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 youwerethe 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 theBlood Clause. I wishto 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.”
