He ignores me. “Most of the views are from Furia, obviously, but we’ve got people from every corner of the Empire watching. Someone even interviewed Martial this morning.”

Farian pulls the video onto his screen. The old Dividian victor stands with some self-styled Ashlord princess of a reporter. She’s got the dark eyes and those impossible collarbones, skin as rusty as a sunset. I was born knowing my place in the world was beneath people like her. It’s easier to convince myself that’s the truth when all of them look like timeless beauties.

“So tell us about the Alchemist. Is she the real deal, or was this video a fluke?”

Martial grins, and for a second it’s like he’s looking directly through the camera at me.

“Fluke? Only fluke is how long it took the world to notice her,” he says. “There’s no one with her arsenal of rebirths. She knows more mixes than I ever did when I won the Races. And that video shows she can ride. If she’d grown up with her own phoenix, she’d be the favorite to win this year. But now she’s gotta hope she gets picked out of thousands just to get a shot? You want to talk about flukes, that’s the fluke.”

The reporter signs off, smiling one of those classic Ashlord smiles, and I’m left shifting uncomfortably in my chair. Farian glances over, but he knows better than to say what’s on his mind. He and Martial want to build me up, tell me I’ve got a chance. The views are a good thing, the money even better. But I’m not going to jump off a cliff just because they say I can fly.

“Let’s take another look at the auction,” I suggest quietly.

For the next few hours, it’s all business. I read through comments and articles, trying to ignore the growing dread I have over being so centered in the spotlight. Farian’s wrong. This video isn’t going away. Our auction adds another three thousand legions to our account, and now we’re looking at enough money to cover a year at a tech university for Farian, not to mention new saddles for me. It’s more money than we’ve seen in our entire lives.

The sky is almost dark as we pack up to leave. Farian stops me at the back door.

“Amaya wanted us to lock it,” he says. “Go out the front.”

I nod absently. “She did?”

He bolts the back door, shoulders his bag, and leads me past the hubs. I’m still caught up in thoughts of fame, in the words of Martial’s interview, when Farian shoulders our way into the bar area. The lights are all on and overly bright, but it’s the explosion of sound that ends me.