“Not bad,” Ayala says. “Let’s try some overheads. Get the whip snapping for closer combat. Honestly, if you can just look like you know what you’re doing, that might be enough to keep a curious rider away from your ashes at night. Remember the motion?”

I nod back to her. For the next fifteen minutes, I run through the three most standard motions. Ayala admits there are twelve other stylings that are just too complex, that we don’t have enough time. It’s an effort to bite back my response to that. Of course there isn’t enough time. I came to Furia with genuine hope. I was excited. The whole city was so bright I thought it was made of gold. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. I had been chosen.

I thought I was destined to win. Just like Martial did all those years ago.

Training has illuminated the reality behind their gold curtains. More and more, I’m learning that my invitation here is a show of Ashlord mercy. My entry—and my performance—are both of little consequence to them. I am the representative Dividian they’ll march out for show. I am not supposed to win. This morning was just another reminder of that.

The Great Display.

All of those horses standing in one place. Ayala prepped me beforehand. She taught me a few strategies for memorizing the rebirths that other riders would start their first leg with. That part was easy. Alchemy has always been my strong suit. Besides, most of the riders went with pretty standard combinations. Not a ton of surprises in the group.

The real surprise was the horses themselves. The Ashlords have gifted me a gorgeous blood bay for the Races. She’s a finer horse than any I’ve ridden on Martial’s ranch, but one circle around the horses my contestants will ride revealed the truth. All of their horses are superior. Magnificent creatures with long ancestral breeding lines. Each one the offspring of former champions. It took me a few clockturns to understand the truth. The Ashlords have given me a finer gift than I could ever afford, and it’s still far less than all the grandeur they enjoy. They have trimmed off their excess for me, offered a splash of leftover gold.

And I am expected to bow in thanks for it.

I am only here to play my part in their brilliant performance.

“Imelda?”

Ayala is staring at me. I look up and realize my whip is firmly tangled around the distant pipe. My grip is secure and my feet are set. I realize I’ve been pulling on it with all of my strength. The pipe has dented inward and the fixed mountings groan on both ends.

“Planning on bringing down the roof?” she asks with a smile.