I slink down the narrow path. It curls slightly, feeding back into the main valley. I glance in both directions. The moon’s bright enough to show just how empty the valley is. A pair of dark wings stir to the west, but otherwise? Completely still. I make my way back along the canyon to the spot where the other Ashlord would have fallen.

At first, I think he’s run off somehow. I’m eyeing the place for blood or footprints until I see the body. A shelf of raised stone caught him in the air. He’s lying about chest high, back broken against the stones, blood pooling on his right side and coloring everything. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack. Nothing looks right or alive about him.

The truth trembles through me. My race is over. He’s dead.

So why haven’t the officials come?

He must be alive. Our bracelets monitor heart rates. If his stopped beating, I’d already be surrounded and ready to be taken into custody. I move closer and gently set both forefingers to his neck. The beat is still there, but for how long? Even in the moonlight I can see how bad the injury is. The fall mangled his back. A sharp point of stone punched through the meat of his right side, too. I actually impaled him.

Blood pools around the wound. Dirt and dust are fouling the thing. He’ll be septic by the end of the next day, if the blood loss doesn’t kill him first. Maybe he’s paralyzed? The way his body just dangles there isn’t the best sign.

I pace, thinking and thinking. If he’s paralyzed and he’s dying and he’s losing blood, can I get to the finish line before he goes? So long as his heart’s beating, my race eligibility remains. The second it stops, though, I’ll have officials riding out to arrest me.

But if he dies after I cross the line, there’s nothing illegal about it.

Leaning close, I eye the wound again. The spike of rock is blade thin. Like a little knife punched through the skin. I wouldn’t worry about it, but if he’s paralyzed, he can’t treat the wound or drink water or anything. And I’ve already seen what these Ashlords do with their wounded. His friend won’t help him. He’ll saddle up and cover him in dust as he goes.

“Damn.”