The knock at our front door comes early in the morning.

I stare at the ceiling, listening to house sounds. Someone is on the couch, stirring sleepily. Someone else is at the table. I’d guess Father, sipping coffee. The door creaks open and I can imagine my mother smiling out at whoever’s waiting there.

Farian wouldn’t knock. Anyone who really knows us wouldn’t. I’m scared it’s Oxanos. Last night was his fault. He asked for the dance, and we all know how he intended it to go. He wanted to press his hips to mine for a few minutes. He wanted to make my father’s skin crawl, to bury my family’s honor with a smile. All I did was beat him at his own game.

The dread doubles when I hear the voices. Several people introduce themselves to my mother. City-bred voices. None of them are Oxanos, but all of them are Ashlords. I’m terrified; then I hear my mother’s voice calling my name through the paper-thin walls.

“Imelda.”

I don’t bother putting on proper clothes. It’s not our clothes the Ashlords look down on. It’s our skin, our height, our everything. I fix the strap of my overalls and walk out to face them.

Father’s at the kitchen table. He looks up, worried and helpless, as I walk past. I don’t know how to tell him it’s all going to be okay. Mother holds out a protective arm and wraps it around my shoulders. The three Ashlords stand just outside the door. They’re all tall and graceful, skin so polished they’re almost shining in the sunless dawn.

“Imelda Beru?” One is a woman. She steps forward and eyes me. “The Alchemist?”

I nod, a little surprised she’s using that nickname. “That’s me.”

“My name is Ayala,” the woman says. “You’re to come with us. You’ve been chosen as a possible candidate for the scholarship position this year. We’ll escort you to the capital to be interviewed. There’s a chance you’ll be competing in the Races as the Qualifier.”

Mother’s staring at me. Back in the kitchen, Father chokes on his coffee. I hear Prosper’s voice and my uncle quieting him from the couch. Ayala’s words have woken everyone up but me. I still feel like I’m walking through a dream world, grasping at impossibilities. I stare at her and say the only thing in my head that sounds rational.

“How many will be interviewed?”

One of the male Ashlords stiffens, like a Dividian asking a question offends him. Ayala doesn’t mind at all, though. She just smiles a little wider. “Seven others.”

Seven others? If Farian heard that, he’d freak. My odds of being the Qualifier have just increased dramatically. Thousands of applicants and hopefuls spread out across the Empire. Now there are only eight people left? I want to ask about the kinds of tests they’ll use, what kind of etiquette I’m expected to show. Instead, I let those questions drift away on the wind. I’m not going to start off by looking ignorant in front of the Racing Board’s hired officials.

“When do we leave?” I ask.

“Once you’ve packed your things,” Ayala replies. She turns to my mother now. “We’ll arrive before nightfall. Your daughter will stay in one of the finest hotels in Furia. An attendant will accompany her and keep her safe at all times. Tomorrow, she’ll be interviewed. After the interviews, there will be a dinner for all the candidates. She’ll be sent home if she isn’t chosen.”

“And if she is?” Mother asks.

“Training. Publicity telecasts. Then the Races await.”

Mother nods absently. She’s imagining Maxim or Gavriel or Cassiopia sitting down with me to ask interview questions. All the shows she pretends not to watch every morning.

I speak softly, not trusting my voice. “Thank you. I’ll get ready.”

Mother closes the door. She hooks her arm in mine, kisses me on the forehead, and leads me back inside. The room’s almost spinning. Father stands. Coffee’s spilled all over the table behind him, but he ignores it. Only Prosper has a voice.

“Is this serious? Are they serious? This can’t be serious!”

They sit me down on the couch because my legs are starting to shake violently. Mother rushes into my room, pulling clothes out of corners, stuffing whatever’s clean into a travel sack. Uncle Manu stands in the corner, reciting names of racers with Prosper and laughing like he’s a kid again. Father comes back with a glass of water and makes me drink it.

“You’re going to be okay.”

I try to give some sign that I hear him, but everything’s still spinning.

“Imelda,” he says. “You are Imelda Beru. Last night, you proved you’ve got as much fire as any of them. Be respectful, be careful, be yourself. You can do this.”

I nod.

Mother calls, “Where are your socks? Why don’t you have clean socks?”

I don’t answer. The room’s stopped spinning, but my mind’s racing ahead to Furia. I have to beat out the other scholarship kids first. I wonder who they are and what they’ve done to make the final cut. Even if I do manage to get myself chosen, it won’t matter if I’m not ready for the actual Races. Every year there’s a Qualifier, a Dividian rider like me. We always cheer for them to do the unthinkable. They rarely do. Only two have ever won.

I can be the third.

Fear and dread rise up in my chest, threatening to choke me.

“Hey.” Father’s voice cuts through the noise. “You can do this.”

He offers a hand and pulls me to my feet. Prosper nudges up against my side. I push back his hair and smile down. Mother’s there, too, pressing the travel bag into my hands. I kiss them all before shouldering the bag and heading for the door.

“Tell Farian what happened,” I call over one shoulder. “If I’m chosen, the exclusive is his!”

They call out their love and I force myself to turn, to walk, to not look back. Ayala’s up in the saddle, one hand on the reins of the gorgeous horse she’s leading toward me. It’s more finely groomed than most of the phoenixes in Martial’s barns. She hands him off to me and waits until I’m up in the saddle to start trotting back to the road. Ayala wears her hair short for an Ashlord, but she rides a horse the way they always do, like a straight-backed statue.

“Why was I chosen?” I ask.

A few faces sneak glances from behind curtains. The other two Ashlords lead us north, through the last section of village and into the waiting desert.

Ayala turns back to me. “You didn’t see the video?”

I frown at her. “I made the video.”

“Not that video.” Ayala smiles. “That one was impressive, but I meant Pippa’s interview. This year’s favorite. She stood up for you. Accused the Empire Racing Board of favoring men. She said if they let someone in who had less skill than you, it’d prove how sexist the board members are. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but you’re pretty much a lock.”

I’m stunned. Pippa. If there’s a name everyone knows in this year’s Race, it would be hers. The daughter of Prama and Marcos, both former champions in their own right. It has me thinking of all those famous Ashlords and their catchy, singular names. Which echoes into a second thought about all the Dividian with their reduced four-letter surnames, entire histories erased by the very people who are inviting me to their glorious Races.

The newscasters have been treating this year like it’s Pippa’s inheritance, like she’s destined to win. I’m surprised someone of her status has even heard of me.

“Why would she stand up for me?”

“She likes you?” Ayala suggests. “Or she wanted the spotlight off her own scandal?”

The road twists, rising up and around. The sun’s diving down at us out of the clouds. I slip my riding hood overhead and tug at the chin until it fits comfortably. Ayala and the other Ashlords don’t do the same until a few hours later, when they finally feel the heat of the day. We ride hard as we make our way to the city.

Not a racing standard pace, but fast enough to have us tearing across the terrain, passing towns and villages. It doesn’t feel like a normal, twelve-hour day. Time speeds up, slows down. The six hours become six seconds or six eternities, I can’t decide which. The sun sets and mountains loom to our right, cutting through clouds to break the sky into great, smoky sections. Ayala talks freely with me, but the other two Ashlords don’t say a word the entire trip.

I learn that she works for the Empire Racing Board. In fact, she turned down a bunch of other jobs so she could help with the scholarship program. She’s passionate—almost too much—about the Dividian people. When she asks me personal questions, my other escorts glance back their disapproval, but she outranks them and doesn’t seem to care what they think, either.

“There it is,” she says as night falls around us. “Furia.”

A distant brilliance lights the valley. The glow dances between the bordering mountains like a lake of gold. Ayala leads us down and it’s hard not to stare at everything. Even the buildings along the outskirts tower above us. The nearest city to us—Avass—has a few high-rises and temples, but nothing like this.

It’s like the Ashlords are bridging their way to heaven.

We pass the first of several pyramids. Surrounded by glass-and-steel buildings, the temples look more like god-sized fists punched up through the earth. Great tiers of mortared stone slabs, all rising and narrowing to the flat-roofed prayer rooms in the upper temples. Stairs run up each side like rib cages. Each god’s servants flock in the shadowed interiors.

Somehow the world stops moving at an impossible speed. As we dismount, stable boys come forward to collect our horses. We stand before a dark-bricked building. It sits squarely between much larger buildings, but Ayala assures me it’s the finest and most historic hotel in the city. She says this like I might somehow be disappointed by it. And only as we stand there, waiting for a bellhop to answer the door, do I notice the people. We’re on a main drag and it looks like everyone’s gathered for a parade. Except there’s no parade. Just thousands of folks living their lives.

There are plenty of Dividian. The women wear fine business dresses. The men too-tight suits. They weave in and out of everything like this is their city, but every time an Ashlord strolls down a sidewalk, or prowls into a bar, they fade to background noise. I listen as the owner of a nearby restaurant tries to lure a passing couple in with the promise of the finest food in Furia. They smile their no to him with divine elegance.

“Come on,” Ayala says. “Your room’s ready.”

The entire interior is carpeted. Not even our town hall has carpet. Just some fancy rugs here and there. I glance down at my dirty shoes and dusty ankles, but Ayala smiles again, leading me off to one side. A trio of Dividian men stand there in neat bow ties. The other Ashlords sit first, letting the men slip off their shoes one at a time. The trio works fast. One scrubs away mud and polishes each riding boot. Another takes a wet rag and wipes the dust from Ashlord ankles. The third sizes up their feet and provides them with a pair of the hotel’s complimentary slippers.

Ayala gives me a shove forward when the other two Ashlords are finished.

“Do her next,” she orders.

Her fellow escorts lift an eyebrow at the decision, but the Dividian rush to obey Ayala’s request. I’m helped into a high-backed chair. They remove my tattered riding boots and get them as clean as they’ve been since I first found them. Something snakes through my gut as the second man starts rubbing away at toes and ankles. There’s something wrong about being made clean, made like the Ashlords. He sees my frown when he’s done and whispers up to me.

“The dirt’s gone, but don’t worry, I couldn’t get rid of the calluses.”

We share a grin. The third Dividian steps forward, sliding slippers over both of my feet. I thank them all so profusely that Ayala has to pull me away.

My heart beats in triples. Then skips beats. It’s the first time I’ve seen it all so clearly. There are two worlds, and I know exactly which one I belong in. Even if Ayala’s offering me a temporary glimpse of their world. The men bow as she leads me off through the hotel.

The other Ashlords abandon us. She nods them off before escorting me to the third floor. “You have a corner room,” she says. “It’s quite a view.”

She swipes something by the handle and the door whisks open without a touch. I follow her in, feeling as disoriented as I felt that morning, like the world’s started spinning just a little too fast. Ayala shuts the door behind us. As she does, the casual calm leaves her face and she steps closer. I can smell some kind of cherry tobacco on her breath.

“I need to know,” she says. “Do you want to be in the Races or not?”

I stare at her. “I thought—Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“But do you want it? Qualifiers get hurt, you know? It will be hard riding, hard fighting. You’ll have to be smarter than all of them. I need to know if this is what you really want.”

It is what I want, what I’ve wanted since I was little. Martial always terrified me. Not because he’s scary or anything ridiculous like that. Looking at him is like looking at the impossible. Farian and I could play as riders on holy days, but I never let myself believe it’d be anything more than a game. “Yes,” I finally answer. “This is what I want.”

Ayala smiles. “Good, because you’re the one, Imelda. There have been discussions all day. The Empire Racing Board wants you to be the scholarship rider in the Races. The others will interview tomorrow, but you’ve already been chosen. You’re going to ride in the most prestigious event the Empire’s ever known. We start training tomorrow. And with my help?”

She sets a firm hand on my shoulder.

“I think you could actually win it.”