But then I notice Drogath and his men.
They've positioned themselves strategically in the pack—not racing to win but riding with clear intent. Their eyes track not the finish line but specific riders. Specifically, me.
The hair on my neck rises. Prey instinct honed by years of survival screams warning.
I try to maneuver away, but we're approaching the narrowest section of the route. Canyon wall on one side. Cliff edge on theother. Nowhere to go except forward through the press of bodies and beasts.
Drogath's lieutenant—a scarred warrior named Korr—suddenly drives his mount directly at mine. The collision sends my equu stumbling sideways toward the cliff edge. I haul on the reins, barely keeping her from the drop.
"Watch it!" I shout.
He doesn't respond. Just positions his mount to block my escape while Drogath moves in from the other side.
Panic floods cold through my veins. This isn't racing strategy. This is coordinated. Deliberate.
They're trying to kill me.
Another warrior—I don't recognize him—spurs his equu hard into my mount's flank. The impact sends us careening toward the cliff edge again. My equu screams, eyes rolling white with terror.
I fight for control but there are too many of them, boxing me in, driving me toward the drop with calculated precision.
The world narrows to the thunder of hooves and my mount's panicked breathing and the sick certainty that I'm going to die on this cliff and no one will believe it was anything but an unfortunate racing accident.
Korr's mount slams into mine one final time.
My equu loses her footing. We crash sideways, tumbling in a chaos of legs and screaming and stone rushing up to meet us. I hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. My mount's body rolls over me, her weight crushing me into the canyon stone before she scrambles upright and bolts away from the cliff edge.
Other riders thunder past. Hooves flash inches from my face. I curl instinctively, trying to protect my head as the stampede roars over me.
Waiting for the pain. Waiting for bones to shatter and organs to rupture and the end to come in blood and trampling and darkness.
But the pain doesn't come.
I feel pressure. Weight. The impact of being crushed beneath half a ton of panicked animal. But it doesn't hurt the way it should. The agony I expect—ribs cracking, skull fracturing, internal bleeding—never arrives.
Instead, there's only a dull, distant ache. Like the pain is happening to someone else and I'm just vaguely aware of its echo.
The stampede passes. Silence crashes down except for my own ragged breathing.
I lie against the canyon stone, gasping, trying to understand why I'm still conscious when I should be dying.
Then I hear the screaming.
Not from me. Not from any of the riders who just trampled me.
From Rakk.
I force myself upright despite how my body protests. Search desperately for the source of those agonized sounds.
Farther back along the route, Rakk has fallen from his mount. He writhes on the ground, clutching his chest while blood pours from his mouth in a dark flood. His face has gone gray. His breathing comes in wet, rattling gasps that sound like drowning.
Warriors surround him, shouting. Zurkar pushes through the crowd, already moving toward the fallen heir.
And I realize with dawning, impossible horror that Rakk is injured exactly the way I should be.
Crushed ribs. Internal bleeding. Trampling damage.
Nothing touched him. He didn't fall in the stampede. His black equu stands nearby, prancing nervously but uninjured.
