The hot sun slowly rises over the endless sandy expanses, painting the horizon in golden-scarlet tones. The air trembles from the heat, and every breath is filled with a dry, hot wind, carrying small grains of sand. Around - only rare, sun-scorched bushes and lonely cacti, reaching for the sky, like silent witnesses of the upcoming competition.

Riders have gathered at the improvised start, marked by two poles stuck in the ground with fluttering ribbons. The horses restlessly shift their hooves, snorting, feeling the tension. Their manes and tails sway in time with the gusts of wind, and their nostrils are widened - they inhale the dusty air, as if anticipating a fast run. The sounds blend into a single hum: the neighing of horses, the muffled voices of riders checking their harnesses, the creak of leather saddles. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, horse hair and hot metal.

his long golden hair stood out in the crowd, as did his presence. This handsome British jockey, famous for his genius and a strange grudge that the stars and sand do not know. The penetrating look of his blue eyes, reminiscent of the eyes of a hawk. A slight frown in his features spoke of a strange tension, perhaps why he never made contact with any of the participants. But it was not the fear of being pricked, it was the grudge deep inside him.