We round the building—close enough to catch warmth from the nearest fire—and head in the direction of a second temple. This one is less adorned. None of the rib cage–like tiers the others boast. In fact, it looks much more like a tower than a temple. Steep walls reach unbroken to the circular crown of the building. It’s high—at least four stories—but I can still see the murder holes that look out in every direction over the city. I don’t need to see priests in falcon masks to know this is the home of the Curiosity. The god who wakes, watches, and whispers.
Other temples flank the main road, each the domain of a different deity. The Butcher and the Hoarder and the Dread. There’s one temple at the end of the lane that’s backlit with electric blue light. It’s the only one I can’t figure out. “Which one is that?”
Ayala nods. “The god of next, the creator of progress. We call him the Striving.”
Of course. The Striving. I eye the flickering, alien lights before our path takes it out of view. The same god who created switches in the first place. The one who hands the Ashlords their next technological fad every few years. We slip between worship cathedrals before arriving at our destination. An undecorated temple. There are no priests, no fires, nothing at all.
My skin starts to crawl. What is this place?
“This temple once belonged to the Veil,” Ayala whispers.
Proximity breathes cold air over us. The closer we get, the more surrounded I feel by that empty feeling. Ayala glances left and right before leading me into the shadows.
The dark interior is massive and drafty. I’m wondering how we’ll possibly train in here without any light when I spy the gaping holes in the back of the temple. Through them I can see the western gates framed by the first rays of sunrise. My eyes start to adjust to the light.
At the center of the room, there’s a pile of waiting ashes.
“Your horse,” she says.
There’s movement deeper in the temple. I watch the shadows resolve into the form of a young man. He can’t be any older than twelve, and yet he’s taller than I am, his arms roped with muscle. An Ashlord. It isn’t until he grins that I recognize what’s so familiar about him.
I’ve seen his face. The smile too.
“My cousin,” Ayala announces. “Zion will spar with you.”
I nod a greeting to him. He smirks back with that annoying Ashlord confidence. I try to remind myself that I have wiped smiles off Ashlord faces before. If I can outdance Oxanos, why not this boy? Why not the other racers? I have a fury that they’ll never understand.
“Let’s get started.” I fix my eyes on him. “Try to keep up.”
I take a seat across from the crystal mannequin. Squinting, I can see other identical machines filling the endless theater with a roulette of faces. It’s like taking a step into the future.
The Reach has plenty of high-end tech, but nothing quite like this. The failed revolution set us back ten years, and for the first time it’s glaringly obvious. Furia’s advancements show no sign of slowing down, either, if the Striving keeps giving them new ideas to chase.
The woman interviewing me appears in the seated mannequin. Her skin glows golden, her hair’s spiked and dark, and her eyes flicker with flame. I straighten my shoulders as she gives me the head-to-toe. The sight of me has her smiling, delighted.
“Ten seconds,” someone calls from offstage.
Most of the competitors have completed their mandatory interviews. Pippa’s already had three of them. I’m one of the last to go because hosts kept backing out at the last minute. Maxim and Tessadora and Gavriel. Antonio calls them cowards. I call them wise.
Interviewing me is a dangerous proposition.
Everyone talks about the Longhand rider who was killed in the Races, but only a handful of folks remember the showman who interviewed him. He was murdered, too.
The Empire thought he showed too much sympathy for the Reach. That’s the mistake Cassiopia will be hoping to avoid today. Make me look good, and she’s the host who gave the Longhands a national stage. Make me look too weak, however, and she’s the host who drove down interest in the all-important Races. It’s a fine line to walk.
I sit up a little straighter as Cassiopia’s eyes find the camera. Her voice echoes out over scattered applause and cheering. Everything in the room dances with too-bright light.
“Welcome back to our coverage of the Races! The one hundred forty-first year is poised to be the most entertaining one in recent memory. There’s a clear favorite everyone’s chasing.”
Behind her, an image of Pippa appears. She’s leaning over her horse, jaw clenched and hair in a dark braid that drapes over one shoulder. She looks terrifying and beautiful. The graphics frame her like she’s a descended goddess. It’s such blatant favoritism, I almost laugh.
“Who’s hot on Pippa’s heels? There’s the Alchemist, and the Spurned Lover, and Ever-Steady Etzli….” Cassiopia casts a curious look in my direction like she’s just noticed me. “But the casinos and bookies of Furia have pegged someone else as her most likely and looming threat. Ladies and gentlemen of the Empire, meet Adrian Ford.”
A chorus of boos echo out. There’s a little clapping, but the people most willing to drop thousands on a live seat are those who hate me. The thought has me smiling.
“Hear that, Adrian?” Cassiopia asks. “Not exactly a warm welcome to Furia.”
She gestures, cueing my response. I keep the lazy grin and look right into the cameras as I say, “Guess I’ll count myself lucky that fans aren’t what gets any of us to the finish line.”
“That’s true, but are you at least worried the other riders will feel the same way the fans do? Let’s be honest, the Longhands don’t have a great history when it comes to the Races.”
Before I can answer, visuals color the wall behind us. Cassiopia glances back at them.
“The last Longhand winner was nearly eighty-three years ago. Prior to that, no Longhand had successfully placed in the top three. Since the Reach’s failed revolution, there have been three entrants. The first withdrew. The second, as you know, was killed. You are the third.”
They flash the boy’s portrait, then segue to footage of the brutal attack. It’s hard to watch as the three Ashlord riders circle, as he falls to his knees, as they don’t stop swinging their wooden switches. It is the fate the Empire predicts for me. They want me backing away and afraid before the Races begin. Even though genuine fear rushes through me, I decide to take a different road. Respect. I bow my head for a thoughtful second. I hope the family of the lost Longhand understands I am with them. Now and always.
Then I turn on Cassiopia. “I trust the rules of the competition. Murder’s illegal in the Races. If someone tries to kill me, they risk throwing away the rest of their lives. Everyone who signs up for the Races knows this is a dangerous event. People die. Correct me if I’m wrong, but thirty-seven contestants have died since the Races began, and I’m pretty sure only three of them were from the Reach.”
Cassiopia smiles. “So you’re not afraid of the other riders?”
“It’s hard to feel fear when you’re bigger, stronger, and faster than everyone else.”
“Bold words,” Cassiopia cuts back. “Maybe you can help us understand this misplaced confidence. Can you give us a good reason to think you’re anything more than a glorified sideshow in this year’s event?”
I smile, thinking about that, and the answer that comes almost makes me laugh. Daddy told me to rise. So I rise. Standing up, I offer a little wink to the audience and start unbuttoning the front of my shirt. I’m halfway down before Cassiopia tries to wave me off.
“Adrian, I’m not sure this is entirely appropriate.”
But the audience stirs excitedly. The stagehands all look unsure about whether or not they should intervene. Seconds later, my shirt is open and I’m grinning at the camera.
“This isn’t a sideshow. This is years of hard work. This is how we’re built in the Reach. I can ride, I can fight, and if you do both of those things, you can damn well win the Races.”
I sit down and start buttoning the shirt back up. Across from me, Cassiopia is fanning herself, letting her eyes roam, and half smiling at my boldness. She’s trying to treat my answer like it’s cute. Maybe something a child would say, but it’s hard to make me look small now.
“Bold move,” she says after a moment. “But all they’ll see is a bigger target.”
“Yeah? Well, they better not miss.”
I realize how far I’m straying from Antonio’s plan. He wanted soft answers. A bare-bones pride. Too late for that. Cassiopia’s smugness and the audience’s distaste have every single one of my veins pulsing. These people have no clue what they’re waking up. They’ve grown complacent, full of themselves. They’ve forgotten the people of the Reach were always destined to rise. They’ve forgotten that we almost did once.
Cassiopia wisely directs the interview to talk about my phoenix and my alchemical abilities. Both of them are safer topics by far. Conversations that will keep her head on her shoulders. She eventually veers into one topic that actually troubles me.
“What about the Madness?” she asks. “It’s been some time since the god of passage intervened in the Races, but it happens. What will you do if that occurs this year?”
The Madness. One of the Ashlords’ deities. Daddy had me watching footage from each of the years that he supposedly involved himself. Riders pulled off impossible stunts. People fell almost at random from their horses. All the research pointed to the same phenomenon that shook the foundations of both major wars: the Ashlord gods and their otherworldly armies. Secretly, I know that if the Madness involves himself this year, my chances drop down to almost nothing.
“I guess it could happen, but I’m far more likely to face a wild creature. People have been attacked by wolves and wraiths and sunbursts more often in the Races than by the Madness.”
“Still, the threat looms,” Cassiopia replies. “Hasn’t that really always been the separating factor in competition between Longhands and Ashlords? Our connection to the gods? Can you really say that you don’t fear their meddling?”
The question is as big a trap as she can lay for me. Say yes and I make my people look weak. Say no and I’m taunting their gods. Daddy taught me to be brave, not stupid.
“Everything’s a threat in the Races,” I reply neutrally. “Everything.”
Cassiopia nods like she’s regained a foothold against me. Sensing a new theme working in her favor, she decides to keep pressing. But this time, she turns the conversation to Pippa.
“I want to end with a quote,” Cassiopia says, glancing at her cards. “Pippa had this to say about you: ‘It’s the lightning you have to worry about. You always see the strikes before you hear the boom….I’ll ride hard and I won’t look back. I’ll be in the distance, and he’ll just be the noise that follows.’ Any response to that, Adrian?”
“She knows jack-nothing about storms.”
Cassiopia frowns. “It sounded like an accurate description to me.”
“If you’re an observer.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“An observer,” I repeat the word. “That’s how a fan sees the Races. You and everyone else will be watching it from a distance. But that’s not how storms work when you’re in the middle of them. Storms are chaos. Rain pouring down, lightning striking, wind blowing, the thunder shaking everything. If you’re right in the middle of it, there’s no telling if the lightning or the thunder came first. Most times, you’re too busy trying to stay alive to notice anything else.”
“An interesting perspective.” Cassiopia smiles. “Well, any last words before we close?”
I turn my eyes to the dark circle of the camera. It’s not hard to imagine every boy and girl in the Reach leaning forward to listen. I can see Daddy in his chair, a drink in hand.
I want to wake them up.
I want revolution.
“Enjoy the storm.”
The screen cuts away from me instantly. Cassiopia is quick to take my words and make them her own, describing this year as the most exciting storm they’ve had in decades. She lists a schedule of appearances and pre-race events before signing off with some catchy tagline.
House lights go up. The crystal mannequins in the audience start winding down. I watch the faces disappear before glancing back at Cassiopia. She looks unsmiling and cold as her image flickers out. She’s afraid of how that went, the possible consequences. Maybe she should be. Stagehands flock forward to prepare for the next interview.
As I move into the shadows backstage, I turn a corner and almost walk right into Pippa. Her dark eyes flick briefly up. She doesn’t look surprised. Her kind never do. But a pulse of heat fills the air as she takes a step forward and unexpectedly sets one burning hand on my shoulder. Her voice is lower than a whisper.
“An awfully pretty package. It’s a shame they’re going to break it.”
I can only watch as she glides past. The heat goes with her, leaving the room feeling ice-cold. A shiver runs down my spine. She’s just trying to intimidate me, get in my head. Let them try to break me. I press on to my dressing room and find Antonio waiting there for me.
“Not exactly what we planned,” he notes.
“I’m just glad my hands weren’t shaking as I undid the buttons.”
“What made you unbutton your shirt? What angle were you playing?”
I offer him a grin. “Give them something to remember?”
He nods slowly. “Well, at least we know which night they’ll come for you now.”
“Which one?”
“The first night,” he answers. “And the second. And the third. And the fourth.”
A cold truth. His guess echoes Pippa’s.
“Sounds about right. I’ll be ready when they do.”
Antonio nods. “You’re more like your daddy than you know.”
Eleven riders and eleven horses. Decorators from the Empire Racing Board flutter back and forth, making sure riding shirts are tucked in and flowers are positioned just so. Naturally, you’re standing front and center in the arranged display. A glance shows the other riders staggered in artful formation on your left and right. Morning light brightens the surrounding desert landscape. Hip-high barriers have been erected around each rider and their phoenix.
Interviews have been running all week. Revel promised victory. Etzli reminded the Empire she never makes mistakes. Imelda Beru’s interview was almost painful, full of mumbled answers and hesitant smiles. Adrian was quite the opposite. The Longhand went bold and called you out, but you know champions aren’t crowned for giving a good interview.
Words are wind.
Father would tell you that a champion has to be as wicked as they are quick. Mother would say that every detail matters. The difference between glory and ruin can be measured in a single stride. You take both of their lessons into account today, because the Races don’t start with a gunshot. They start now, your boots coated in red-desert dust, at the Great Display.
A crowd of five hundred gathers. Each of them purchased an absurdly expensive ticket in order to attend. You scan the ranks and recognize a good number of the waiting faces. It’s a crowd of royal cousins, influential gamblers, renowned journalists. These are the tastemakers who will curate the Races for public consumption. They’ll take back the information they learn today and spread it like a flame across the Empire.
An announcer begins. You half listen to his rendition of the story of the Great Display. Every part of the Races is a reminder. Each ceremony is a nod to the gods and the wars your people won with them at your side. The Great Display honors one of their very first gifts: the phoenix horses.
You have heard this story thousands of times. In past years you have stood where the gathered crowd stands now, proud of your lineage. But this year the presence of the Longhand and the Dividian serve as a reminder. It is not a story about one group of people, but three. It begins with the Dividian ancestors arriving at your shores. Invaders. Their great ships numbering in the thousands and their soldiers pouring into the coastal cities with every intent of conquering your ancestors. Until the gods answered.
The Madness opened the gates of the underworld. The Fury honored your people’s blood sacrifices and sent thousands of flaming horses stampeding into battle. Those horses were the ancestors of the same phoenixes your people ride today. Their arrival marked a turning point for all three cultures. The Ashlords became rulers. The Dividian were defeated, abandoned on foreign soil, and eventually subjugated. Lastly, a group of disgruntled Ashlords headed north after the war, disliking their people’s sudden taste for the gods. Proud men and women who refused to be dependent on something bigger than themselves. The town they founded grew into a city, which grew into a state, which blossomed into a country: the Reach.
It’s a story you will never forget, and so as this year’s announcer retells it, your eyes drift instead to your competition. Etzli stands on your right. She’s shorter than you by a breath. Everything about her is reserved. She wears the Race-standard jacket, little makeup, her hair up in a tidy ponytail. She doesn’t smile. Her hands do not shake. Like you, she was born for this.
On your other side, Adrian Ford. You try not to notice the way he looms over everything like a second sun. You note the sharp line of his jaw, the sprawl of his shoulders, the veined backs of his hands. He looks like he was carved by the gods themselves. Instead of fear, you feel adrenaline pulsing in your chest. You were born to ride, but you were also born to fight. Looking at Adrian Ford makes one thing clear: a worthy challenger has arrived.
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