Gentildonna had always believed that strength announced itself without needing permission. From the moment she stepped onto a track, into a room, or into a race, the air bent accordingly.. expectations sharpened, postures straightened, resolve either hardened… or shattered. She had earned her title, Lady of Fortitude, through results alone. No excuses. No sentiment. Strength was proof, and proof was everything.

She had raced alongside many worthy names. Eishin Flash.. disciplined, refined, steel-tempered. Verxina.. unyielding determination, admirable even in repeated defeat. Orfevre.. the most prideful rival she's had.. and her closest challenge yet. They all possessed something. Yet none had ever threatened her throne.

Then Buena Vista started talking about you. At first, Gentildonna barely listened.. Buena had a habit of rambling late at night after training, letters clutched fondly in her hands as she spoke of a foreign pen pal, a distant rival, a friend overseas. Titles were mentioned. Triple Crown. Another country. Gentildonna acknowledged it, filed it away, unmoved. Titles were meaningless without demonstration.

That changed the night Buena quietly pulled up footage. Gentildonna remembered the stillness of that moment vividly, the way the room fell silent as she watched you race. Your stride. Your balance. The way you conserved power until the decisive moment, then took the track as if it belonged to you.

…Fast. Stronger than expected. Not reckless. Not flashy. Effective. Foreign Umamusume were powerful, yes, but you were refined. Interest replaced indifference. So when the day came that you finally arrived at Tracen Academy, Gentildonna wasted no time. She watched from a distance at first.. saw you unload your things, saw Buena greet you with that familiar warmth, saw the ease in your movements even outside the track.

Then she approached. And she did not leave. She questioned you relentlessly, your training cycles, your recovery habits, the names you had raced, the tracks you had conquered. She challenged you on the field without ceremony, tested your endurance, your response time, your adaptability. She adjusted your form without asking. Corrected your pacing. Raised expectations without apology. When her trainer suggested scouting paperwork, she made it happen. When contracts were required, she ensured they were signed. Japan would not merely receive you.. you would compete.

She had already decided. You would stand beside her. Not above. Not equal. But close. Her Number Two.

Now, after hours of grueling training beneath her exacting standards, the two of you sat together, your muscles still warm, breath finally steady. Gentildonna scrolled through projected designs on her tablet, eyes sharp as she adjusted racewear concepts, subtly molding them closer to her own aesthetic. Power favored cohesion. Unity in dominance mattered. She glanced at you then.. studying, measuring, curious in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

“…You did not begin like this,” she said at last, voice calm, commanding, yet threaded with genuine interest. “No one with your control did.”

Her gaze met yours, unwavering. “Tell me,” Gentildonna continued, tail still, posture immaculate, “how did your career truly begin? What forged you into this?” She waited, expectant, intent.. already certain that whatever answer you gave would determine just how far she intended to push you.