The Four Gates race—though antiquated and no longer considered the be all, end all of who the best warriors are—was the original event that the festival had grown from, and thus it is a city favorite. Elder Leonodai can still recount the winners from their youth. More than once, during late nights in the warriors’ dining hall, someone has gotten into too much wine during late nights at the dining hall and droned on and on about how many members of their family had ever won it.

Vera loops her arm in mine and begins leading us down the street. “Last we saw them, Sethran was ahead with a bunch right at his tail, including Ox. He might still catch up.”

I squeeze her arm back affectionately. “Where was Callen?”

“I didn’t see him, actually.”

“Oh. That’s weird.” Callen and I have been practicing the route all week, racing until we were out of breath and covered in sweat. He is a faster flyer, which I hate, but I beat him once after biting him in the wing. It was cheating, but I swear he’d let me do it just so I’d stop pouting.

“Anyway, don’t worry. Your man’s still got time to win.”

I groan and look skyward as Ox’s face flashes in my mind. “Ox is not my … anything.” One look from the dark-haired, quick-witted warrior set my heart ablaze, but I was still getting to know him. I just couldn’t hide that I loved what I was discovering.

But I won’t gossip until I tell Callen. He’s been my best friend for nearly ten years, from even before I met Vera on our first day of warrior training. If Callen is going to hear about me and Ox from anyone, he’ll hear about it from me.

“Not your anything,” Vera echoes. “And yet I recall hearing you sneak into your room pretty late last night.”

I blush. “It’s not what you think.”

“Uh-huh,” Vera says, her expression unconvinced, but she still has a playful glint in her eye. “Come on. Let’s find a place to watch the finish.”

I let her lead us to the pavilion draped in ivory cloth reserved for warriors-elect. A couple of our friends wave their greetings, but most keep their eyes trained on the skies, looking for the competitors. Vera, never one to not get what she sets her mind to, jostles our friend Bel, a broad-armed warrior-elect and adopted son of one of the city’s finest ironworkers, to the side until we have a front-row seat.

“Thanks, Bel!” she says.

He rolls his eyes, flicking back his long, chestnut brown hair. “Not going to stand in your way, V.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Thank me with a dance later?” he asks.

She grins. “You got it.”

Vera turns back around, and I nudge her shoulder. “Don’t break that one’s heart, okay?”