The entire interior is carpeted. Not even our town hall has carpet. Just some fancy rugs here and there. I glance down at my dirty shoes and dusty ankles, but Ayala smiles again, leading me off to one side. A trio of Dividian men stand there in neat bow ties. The other Ashlords sit first, letting the men slip off their shoes one at a time. The trio works fast. One scrubs away mud and polishes each riding boot. Another takes a wet rag and wipes the dust from Ashlord ankles. The third sizes up their feet and provides them with a pair of the hotel’s complimentary slippers.

Ayala gives me a shove forward when the other two Ashlords are finished.

“Do her next,” she orders.

Her fellow escorts lift an eyebrow at the decision, but the Dividian rush to obey Ayala’s request. I’m helped into a high-backed chair. They remove my tattered riding boots and get them as clean as they’ve been since I first found them. Something snakes through my gut as the second man starts rubbing away at toes and ankles. There’s something wrong about being made clean, made like the Ashlords. He sees my frown when he’s done and whispers up to me.

“The dirt’s gone, but don’t worry, I couldn’t get rid of the calluses.”

We share a grin. The third Dividian steps forward, sliding slippers over both of my feet. I thank them all so profusely that Ayala has to pull me away.

My heart beats in triples. Then skips beats. It’s the first time I’ve seen it all so clearly. There are two worlds, and I know exactly which one I belong in. Even if Ayala’s offering me a temporary glimpse of their world. The men bow as she leads me off through the hotel.

The other Ashlords abandon us. She nods them off before escorting me to the third floor. “You have a corner room,” she says. “It’s quite a view.”

She swipes something by the handle and the door whisks open without a touch. I follow her in, feeling as disoriented as I felt that morning, like the world’s started spinning just a little too fast. Ayala shuts the door behind us. As she does, the casual calm leaves her face and she steps closer. I can smell some kind of cherry tobacco on her breath.

“I need to know,” she says. “Do you want to be in the Races or not?”

I stare at her. “I thought—Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“But do you want it? Qualifiers get hurt, you know? It will be hard riding, hard fighting. You’ll have to be smarter than all of them. I need to know if this is what you really want.”