You look around and know they’re not like you. Your parents raised you to understand blood and fire. Most of the other Ashlords in the room are only here because their parents could afford the massive entry fees. A few of them can ride, but you are the wind compared to them.

It’s a surprise when the Qualifier appears at your elbow.

“Thanks,” she says, and all you can do is stare. “For what you said in the interview.”

Lips pressed tightly together, you nod once to her. She understands you’re not in the mood to talk, but she doesn’t retreat. She just stands in your space like she’s been invited there. As the delegates file in to witness the revealing of the map, you calmly assess the girl you’ve made famous. Her dress is borrowed. You know this because it hugs her Dividian hips too tightly and runs a little too far down her calves. A nice design, but a Dividian in Ashlord packaging is still a Dividian. She looks focused enough. It shows on the measured creases of her forehead.

Almost every year it happens the same way. The scholarship for poor Dividian riders was established almost a century ago. The racing boards claim it’s an attempt at equality, but Mother explained that it has a lot more to do with revenue. The Dividian population is almost four times larger than the Ashlord population. Not a well-publicized statistic, but still very much the truth. Having a Dividian scholarship reels in millions of viewers, and even gives them someone to cheer for. Father admitted the board prefers to choose someone who will be competitive enough to keep up interest, but not so competitive that they give the Dividian people too much hope.

You glance at Imelda Beru and wonder where she lands on that scale. She’s short and compact, naturally quiet. You’re most afraid of her eyes. They’re light green, and as you watch, they never stop taking in the details of the room.

Your attention is drawn back to the fore as the Brightness enters. Furia’s patron leader, figurehead of the entire Empire, and your people’s direct link to the gods themselves. You know that he is an old man, but it doesn’t show. There’s not a wrinkle on his bright, burnished face. His skin is so bright that it almost glows. And his voice thunders. Every rider and witness lowers their heads instinctually, even you.