You decide to leave most of your supplies. This is the final leg of the Races. You can’t imagine needing anything but your hood and your switch from here on out. You are about to leave your mark on history. It starts now. As Quinn mounts, the two of you set your eyes ahead. It’s a form of survival. If you’re going to win the Races, you have to forget everything that’s happened in the past few days. Taking the caves gave you a chance. It let you pass through the heart of a plateau that the rest of the riders had to go around. You’re not in the top three, but you know the road ahead will bring back the time you’ve lost to the others.

You glance at your watch and eye the names: Bravos, Revel, Adrian.

The thought of meeting all of them on the final stretch has you grinning.

“Let’s ride, Revenge.”

The phoenix’s coat flashes as the name takes and she kicks him into motion, stirring the dust with each thundering stride. By some trick of adrenaline, you don’t feel like there’s a second person clinging to your waist. Instead, it’s like you and Quinn are drifting into one being as Revenge presses through passes, down winding gulches, and through shallow creeks.

Neither of you speak. Instead, your thoughts echo in some impossible space.

We’re making good time.

The next pass feeds into the final crossroads.

Let’s ease off before the final leg.

What if we see other riders?

We stand our ground.

If we see Bravos?

We end him.

The sun burns overhead, but you refuse your hood. You want Bravos to see your face and tremble when you meet again on the final stretch. Your gut twists a little as you eye the leaderboard. Revel has taken the lead. He’s burned his way out ahead of Bravos, who’s barely clinging to second place. Adrian’s in third, but you’re gaining on both of them.

The two of you sit a little straighter in the saddle. The course is starting to bottleneck, drawing you west, back toward the other routes and riders. Ahead, you notice the metal barriers towering on either side of the final canyon. You know the faces of the crowds will be gathering there to watch. Hundreds of thousands of people, all craving a champion.

Let’s give your fans a show.

You thunder around the final bend of this section in the course. As you survey the distant plains, it feels like you’re looking through two sets of eyes.

“There,” you say, pointing. “Our leader.”

Four paths converge from different directions to make a final crossroads. Leading on from there is a dead-straight stretch. Revel has at least a clockturn on you, if not more. A quick glance at your bracelet shows his name gleaming in first, but it also shows the gap between you and him is slipping.

You know the course and all the distances by heart. The final length of the race is a flat-out sprint. It will take nine clockturns at least. Just enough time for you to make up ground. You draw strength from the promise that the Races aren’t over yet. You’re in this. You’re a factor.

The crowd erupts as they see Revenge barreling toward the crossroads.

On the left, Quinn whispers in your head, another rider.

Your eyes dart to the opposite side of the valley. Quinn’s right. Another mushroom of dust gathers over the approaching form. You can tell that the two of you will converge at the crossroads at the same time, and both of you will need to make up ground on the leader.

Revenge responds with a burst of speed. The pumping rhythm brings you closer and closer. The landscape briefly takes both of the opposing riders out of sight. A handful of vaulting seconds pass before the path funnels into the waiting mouth of the crossroads. Your eyes narrow as the other rider straightens into a full gallop just ahead of you.

“Bravos,” you hiss. “It’s Bravos.”

Instinct draws one hand to your switch. With a deliberate twist, you let the whip snake out. It tongues the desert dust, waiting to sing through the air, eager for flesh.

Bravos is using his Iron and Latchlock mixture for the final leg. On either side of his saddle you can see the ominous spikes the alchemy’s known for producing. Bravos might not be a brilliant rider, but you know he’s familiar with violence. Given the chance, he’ll use the horse’s spikes to spear your horse and put an end to your ride.

It doesn’t stop you from thundering after him, teeth gritted. He glances over his shoulder when he finally hears the hooves. And when he sees it’s you trailing him, his eyes go wide.

The two of you start the final stretch just a few lengths apart. Revel’s a dark shape ahead. Shouts chorus their way to madness as the fans watch both of you drive your horses onward. You want to end Bravos, but the Latchlock hide has you keeping your distance.

He’s smart enough to do the same. Neither of you can afford a confrontation, not while you’re still trailing Revel. You feel Quinn’s nails digging into your hips. There’s an anger linking the two of you together, bright and burning as the sun.

Revenge rides beautifully. He’s a hand longer and taller than Bravos’s horse, and he continues stealing from their meager lead every twenty or thirty strides. You hold the rhythm and smile coolly when he noses into a lead. Bravos darts a worried look in your direction, but he concedes the advantage for now. Make contact and both of you will fail to catch Revel.

There’s a horse behind you with a huge rider.

You resist looking back. It will only slow you down. Better to let Quinn be your eyes. You’re sure it’s Adrian. Knowing he’s there creates a new pressure. Clashing with Revel or Bravos has direct consequences now. A crash will give the Longhand a chance to win the Races. You force yourself to dismiss that concern. There’s nothing you can do about it now.

Revel’s lead keeps slipping. The closer you get, the sharper the details. The lanky Ashlord sits up in his saddle. His long hair flows away from a silver-shining headband. You’re close enough now to see the ghost that’s riding with him in the saddle. You’d almost forgotten. He was the other rider who had help from the Madness.

Quinn’s grip tightens as you press on. You can see Revel’s horse struggling. The bracelet shows he’s just five hundred paces from the finish line, but his horse’s gait looks less and less rhythmic. A tired horse coming down the homestretch. You know you have two clockturns to erase his lead. A dark dread pulses in your head. You’ve seen nightmarish endings in the Races before. Bone-breaking collisions and tossed riders, crashing together as they approach the finish. Hard work washed away as some backtrotting nobody takes the grand prize through laws of attrition. The noise of the crowd falls away. Your focus narrows to heartbeats and hooves.

Something’s wrong, Pippa.

You see it a second after Quinn speaks. A plume of dust fans out as Revel’s horse collapses. Its shoulders clip the earth, and the riders both go skidding over the rocky soil. There’s a moment of confusion; then the ghost helps Revel back to his feet. The ghost slings Revel’s arm around one shoulder and keeps him moving toward the finish line. They’re on foot, moving much slower, but just one hundred paces from the finish line.

Can they win the race like that?

You ignore the question and urge your phoenix forward. For the first time, you see the finish line looming in the distance. You’re so focused on the sight of it and Revel’s stumbling figure that Quinn’s mental cry is the only warning as Bravos brings his phoenix slamming into yours. A kick of Quinn’s leg is the only thing that saves you. It lands just before impact and lessens the shock of the blow. Her effort keeps the back spikes from finding flesh, but it doesn’t stop the front ones. The collision is a storm of sounds and lightning-bright images:

Blood gushes from a fist-sized wound.

A scream tears from Revenge’s throat.

The familiar mint on Bravos’s breath.

Sweat colors his clothes.

Last, you see his massive hands come to life.

One grips his reins. The other flexes around his switch.

The impact jars your horses apart, but not far enough to keep you safe. Bravos is close enough for a single strike. It’s an off-handed jab. It comes like lightning, but Quinn is quicker. The girl who rode the lightning into your world tugs you down by the shoulders. The blow glances overhead. Bravos looks stunned, but he’s smart enough to stay focused. He takes advantage of Revenge’s broken stride and vaults forward. The sight of him pulling away draws out every instinct. It takes fifteen years of endless training and bottles them into a single grain of time.

Mind and body move in flawless harmony. Your hand brings the whip up and around. Your tongue clicks a command that keeps Revenge moving. Your eyes find the target of your strike, calculate the distance with impossible precision, and force your shoulders to swivel for the perfect range. Revenge steadies his gait as your whip snakes through the air.

The black tongue curls around Bravos’s wrist and snaps. You hear the bones break before he can even scream. Bravos slumps sideways, losing control of his phoenix. Ahead, Revel’s collapsed horse has burst into flames. Revenge slides left to avoid the chaos as Bravos fumbles the reins. He’s too late. Both boy and horse collide with the waiting fire.

There’s a duel of screams. Revenge plunges through the smoke, past both of them. You do not celebrate the sight of Bravos spinning face-first into the sand because there’s no time to glory in his defeat. Not until you’ve claimed your victory. Only Revel and Adrian exist now.

You don’t have to look at the bracelet to see how small the world’s become. The finish line is one hundred paces ahead. Revel’s halfway there. Adrian’s riding twenty paces back.

Time flexes every muscle and you feel like you’re the center of the universe.