They call out their love and I force myself to turn, to walk, to not look back. Ayala’s up in the saddle, one hand on the reins of the gorgeous horse she’s leading toward me. It’s more finely groomed than most of the phoenixes in Martial’s barns. She hands him off to me and waits until I’m up in the saddle to start trotting back to the road. Ayala wears her hair short for an Ashlord, but she rides a horse the way they always do, like a straight-backed statue.

“Why was I chosen?” I ask.

A few faces sneak glances from behind curtains. The other two Ashlords lead us north, through the last section of village and into the waiting desert.

Ayala turns back to me. “You didn’t see the video?”

I frown at her. “I made the video.”

“Not that video.” Ayala smiles. “That one was impressive, but I meant Pippa’s interview. This year’s favorite. She stood up for you. Accused the Empire Racing Board of favoring men. She said if they let someone in who had less skill than you, it’d prove how sexist the board members are. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but you’re pretty much a lock.”

I’m stunned. Pippa. If there’s a name everyone knows in this year’s Race, it would be hers. The daughter of Prama and Marcos, both former champions in their own right. It has me thinking of all those famous Ashlords and their catchy, singular names. Which echoes into a second thought about all the Dividian with their reduced four-letter surnames, entire histories erased by the very people who are inviting me to their glorious Races.

The newscasters have been treating this year like it’s Pippa’s inheritance, like she’s destined to win. I’m surprised someone of her status has even heard of me.

“Why would she stand up for me?”

“She likes you?” Ayala suggests. “Or she wanted the spotlight off her own scandal?”

The road twists, rising up and around. The sun’s diving down at us out of the clouds. I slip my riding hood overhead and tug at the chin until it fits comfortably. Ayala and the other Ashlords don’t do the same until a few hours later, when they finally feel the heat of the day. We ride hard as we make our way to the city.

Not a racing standard pace, but fast enough to have us tearing across the terrain, passing towns and villages. It doesn’t feel like a normal, twelve-hour day. Time speeds up, slows down. The six hours become six seconds or six eternities, I can’t decide which. The sun sets and mountains loom to our right, cutting through clouds to break the sky into great, smoky sections. Ayala talks freely with me, but the other two Ashlords don’t say a word the entire trip.