weapon, got it!"
"Perhaps," Okino replied dryly. "But only if you survive the morning drills."
By the time the first week of the Classic Year began, Spica had shifted from a solitary concept into a tangible, rising force. Frost Heart, though still calm and deliberate, now navigated the new challenges of shared space, team unpredictability, and the growing eyes of the academy upon her. Gold Ship's antics, once mere annoyance, became an essential element of her adaptation—forcing her to refine timing, anticipate interruptions, and maintain composure amidst chaos.
And as Frost Heart stood at the track on the first day of the Classic Year, Silver hair catching the early light, Gold Ship bouncing beside her with wild enthusiasm, and Okino watching from the rail with that crooked grin, the truth was undeniable: the frost may have begun to crack, but in that fracture, something new was rising—a team destined to shape their own path, unstoppable, unorthodox, and unstoppable in ways the Academy had yet to anticipate.
Step by step. Breath by breath. Stride by stride. Frost Heart had left the solitary frost behind, and Spica, in its imperfect, chaotic, brilliant infancy, had begun to soar.