The glass door closes as you return to your quarters. You take a moment to adjust your hair, fix your collar, and then you’re striding into the open stable. It’s a wide, square room without a ceiling. Sunrise lights everything in pinks and golds. On the far end of the room, a narrow break in the walls shows an open-faced tunnel that wasn’t there the night before. It will lead to the starting gates, naturally. Your phoenix stands at center, tethered to an iron stake.

Never before has there been a more majestic creature. Sleek, gunmetal gray, and a few hands taller than any of the other competing phoenixes. A champion, born and bred. Hearing your footsteps, his ears cock and his eyes roll back toward you. Both irises smolder as he lets out a snort and shakes that lovely silver mane.

You smile as you dig a hand into your pocket. Most horses love apples or oats, but your phoenix has always favored ripe tomatoes. It’s your tradition, a reminder of all that’s come before and all that will come after. You cross the room and hold the treat out. An answering snort has you laughing. “Hey there, Flicker. Today’s the day, boy.”

You like the name. It’s the five hundredth title you’ve given the horse, a lucky number. True riders know better than to rely solely on technique and strategy. The evolving relationship between the rider and horse matters just as much. Every time a phoenix is reborn, the connection built in former lives has to be seized again, restored into quick and painless trust.

Most riders use constants. A saying or a snack or a noise. Something that echoes throughout the many lives and deaths of the phoenix. But you’ve always seen naming as the quickest way to establish trust. A true rider sees the subtle differences as clearly as the surviving similarities in their horses. They use the knowledge to give true names to each new phoenix.

It all matters, because the slightest distrust can ruin a race.

You untether Flicker before running a hand lightly down his left flank. The phoenix jigs in place, snorting pleasantly. It has you smiling again. “That’s right, Flicker. Today’s the day.”

Taking a fistful of silver mane, you slide your left foot into the stirrup, hop twice on your grounded leg, and swing to mount. It takes a moment to shift clothes and adjust your riding belt before you can take the reins. A click of your tongue has the phoenix turning. You start nosing him toward the narrow opening before catching sight of someone else in the room.