You eye him before walking in a circle. You let blood drip down in a staggered loop. Twice around before the god lets out a bone-chilling howl. You drop the knife and dart back to the safety of your mother’s arms. His howl does not stop. It grows, pulsing in your chest, and shaking the stones, and calling your spilled blood into the air.

And then the noise cuts off sharply.

Mother gasps as a violent slash of blue light tears through the dark. You watch the bright ball glow, trembling formlessly above the raised altar. It shapes itself into a spirit. You see the face, the torso, the legs. The spirit leaps to the right, but an invisible barrier knocks it back. The Madness watches in fascination as the creature beats blue fists against the walls. He howls again.

The spirit panics. Lashing out again, failing again. But the walls are closing in around it. As the Madness continues to wail his horrible noise, you realize that it’s your blood that is pinning the spirit to the altar. There’s a horrible writhing and everything goes black.

The world dances away from you.

—

Until it stops dancing. You’re back in your room, safely under the covers. You have no idea how you got here, or what’s happening, until Mother sits down on the edge of your bed. The secret room and the Madness and the summoned spirit burn back into your mind.

You wait for her to speak.

“The gods move between our world and the one below,” she says. “You have always known this, dear. You were not born into war, but you were created for it all the same. The gods derive their power from a trade between worlds. In the underworld, our blood gives them power. They take our sacrifices and use them to rule those forsaken lands. In return, they offer us the powers of their world. Invisible armies. Fire that rains from the sky. The Madness, as you know, controls the passage of spirits into our realm. That has always been his trade. He has the ability to bring souls from that world into ours.”

You nod mechanically. Your head feels ready to spin from your shoulders.

“One of those spirits will be gifted to you. For the race.”

Hearing her words, a truth settles into your mind, a realization about her brilliant performance in the Races all those years ago. Your mother was not simply the most talented rider. No, the truth is far less pretty than that. She cheated to win.

“You had a spirit for your year, didn’t you?”

She catches the accusation in your tone. “As did many of my competitors. I was the only one who understood the power I wielded. By the time the others realized what could be done, I’d already run circles around them. It is not cheating to use the tools you’ve been given.”