The two of you start the final stretch just a few lengths apart. Revel’s a dark shape ahead. Shouts chorus their way to madness as the fans watch both of you drive your horses onward. You want to end Bravos, but the Latchlock hide has you keeping your distance.

He’s smart enough to do the same. Neither of you can afford a confrontation, not while you’re still trailing Revel. You feel Quinn’s nails digging into your hips. There’s an anger linking the two of you together, bright and burning as the sun.

Revenge rides beautifully. He’s a hand longer and taller than Bravos’s horse, and he continues stealing from their meager lead every twenty or thirty strides. You hold the rhythm and smile coolly when he noses into a lead. Bravos darts a worried look in your direction, but he concedes the advantage for now. Make contact and both of you will fail to catch Revel.

There’s a horse behind you with a huge rider.

You resist looking back. It will only slow you down. Better to let Quinn be your eyes. You’re sure it’s Adrian. Knowing he’s there creates a new pressure. Clashing with Revel or Bravos has direct consequences now. A crash will give the Longhand a chance to win the Races. You force yourself to dismiss that concern. There’s nothing you can do about it now.

Revel’s lead keeps slipping. The closer you get, the sharper the details. The lanky Ashlord sits up in his saddle. His long hair flows away from a silver-shining headband. You’re close enough now to see the ghost that’s riding with him in the saddle. You’d almost forgotten. He was the other rider who had help from the Madness.

Quinn’s grip tightens as you press on. You can see Revel’s horse struggling. The bracelet shows he’s just five hundred paces from the finish line, but his horse’s gait looks less and less rhythmic. A tired horse coming down the homestretch. You know you have two clockturns to erase his lead. A dark dread pulses in your head. You’ve seen nightmarish endings in the Races before. Bone-breaking collisions and tossed riders, crashing together as they approach the finish. Hard work washed away as some backtrotting nobody takes the grand prize through laws of attrition. The noise of the crowd falls away. Your focus narrows to heartbeats and hooves.

Something’s wrong, Pippa.