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Ahead was a sight that always took her breath away: the great straight—well-trodden sand below, with narrow white columns stretching into the sky, marking the much more winding track of the pegasi.
Half a mile of possibility.
Half a mile that had once been Teigra’s.
Astrapi whinnied, extending her strong wings, her feather tips pointed to the azure. What are you waiting for, she seemed to say. No one will ever know.
In the deathly silence, her mind wandered to Aunty Urosina laying on the dais. One minute alive and breathing, and the next... gone.
Just... just like that.
A memory returned of a morning far cooler than this, with the stands just as silent and the scent of low spring bellflowers rich in the air. Of Aunty Ura appearing at the stable door, surprising her after almost a full year away! Of the hugs and tour of the stables, with Teigra yammering on about the foals Ura had seen a year prior, now strong and hungry for the race.
And then, of the wise woman taking Teigra by the shoulders, just as she always had in moments of sincerity. Of her looking into Teigra’s suddenly downcast eyes and whispering what no one else saw. Whispering what no one else would tell her.
Tig, please. It pains me to see you torturing yourself like this. You love this too much to never return to the saddle!
Her aunt’s warm voice hung in the rising light of the morning. The voice that felt like gazing up at the stars from a quiet hill. The voice that tasted like honey and herbs.
All Aunty wanted was for me to ride again...
After a long moment of aching indecision, Teigra sprang into the saddle. She relished the immense power beneath her. It was a power she had not felt between her strong thighs for three long years. A power she had missed with every inch of her being. It met her like an old friend, ungreeted for many moons, but with none of the familiarity drained.
But as she took hold of the reins, worn leather hot against her thumbs, the other memories flooded back—the ones she tried so desperately to suppress. Of the wind whipping wet through her hair. Of the smell of churned sand and fresh rain. Of the salt dripping cold from the bronze baton. Of the ground rushing past with each weightless turn of flight. Of the pulse of the nearby riders, getting closer! Closer!
And of not caring about any of that, because all she could hear was the roar of the crowd, punctuated by each brutal clap of thunder. All she could feel was the rippling mass of muscle beneath her legs, surging with the strain, summoning bursts of power toward the finish line.
And in Teigra’s head came another familiar voice, making a familiar refrain: Stick to the path, kiddo. Even if it terrifies you.
She... she could hear it all now—all those roars, which had long since fallen silent. All of them calling her name. Her family’s name. The name her father had built from nothing, into something that deserved those cheers!
Then those cheers twisted into panic.
It came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It choked her down, punching the breath from her lungs.
And it was punctuated with a final, bloodcurdling scream.
Tears streamed down Teigra’s face. One hand reached to a pendant at her neck as her other hand shook against the reins.
The pendant was a beautiful thing. The black hair was cut from the mane of Seraki, the first champion that House Cosmin had ever reared, almost a hundred and fifty years ago. It was held in place by a bronze, hipposandal-shaped clip at the tip, clumsily carved by a little girl she had long let pass into memory—made to replace the old clasp, which had finally worn away with the passage of time.
And it was hung on a silver chain. Silver which had been added by her late father, Andrin Cosmin. Silver that had been clipped from the first medallion he’d won as a jockey when he was just twelve years old.
Tears cascaded down her face now.
The pendant of the man I killed!
Her breaths were wrenching now, barely able to gather herself. She gripped the saddle hard with her free hand, feeling the stands twist around her.
All it would take was one crack of that leather and she could feel it all again. The good. The bad. The lost and the regained. All of it.
Perhaps the rush of air past her cheeks might dry the tears.
Perhaps it might do so forever.
But she just couldn’t do it.
“I’m... so sorry,” she whispered, turning Astrapi around and making the slow walk back to the stables.
