Farian wakes me at some ungodly hour.

He comes in like he lives here, drags me out of bed, and gets me into a pair of boots. My corner candle’s out, so I can’t even see which cloak he throws around my shoulders or which hat he slaps on my head. Farian would say that’s for the best. According to him, fashion and I were never properly introduced. He’s always threatening to throw away my favorite dresses. It is a point of contention between us.

We stumble through the dark. Someone’s asleep on the couch. An uncle, but I couldn’t say which one. They all snore the same. Empty bottles spin away from my clumsy steps. Farian keeps a steady hand on my back until we’re in the candlelight of the kitchen. He sets a cup of coffee in my hands, lets me take a few sips, and then pushes me out the door.

It should be black at this hour, but the sky’s cloud-clear, and the stars recognize a stage when it’s there. Dueling nebulas slash over the dark, rolling mesas. I hear Doctor Vass explain, “Each light is a sun. To each sun, planets. To each planet, moons. How endless it all is….”

Farian looks back. “You awake yet?”

“No talking until I can see what color your clothes are.”

He laughs. Farian has always laughed easily. Doesn’t know his way around a joke, but he always makes you feel like you do. My best friend and confidant lopes ahead, his limp barely noticeable, a satchel full of camera gear tucked under one thick arm. He’s always been big. Fourth son in a family of farmers, with three older brothers that have all grown even bigger than he is. But that’s because Farian’s made his world more than digging irrigation pits. He skips out on his chores to enhance photographs or edit our film series. He’s bound for an education if he keeps at it, as long as his parents don’t disown him before he can get there.

We’re not the only ones awake at this hour. The door to Amaya’s bar bangs open, and three ranch hands slide out into the slick shadows, laughing and singing the wrong words to “The March of Ashes.” Farian hums the tune long after we’ve passed them.

Down the road, a pair of postmen trot past on slender mounts. Both tip their brims, looking like any other riders but for the government-issued gloves threaded with gold and the sacks full of letters strung to their saddles. We arrive at the ranch well before sunrise. It’s dead and dark, quiet-like. The stars are fading.

“Looks empty,” Farian says. “Only Martial is out there.”

I squint, but Farian’s eyes have always been better than mine. I can’t make out much beyond the nearest row of fence posts, but there’s nothing surprising about the quiet. It’s a holy day. “The Ashlords only bow to the gods,” I remind him.

He snorts but says nothing. We’ve caught hell for skipping Gathering the past few years, but we both know it’s the only way to get any respectable riding time. Martial owns the only Dividian-friendly ranch in the district. He won the Races about twenty years ago and used the prize money to build his own ranch and buy his own herd of phoenixes. He promised it would be a training ground to hopeful Dividian riders who couldn’t afford their own horses. Like him.

It was a stunning kindness.

Until the money started running out. It always does. Gold is worth less when it’s in Dividian pockets. Not to mention they tax Dividian landowners twice as much. A few years back, Martial opened the ranch to some of the lesser Ashlord nobles. Carved out just a few days of the week at first, but it wasn’t long until he was booked solid. I don’t blame him, either. Ruling-class gold pays too well to turn down.

“What’s it going to be today?” Farian asks, glancing back again. “Something new?”

“Something old,” I reply with a smile. “Something long forgotten.”

We head in different directions. Farian strides out to talk with Martial. He’s been working up to asking the old champ to do a biopic, but Farian’s about as careful as thunder. Won’t make any noise until he’s sure lightning’s already struck. I leave them to it, heading for the stalls.

Martial might have sold out to the Ashlords, but there’s still no ranch like his. As a Dividian, I get to ride his phoenixes free of charge. And he slashes component prices by half. He even lets us pay off all the expenses through a little side work. I’m pretty sure there’s no better setup in the Empire, at least not for a Dividian like me.

His barn is a fine thing, too. All stone, with slightly sloping roofs and lamps dangling every few paces. I walk the outer courtyard, hearing horses occasionally stomp in their stalls on my left, seeing columns and arches running on my right. Martial sank most of his winnings into the place. People called it a mistake, but the quality of the facility is the only reason gold keeps moving from Ashlord pockets into his accounts. He has seven city-bred families boarding horses here, and more on the waiting list. I’m just glad he hasn’t turned the whole place in that direction. He’s still got about eight of his own horses, and they’re the closest I’ll ever come to calling one my own.

At the end of the yard, a great red door waits. I lift both latches and put my whole body into a shove. The door opens into the dark. I smile as a great smash of scents carry through the opening. I follow them inside. Practiced hands find the lamp thread and I give it a pull. The bulb takes its time, warming the room with light, brightening until I can see the endless containers with all their precious powders. All those possibilities…

I remove a half-ripped theater poster from the pocket of my riding jacket. Proper paper is too expensive, but street litter and old playbills are always free. I copy ingredients from the poster to one of Martial’s inventory forms. I cringe, though, when I see the price he has listed for unborn ash.

“Seventy legions. Pick my pockets, why don’t you, Martial.”

After a second, I scribble the component down. I know today’s video will make up for the cost eventually. It still stings to use anything that costs that much. I haven’t taken on a component with a price that steep since my disaster last year with powdered gold. Burned through a hundred fifty legions in less than two clockturns. But I won’t make that mistake again.

After noting each component, I take five racing containers and link them up. Martial’s cubes are a cheaper version, about a fourth the size of the Race-regulation ones, but I’m only doing one rebirth anyway.

It takes a few minutes to locate each component, measure out what I’ve purchased, and strap the cubes to my riding belt. I lock the door behind me and find Martial rolling a cigarette outside. He keeps his thinning hair long and pulled back in a knot. His eyes are bright and blue, so shockingly Dividian that it’s like looking across oceans, a few hundred years into our past. I can almost see our ancestors arriving on the shores of the Empire for the first time, eyes bright with desire.

He nods once. “Imelda Beru,” he says. “The Alchemist.”

“That name was Farian’s choice. He says we need a brand if we want it to sell.”

Martial taps the end of his cigarette. Dissatisfied, he starts rolling it again.

“Smart kid,” he says. “I watched your last video. Some twelve thousand views, no?”

“Enough to pay you back, and buy Farian a new lens.”

“What an age,” Martial says. “Getting paid for people to click on a box.”

“The modern world has its charms,” I reply. “Speaking of which, sun’s rising.”

He glances out, nods once. “Seventh stall. Your ashes are waiting.”

I thank him and head that way. He and I both know the sun won’t touch the ranch for another twenty minutes, but talking with Martial makes me nervous these days. He’s a man of hints. Idle comments intended to stir me up. Too often he talks about the Races with Farian. He thinks I have a chance to be chosen as this year’s Qualifier. There’s also a chance I’ll be devoured by wolves, but I’m not betting on either one. Martial was chosen all those years ago, and a man who’s been struck by lightning always thinks it’s likely to happen again.

Opening the seventh stall, I find the ashes piled neatly in a metal box. I lift them up, careful with the lid, and start my search for Farian.

The land stretches north and south of the barns, and even though the estate’s massive, Farian’s been complaining about the shots getting stale. Like me, though, he knows we’re lucky to even have this option. I find him at the south end of the property, navigating the low limbs of Martial’s lonely shoestring tree. He doesn’t like climbing, but by the time I reach him, he’s wedged fifteen feet in the air. The mountains glow with coming gold. I frown up at him.

“You’re going through all this trouble to film a Stoneside rebirth?”

Farian shoots me a furious look. “You serious? Why would you do Stoneside again?”

I grin at him. “Just snacking on you, Farian.”

He flicks me off, laughs, then almost drops his camera. We both gasp, then laugh again when he catches it to his chest. He shakes his head, like I’m the one who almost dropped the thing.

“I hope you have something good for me,” he says, glancing back through the branches. “I think this lighting will be flawless. It’s the only time we’ve ever done a camera angle this high, you know? I’m thinking of doing some crosscutting for this one, if you ride well.”

“Crosscutting,” I say. “Glad to hear that. I was going to suggest…crosscutting.”

He makes a face. “It’s when you—”

When he sees my face, though, he goes quiet. We’ve played this game too many times. He talks like a textbook and I end up…distracted. He gets annoyed; I get mad.

“You film. I ride. It’s simple.”

“Gods below,” he says, eyeing the light again. “Get me to a university already. I’d like to have a proper conversation about montages and backlighting with someone.”

I smile up at him. “I thought you talked about all that stuff with Doctor Vass.”

“For fifteen minutes.” Farian shrugs. “Not his area of expertise.”

“Guess you’ll have to go to university.”

“Guess so,” he says, but his voice is full of doubt.

His family doesn’t send off to school. Neither does mine. Every uncle and cousin is proof enough of that. Education is reserved for Ashlords and city-born Dividian with deep pockets. Out in the rural villages, we’re more likely to inherit trades. Both Farian and I spend most of our time ignoring the trade we’ve been pegged for since birth. Farian knows as much about farming as a chicken. And I know even less about charming and getting married to a boy. My parents are already hinting that I can’t spend my life riding other people’s horses. One day they’ll shrug and say that all we can do is make the best of the world the Ashlords offer us.

But on holy days—while the Ashlords worship their gods—I forget all of that. I walk out to greet the sunrise and become who I really am.

“Ready, Farian?”

He jams an elbow into his lap, turning the lens slightly. At his signal, I start spreading the ashes out over the ground. They’re still warm, so I take quick handfuls and sweep them out in a flat, even circle. I don’t flinch away from the heat, not after Farian claimed my cowardice ruined his shot a few months ago. I am as bright and fiery as the creature I will summon.

Once that’s done, I unclip the cubes from my belt, flipping the individual lids so Farian has a good angle on each stored component. Sunrise isn’t far off. I lift my eyes to Farian, focused on the camera. He’s been walking me through the acting cues, but I always need a deep breath before we start, no matter how many videos we’ve made. He signals, and I begin.

“Good morning.” I offer the camera an unnatural smile. “My name is Imelda Beru, also known as the Alchemist. First, I wanted to thank all of you for watching our recent videos. If you missed our Stoneside or Fearless rebirths, you’ll find the link to those videos below.

“Today, we’re staying with the theme of vintage rebirths. Everyone knows the standard resurrections these days. Those are tired. They’re boring. All we have to do is look back at the pages of history to see just how inventive phoenix rebirths used to be. Since you don’t have time to wade through codices and scrolls, I’ve done your homework for you. Here’s a rebirth I like to call Trust Fall.”

Farian leans out from behind his camera long enough to roll his eyes at my chosen title. I kneel down, hiding my laughter as I take a healthy pinch of locust dust.

“You’re going to start with an outer ring of locust,” I explain, letting the powder feed between my fingers and highlighting the circle’s border with a deep tan color. “Keep the circle unbroken. You want your locust to burn hard and quick. You’ll know you did it right if there’s the faintest trace of sandstone coloring just as sunrise hits.

“Next: gypsum and limestone.” I empty those containers into a central pile on my ashes, mixing them slowly with both fingers. “You’ll want to lightly mix them, but don’t spread them out too far. Three fingers of height will guarantee your mixture doesn’t burn away.”

As I hold up the last cube, I throw a wicked grin at the camera.

“Now, unborn ashes are as vintage as it gets. Our ancestors lived in a crueler world. Blood sacrifices every month and gods roaming the land. Unborn ashes aren’t the cheapest component in the storeroom, but they’re what you need if you want to call on the powers of old. Make another circle.” I take a handful of the dead ashes. They’re so cold that the hairs on that arm start to rise. “Place them inside the locust powder, but ringed outside the mixture of gypsum and limestone. Make the circle thick and add them just before sunlight hits.”

I stand back, wiping my hands clean and gesturing past the camera.

“Which is about…right…now.”

Sunlight spills over the plain. I take a step back and hear the obvious gasp of a creature coming to life. My piled ash stirs with movement. The wind turns the ashes in quick circles before raising them up, where they howl into a sudden dust devil. In all that chaos, I see my phoenix starting to take form, a dark, inconsistent mass. Then sunlight fractures against the growing magic, sudden and blinding.

I shield my eyes as a glorious figure staggers free of the storm. Farian keeps the film rolling, but I know the phoenix is still too bright to see. I can’t even look at it without squinting and shielding my eyes with both hands. The horse itself isn’t all that marvelous. As the light begins to fade, I note that it’s Martial’s gray pinto with the steel-tipped tail. Stand her up next to any Ashlord-bred stallion and you’d think she was a miniature horse, but Farian’s filming will make her look twenty feet tall, and my alchemy will add what his filming can’t.

“Our ancestors used the Trust Fall rebirth to leap off cliffs,” I say, raising my voice above the phoenix’s unsettled stamping and snorting. “I suggest starting with ten- or fifteen-foot drops, and keep in mind this is a dangerous rebirth. Even if you’re an experienced rider, use caution.”

Farian hates disclaimers, thinks they’re boring. But I’m not going to have some rookie breaking their neck and blaming me for it.

As quietly as possible, I approach the horse’s left shoulder. I keep my voice soft and patient. Most riders would just use constants. They’re with their horse through every death, every life. Feed them a certain apple, whisper a certain word. That’s all it takes for the Ashlords who can afford to own their own horses. It’s a little more difficult when you’re trying to convince a creature you haven’t seen in months to trust you again.

She trembles beneath my fingertips, but she’s quiet when I stand at her side. Still whispering, I start sliding a saddle over her back, fumbling at the buckles that attach the girth on both sides. As I slide forward to work on the bridle, Farian’s moving, too, adjusting his angle. We’ve got instructional videos up for saddles and harnesses, so he never films this part. Our viewers subscribe for the new rebirths, and for Farian’s brilliant production values.

“Trust Fall?” he says, starting to climb down from the tree. “We need to have a conversation about your creative decision making.”

I ignore the dig, knowing the horse will feed off any anger or nerves this early in the connection. She huffs once and settles back into calm.

“What does the mix even do?” Farian asks. “I don’t see anything different about this one.”

“Just keep filming.”

He’s right, though. She looks plain as sand. But that’s the beauty of alchemy and phoenixes: They’re like an ace hidden up a sleeve, magical if you know how to make the trick work. I finish with the saddle and move up to look the sweet thing in the eye. She’s not nervous now. She likes my hands and the sound of my voice.

“Let’s do this,” I say, eyes back on Farian. “What do you say, Catcher?”

Farian stands over his tripod and signals for me to say the name again. Not my most creative work. He looks annoyed that I didn’t consult with him first, but names matter with phoenixes. If Farian knew what kind of stunt I’m about to try to pull off, he’d understand why it’s the perfect name for the horse.

“All right.” I raise my voice. “You won’t see much difference in Catcher until I leap from her back. I’m going to ride along that upper ridge there. Keep your eyes on the screen once I’m in the air. And say a little prayer for me that this actually works.”

I can tell Farian’s eyes are wide behind the camera. He’s adjusting his lens and prepping the tripod for a perfect shot of the ridge off to our right. I wait for his signal before turning Catcher around and making sure my face is visible before our first gallop. A normal horse might need the warmup, but phoenix horses run hot, always ready for that first sprint.

“Get, get! Let’s ride, girl!”

I dig in my heels, and she shoots forward. She opens up quick, trying to take control from me, so I rein her in and make sure she knows that where I’m heading is where she’s heading. Both of us taste the wind for a few seconds, galloping in a dead straight line away from Farian. When she’s got the swing of me, I loop us back around. Martial’s property has a handful of little ridges and hollows. Good spots for practicing elevation changes or learning how to bail. The ridge I’m aimed at isn’t much higher than Catcher, but it’s high enough for what I’m planning.

Farian has us locked in his sights as we nose toward the first rise. I start to stand up in the saddle, freeing my feet from the stirrups and tightening my grip. Catcher’s a little unnerved by the change, but the ridge is smack up against a second rise, so there’s nowhere for her to scare to. She holds the path I’ve chosen as I push onto my knees, then onto my feet. I crouch on her back like a statue, waiting for the right moment. When we reach the crest, Catcher’s in full frame for Farian.

Fear slips away. I become something more.

I release the reins and leap to my left.

There’s nothing but air and ground. The sudden drop steals my breath. I can feel my stomach twisting as I turn in the air, widening my stance, falling to the ground below. The earth rushes up to devour me. Only it doesn’t, because Catcher appears beneath me.

From ridge to ground level in an impossible blink. I land hard against her back, nearly slip off the saddle, and scramble for the reins. She snorts with delight when I manage to hang on. Farian’s already got one fist raised in triumph. I’m lost in the glory of it, that the rebirth actually worked, as I yank her to a stop right in front of him, grinning my wildness down at the camera.

“Trust Fall,” I say breathlessly. “That one’s called Trust Fall.”