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I cannot help but feel like a fae as powerful as Mace would be no such thing. Every year, I stand here, avoiding his gaze, ignoring the chatter of the other Racers as they gossip about him. But this year, I allow myself to indulge in a little fantasy.
My face heats, and I look away, nodding at Max. “He is something, that is for sure. What’s his discipline again?” I ask, trying not to look at him. It’s easy to pretend I don’t know already. I’ve tried my hardest to hide my strange attraction to and fascination with the fae man.
“He’s Autumn, apparently. His specialty is influence, if Maude is to be believed.” Maude is Max’s neighbor, and her position on the Coalition gives her access to the fae, so I can believe she has some knowledge about him. I adjust the black shirt I’ve tucked tightly into my long shorts, a poor attempt to distract myself from the fae before me.
A throat clears, and everyone turns to the stage, where Mace steps forward. “Good morning, Krillium! And welcome to the Race. We are honored you all have chosen to participate this year.”
“Like we have a choice,” I mutter to Max, all attraction to Mace seeping out of me.
I turn my eyes back up at the stage and am met with the icy stare of Mace Nightroot himself, who subtly raises an eyebrow at me before he resumes talking, eyes locked on me.
“As you know, the first person to the arena at the top of the Summit will move to Ytopie and live a life of luxury, with the next ten joining them and being a part of the fabulous working class that will support all the past winners.” The crowd cheers, everyone here thinking they have a chance of winning. There are hundreds of Lowlanders here from all over Krillium. Our prospects are all slim, and deep down, we know it.
“However,” Mace starts, casting his eyes down, “The Gods have informed us that with the continued growth of Krillium, the magic required to sustain it is being taxed.” There are murmurs rising up from the crowd, everyone whispering to each other about how that could be. My chest feels tight, and I anxiously tap my fingers along my collarbone, counting each connection with my fingertips as my father once taught me.
“It is because of this,” Mace continues, “that the Gods have tasked us to increase the number of expendables this year by ten for a stronger sacrifice, bringing our total number of expendables to forty.”
The crowd quiets, entirely still. “Are you joking?” I hear someone shout.
I look over and see Jaz angrily pushing their way to the front of the crowd towards the stage, the arm in the sling slamming into sides until they are right before Mace. “You’re increasing it by TEN this year? How do you justify that?” The group starts to voice their agreement, the volume around us rising. Mace raises his hands, motioning for us to quiet down.
“I know, I know, this is not good news,” he begins, crouching down to look Jaz in the eye. “Unfortunately, the Coalition and the Patricians have no say over this. We are but the mouthpieces of the Gods. We are lucky they look out for us at all.”
I feel bile rising in the back of my throat. This is the most considerable increase in expendables in my lifetime. I cannot fathom why it would need to continue to increase year after year. Mace’s attempt to quiet the crowd only amplifies my agitation.
He rises to his full height once more and looks at the restless crowd before him. Suddenly, a feeling of warmth and pliability runs through me. Influence magic, of course. He’s using his magic to manipulate us to quiet down. I steel myself, the feeling of ice running through my veins, and I shout, “Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to Race before.”
Eyes dart to me, and people in the crowd turn to face me with shocked expressions. It’s an unspoken rule that we do not talk about how the fae seem exempt from the Race. It is mainly unspoken because anyone speaking of it appears to be made expendable shortly after. Mace locks eyes with me again, a sinister smile creeping on his beautiful face.
“Yes, you’re right. I have never Raced before. However, my magic allows me to help the crops grow that fill your belly, Lowlander, so I have paid my dues,” he drawls, never once taking his eyes off me. “The Gods have determined that the fae cannot be sacrificed, as our magic will not nourish them. We contribute to Krillium in other ways.”
My gray eyes lock with his vivid green, and we stand there silently for a beat. His jaw is locked, and his nostrils flare slightly, the smooth demeanor of a leader starting to crack under my scrutiny. His attention makes me feel as if my skin is being peeled back and my most sensitive parts are being showcased. My belly fills with heat at the intensity, but my mind is frigid against his influential magic that I still feel dripping down my spine.
I start to shrink beneath his harsh gaze. Against my better judgment, I fight through it, straightening my back and harshening my stare.
His pointed face cracks into a smile that lacks the warmth and joy you’d expect. Instead, it’s predatory, and my stomach clenches. “Any other criticisms you’d like to lob at me, Miss Mistflow, or should I continue?”
I freeze, and a lump forms in my throat. Mace Nightroot knows who I am. The implications of that fact are unknown, but I doubt it’s very good.
It would make sense for the Patricians to have knowledge of all the Racers in a passive way, mainly to make sure no one hid out and didn’t participate, but this is another level. The eyes of the Lowlanders are on me, their gazes heating my cheeks. The pressure to bow and back down is great, an invisible hand on my back pushing me toward the dirt.
I will myself to think of my father, of the strength he possessed day in and out. A cool breeze blows over me, bringing clean smells of sandalwood and sea salt. The feeling is soothing, and that anchor loosens its hold. “I have a few, but we can discuss those privately when I win the Race,” I shout at him, garnering laughs from my neighbors.
His grin widens, eyes gleaming with mischief. I catch sight of his tongue running across his teeth before he says, “I will welcome the conversation, Miss Mistflow. If you make it.”
There can be no if. There is only when.
After the opening ceremonies, everyone is spread out around the base of the Summit, stretching from the edge of Dalery to the entry of the grasslands. All of us cannot enter the same place at the same time - it would be a bloodbath. We’ve been waiting for the start for hours, the morning having given way to the heat of the late afternoon long ago. We chose a location on the northernmost side of the Summit. The path in this way is a bit more difficult, but my gut tells me it’s the right starting point.
“I cannot believe you called out Mace like that,” Max chastises as we wait on a fallen tree for the official start notification.
Ahead of us lies a forest that I know from prior years circles several hills and valleys before you get to the Summit. Once arriving at the Summit, there is nothing to do but find as steady of a rock path as you can and climb. Over Gallant Mountain, and slightly down its northern face, sits Ytopie, and just outside of it is the arena - our finish line. The distinction between Gallant Summit and Mountain does not matter to us. It is all one obstacle we have to make our way through.
“You should not call attention to yourself like that,” she continues.
I shrug, absentmindedly running my already sharp dagger along my whetstone. The sound is music to my ears, a comforting song that sings strength into my bones. “He already knew my name, Max. I did not need to call attention to myself. Clearly, I’ve already got it.”
“Well, you didn’t have to make it worse.” She’s frustrated with me, I can tell.
