The two of you sit a little straighter in the saddle. The course is starting to bottleneck, drawing you west, back toward the other routes and riders. Ahead, you notice the metal barriers towering on either side of the final canyon. You know the faces of the crowds will be gathering there to watch. Hundreds of thousands of people, all craving a champion.

Let’s give your fans a show.

You thunder around the final bend of this section in the course. As you survey the distant plains, it feels like you’re looking through two sets of eyes.

“There,” you say, pointing. “Our leader.”

Four paths converge from different directions to make a final crossroads. Leading on from there is a dead-straight stretch. Revel has at least a clockturn on you, if not more. A quick glance at your bracelet shows his name gleaming in first, but it also shows the gap between you and him is slipping.

You know the course and all the distances by heart. The final length of the race is a flat-out sprint. It will take nine clockturns at least. Just enough time for you to make up ground. You draw strength from the promise that the Races aren’t over yet. You’re in this. You’re a factor.

The crowd erupts as they see Revenge barreling toward the crossroads.

On the left, Quinn whispers in your head, another rider.

Your eyes dart to the opposite side of the valley. Quinn’s right. Another mushroom of dust gathers over the approaching form. You can tell that the two of you will converge at the crossroads at the same time, and both of you will need to make up ground on the leader.

Revenge responds with a burst of speed. The pumping rhythm brings you closer and closer. The landscape briefly takes both of the opposing riders out of sight. A handful of vaulting seconds pass before the path funnels into the waiting mouth of the crossroads. Your eyes narrow as the other rider straightens into a full gallop just ahead of you.

“Bravos,” you hiss. “It’s Bravos.”

Instinct draws one hand to your switch. With a deliberate twist, you let the whip snake out. It tongues the desert dust, waiting to sing through the air, eager for flesh.

Bravos is using his Iron and Latchlock mixture for the final leg. On either side of his saddle you can see the ominous spikes the alchemy’s known for producing. Bravos might not be a brilliant rider, but you know he’s familiar with violence. Given the chance, he’ll use the horse’s spikes to spear your horse and put an end to your ride.

It doesn’t stop you from thundering after him, teeth gritted. He glances over his shoulder when he finally hears the hooves. And when he sees it’s you trailing him, his eyes go wide.