“I got in this afternoon,” he says. “Ayala said you were resting before the Hall of Maps. Not that I minded. Spent all day filming. The light here is unbelievable. And the people. I love this place.”

“A new documentary: Farian in the City.”

“Doesn’t sound half bad,” he says. “But you’re deflecting from the fact that you’re about to ride in the Races. Is this serious? Is this really happening? When you end up winning this thing, just promise to take me with you. And then promise me you’ll buy some new boots.”

I throw a stray slipper at his head. He ducks it, laughing.

“I like these boots. They’re comfortable.”

“I can see one of your toes.”

“Shut it. These are the boots that got us here.”

“Fair enough.” He sits up, looking around. “So they’re clearly hooking you up?”

I nod. “With everything. They actually offered new boots. Gave me a riding jacket. A handful of companies sponsor the Qualifier every year. All the money goes into a fund to help search for Qualifiers the next year. More scholarships, too. Ayala’s been training me.”

And with that thought, all the bitterness returns.

“Not that it’s helped.”

He doesn’t hear the last sentence. “It’s a dream come true.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess? Enthusiasm’s not your strong suit, but this is the Races, Imelda.”

“Exactly, this is the Races. I’m going to ride against the best competition in the Empire, Farian. They’ve trained their entire lives for this. They’ve been with their phoenixes since they were little kids. Don’t you ever wonder why the Qualifiers always lose? Martial won his year because he was the best Dividian duelist in history. I can’t beat my way out of a sack. All I’ve gotten in training so far is bruises.”

“You’re not that bad.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, you’re pretty bad, but some past winners never fought, you know?”

“I know that, but all it takes is one mistake and I’m done. None of the Ashlords are foolish enough to kill me, but a few broken bones?” The anxiety creeps in. Farian shifts in his seat and I can tell he’s surprised to hear me say that I’m afraid of anything. “Have you seen the Longhand? Everyone says he’s got a target on his back. Good luck with that! He’s a monster. Most of them are that way. I’m pretty sure that girl named Thyma growled at me tonight.”

“Wow,” he says. “Thyma actually growled at you? It’s kind of an honor—”

My glare cuts off his sentence.

“Right. Let’s talk through it all.”