Chapter 5
The Race
I’ve never run so fast in my life.
The streets of Veyora blur as I sprint past vendors and spectators, shoving through the vast throng of people, dodging garlands and the smoke of incense fires. My boots pound the cobbles, lungs burning with air thick from spice, soot, and desperation.
My father’s words and Aaron’s flippant boast hammer in my ears like war drums: The winner of today’s race has the right to ask the Council for a favor—anything.
Anything.
And now I have something to ask for.
I reach the outer ring just as the iron gates swing closed behind the last contestant. The final bell peals, a mournful clang that echoes like a death knell.
“No, no, no…” I skid to a halt.
The officials are already packing up. A bored guard with a waxed moustache barely even glances at me. “You’re too late, miss. Try again in two years.”
But there won’t be a next time. Not for Kat.
Come on, Selene. Think.
Somewhere in the crowd, a flash of auburn hair catches my eye. A burst of laughter lures my gaze to a lean figure swinging into the saddle of a black stallion with silver socks.
Aaron Grey. Of course he’s racing.
I shove through the side gate toward the mounting stalls. “Aaron!”
He turns, unbearably pleased. “Fairchild! Come to cheer me on? Or finally confess your undying love for me?”
“Keep dreaming,” I snap reflexively.
“I do. Nightly.” He leans back casually. “Miss the signup?”
I level a glare at him.
“Oh?” His eyes sparkle. “Here to give me a kiss for luck? At least buy me dinner first.”
“I need a favor,” I say breathlessly.
“Oh? Already the best day of my life.”
“I want to ride in your place,” I blurt out.
His brow climbs. “Bold. What do I get?”
“Victory.”
“Tempting. But—”
“He’ll run harder for me, and you know it. I trained him.”
“That may be true…” Aaron hesitates. “But you haven’t raced in years. The course is deadlier now.”
“You know that doesn’t scare me.”
He shrugs. “Then ride under your own name.”
I could lie. I could yank him off the saddle. Instead, I hand him the one currency he can’t resist: information.
“Because I must petition the Council, and I can’t ask my father,” I say. “If he thinks he can speak on my behalf, people will get hurt. And anyway, he wouldn’t grant what I have to ask him. Please, Aaron.” I beg him with my eyes.
“For Kat?” he asks, softer.
I nod, and he sighs, his facade of boyish mischief slipping.
“You’re mad. Gods, I love it.” He swings down and presses the reins into my palm. “You’ll owe me.”
“Put it on my tab.”
He cracks a smile again. “Oh, I intend to.”
I wrap my head in a scarf as Aaron sweeps off his deep-blue racing cloak and pins it at my throat, pulling the hood up so it shadows my face and hair.
He leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.
“Tradition,” he says dramatically, the tiniest grin teasing the corner of his lips, “dictates a kiss for luck. Now you’ve been blessed by the handsomest man in Solmere; your victory is assured.”
“How tragic that I’m immune to his charms, then.”
With that, I vault up. All around us, the crowd crackles with energy, as if a tempest is rising.
“Ride like hell, witch,” he calls after me. “And don’t scratch my saddle.”
I nod and tug the reins, turning the stallion toward the line of contestants.
The world narrows to hooves and heartbeats—thunder and war drums inside my chest.
The gates explode with a crack of lightning and a typhoon of dust. The crowd roars as a hundred riders launch as one.
The course is chaos. Tight alleys, razor turns, stone stairs, an oil-slick ramp, and the worst of it—the Flamewind Gauntlet, a needle-thin pass through the old coliseum where shattered glass and barbed stakes wait to unseat the reckless.
As we round the first bend, another rider slams into me, almost knocking my stirrup loose. I lean forward and dig my heels in, urging my stallion faster.
Wood splinters behind us. Someone screams. I don’t look back.
“Come on, Stormwind,” I whisper, snapping the reins. He responds like a dream, surging ahead and leaving the pack of riders in the dust.
The oil ramp gleams ahead. The lead horse hits it, skids, and crumples. Another tries to leap across. The steed clips the rail and flings its rider into stone.
No.
I spot a set of roughhewn stairs to the right, carved into the hillside, barely wide enough.
“Hold. Steady.” I command as I angle us for the climb. The stallion hesitates a breath, then commits. Iron bites stone. We surge forward, step after brutal step, the mossy stone slick underfoot.
Finally, we crest the hillside and dive into the Gauntlet. Fire vents cough heat between ancient columns. One mistake, and we’re kindling.
“Currere corde,” I whisper. Run with heart.
My stallion answers with sheer speed.
We burst from the final arch onto the packed-dirt avenue, thundering after our last remaining opponents. The Council platform lies dead ahead.
Three riders remain. Then two.
Finally, in the last stretch, only one rider looms ahead—Galen Mott on his gray warhorse. Arrogant. Cocky. A three-time champion—only because I stopped racing. He looks back, and I kick forward, putting us neck and neck.
The crowd’s thunder blurs into the storm of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I think of my mother, racing barefoot across the orchards, laughing like no one could catch her. Of every time I obeyed when I should have burned.
But not today.
We hit the line in a blur—and the roar tells me before the herald’s cry.
I’ve won.
I fling my arms around Storm’s thick neck. He nickers, shaking his head like he knows what his victory means.
Aaron barrels through the crush, wild-eyed. “You maniac! You rode like a devil—no, like you were the devil.”
My hands shake, and I clutch the saddle horn to steady myself. “Maybe I am,” I say, glancing at the platform.
His grin dies. “Selene, I know that look. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s a bad idea.”
“Apparently I’m full of those today.” I swing down from my steed. “I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he insists.
“Not if I want to live with myself.” I seize his sleeve. “Your father still oversees enforcement?”
Startled, he takes a step back. “Yeah. Why?”
“I may need one more favor. Be ready.” I hand him the reins, and he passes the stallion to an attendant for treats. I climb the steps toward the Council—toward my fate.
The Oracle presents the ceremonial trophy, but I ignore it.
Instead, I turn toward the platform and raise my voice, deep and disguised. “As victor of this year’s race, I claim my right to a formal petition of the Council,” I declare.
Murmurs roll like wind in wheat.
Councilman Darius, the oldest member of the Council, leans forward, hands clasped in intrigue. “State your request.”
“I invoke the Blood Clause. I wish to offer a substitution for a chosen tribute.”
Gasps ripple through the throng, and a councilwoman jumps to her feet. “That law hasn’t been used in more than a century,” she objects.
“It remains law,” I say evenly. “And I won the race. You must honor my request.”
“My lord,” a clerk sputters, “the Chosen have already begun the examinations. We couldn’t possibly—”
“When the examinations are complete,” I cut in, “you will find one tribute unfit under Statute 116.”
The square boils with intrigue, hungry for spectacle. A herald hurries to the dais and whispers to the Oracle. What he tells her, I already know.
“You dare question a Chosen’s eligibility?” another councilman snaps.
Darius beckons the high priestess of purification forward. With a bow, she leans close and whispers into his ear.
He straightens, clearing his throat. “Remove your hood and name the maiden.”
I step forward, letting my voice carry across the square. “Katherine Fairchild. But House Fairchild will still supply another bride.” I peel off my riding scarf and push back my hood. “I, Selene Fairchild, offer myself in my sister’s stead. I formally submit my substitution under the Blood Clause.”
The square erupts into shouting, cheers fighting for dominance over the jeers. All eyes drill into our father. Councilman Fairchild goes bone-white.
“Honorable Council,” I call, stepping closer, “the fault is not the maiden’s. She was seduced this morning by a man selfish enough to think he could steal a prize from the mighty Drakonis.”
Silence drops like a blade, and every ear leans in.
Councilman Darius’s gaze fixes on me. “Continue.”
At the edge of the ring, Kat’s guard goes rigid. A failed Veilkeeper, he’ll retire in disgrace. I do not look directly at Kat, standing on the dais among eleven other sacrifices who will not be spared. I have eyes only for the truth that will save her.
“This morning, I found Tobias Reynolds with Lady Katherine in the stables.”
“That’s a lie!” Kat cries, darting forward, but Dain grabs her arm.
I keep my eyes straight ahead. “I have a witness who will testify under Vareth.”
Darius’s voice booms. “Bring the witness forward.”
Finally, I let my gaze leave the Council. My eyes scan the assembly, begging one man to come forward. The only man who would sacrifice his reputation to save her.
The crowd parts as Tobias steps into the light. His face burns red, but he squares his shoulders, his eyes on Kat with a fear and a fire that tell me he’d stand against the whole city for her if he had to. Like my mother. Like many under my employment who never believed in the Rite.
He bows. “I offer one year’s service to the Temple in Miss Fairchild’s place. I let my desire overcome me. I seek atonement in the eyes of the Council and before the gods.”
“By ancient custom,” I say crisply, turning their words back on them, “trespassing upon a maiden’s virtue demands remedy: marriage at once, or service pledged to the temple.”
Darius faces his peers. They know I’ve trapped them—before the entire city, on their sacred day.