I trade blows with the third Ashlord, and he’s smart enough to set his feet in a defensive stance. His face is that perfect display of angles every Ashlord has. He’s shaved fancy slits in both eyebrows. I’m close enough to feel the heat of his breath. It takes a second to recognize that it’s Capri. The former Ashlord prodigy trying to prove his worth.

Unfortunately, his footwork is as smooth as a dancer’s. Every one of my blows rattles his forearms, but by the time I have him backing up a few steps, the other Ashlord has started lashing at me with his off-hand.

I can feel my arms getting tired from the prolonged fight and the sweat running down my forehead. Desperate, I decide to finish things. Do what they won’t expect. Recklessly, I shoulder past both of them. The decision earns me a pair of wicked blows on both sides, but it exposes Thyma again. She’s finally back on her feet, and her eyes go wide when she sees me coming. She thrusts her baton up, but I sweep low and smash her knee a second time.

Whatever didn’t break the first time does now.

She screams. This time I’m trapped. The other Ashlords are methodical in how they put me down. I’d never seen them before the Longest Ride, but both of them punish me like this is all personal. It’s when I finally hit the ground that they become artists. A shot to the head, quick and dazing. A second to the ribs, a third to the knee. They can’t swing as hard as I can, but that doesn’t stop them from turning me into something small.

I’m expecting them to stop. The rules are clear. Murder is illegal. Their race will end if they keep going. Their lives will be reduced to a poorly lit cell. But down on the ground, surrounded by darkness, I’m conscious enough to feel fear for the first time.

Neither of them stop. The blows keep raining down. Bones are breaking.

I am going to die.

Darkness comes.

I feel life slipping out of my grasp. There are distant noises. The Ashlords move away to help Thyma. The girl is weeping and cursing my name. I do not move. I cannot move. It feels like I’m falling through the earth itself. But then a set of hands holds me steady. Adrenaline spikes in my chest. I can feel every wound pulsing like it’s a living thing. I’m still careful not to move, but I know with strange confidence that I am not going to die.

Someone—or something—is pulling me back into the land of the living.

“I think he’s dead.”

“No one’s come. Dead or not, it doesn’t matter. He won’t win the Races now.”

“Use the wormwood,” someone says. “On his ashes…”