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Max’s brow lowers, her eyes cast down at the table. “You know you can trust me, Vi. I know you always say, ‘In the Race, there are no friends. In the Race, there is no family,’ and I try not to take it personally because I know how hardcore your parents were about this stuff, but…”
Her repetition of my parents’ mantra, the one that played on a loop in my head my entire childhood, stuns me momentarily, and my fingers mindlessly tap on my thighs with the memory. Regaining myself, I reach out and grab her hand, unable to handle the hurt in her voice. “I know. You know you’re the only person I could even possibly begin to consider being a friend. Being an alliance. You’re my partner in this, Max, but that’s all I have to give.”
If there were anyone to trust, it would be Max. Max has looked out for me since we were kids and ramped it up when my parents left me in the Race. She looks at me expectantly, sadness creasing the corners of her mouth. I cannot stand the idea of disappointing her, and I can’t see a world in which she would ever abandon me.
So, against my better judgment, and with my mother’s words that there are no friends in the Race ringing in my head, I take a deep breath and say, “You know what, Max? Promise me that we will do this together. We run this year’s Race, we make it to the arena, and we live our lives in Ytopie, leaving all of this behind us.”
Her eyes dart to mine, and a sly smile creeps across her pointed face. Eventually, she can’t help herself, and the smile grows so large it seems like it may break her face in half. “I promise,” she says, grabbing my hand and shaking.
“Well, then that’s it. It’s a deal,” I pronounce, pumping her hand twice. A crackle of thunder sounds in the distance, and a cool wave of air rushes in through the broken window, bringing a chill through my skin.
“You think they have broken windows in Ytopie, or is that one luxury we’ll have to miss out on?”
Chapter 2
Zeph
Istandattheedge of the balcony atop the Tower of Ytopie, one of the highest points of the city, overlooking Gallant Summit. Sipping a glass of amber liquor, I take in the breathtakingly vast expanse of the Lowlands stretching out in the distance. If I squint, I can see people in Dalery milling about, getting ready to turn into their homes before the sun fully sets. Despite how exhausting my day was, I know it was nothing compared with the hard labor the Lowlanders put in just to stay afloat.
A crash sounds behind me, and I turn to see Plume stumbling onto the wide balcony from my sleeping chambers. Even drunk, she is somehow disarmingly pretty. My eyes catch on her long golden hair and the way it shimmers in the sunset with the colors of Spring.
Spring magic, granted by the Amaryn, the Bloomtide, is considered one of the more physical magics, and those who wield it always seem to look like flowers themselves. Plume is no different. She slides up to me, her arm hooking around my waist, leaning her head on my chest. The soft cotton dress she wears brushes against my exposed skin since I tend to be shirtless in my own home. “I cannot believe it’s almost Race day,” she sighs, exhaustion lacing her voice. The streets below pulse with the anticipation of it, and all the Courts have hung their banners across the plaza below us. All the fae in Ytopie are preparing to spend a week in their homes, glued to the Race.
My eyes are drawn to the Palace of the Patricians, its facade decorated with an array of colors representing the various types of seasonal magic. It’s there that the Race is orchestrated, and the laws of Ytopie are made and executed by the Patricians. A beautiful building holding sinister secrets.
“Did the Tempests complete the mesh?” I ask, eyes fixed on the Palace. The Tempests, or Air wielders, are a subset of Spring fae, and they are responsible for setting up the system of magic that allows the entirety of Ytopie to watch as the Lowlanders compete for a chance to live a life we take for granted daily.
Plume nods, unwrapping herself from my waist and pouring herself a glass of liquor. “You still don’t want a mesh connection in your home?” she asks, sipping from her glass.
I shake my head. “You know how I feel about it. Besides, I swear it buzzes. It’s like there are hundreds of tiny bees in my home at all times.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. Most people cannot see and hear magic, so maybe I am lucky in that regard. It still makes my head hurt to be around magic that is not my own so often.
“As impressive as the magic is, it still doesn’t sit right with me that the Lowlanders have no idea this mesh exists,” she mumbles, almost to herself. She is always careful with criticism of the Patricians around me, and rightfully so.
I am one of them.
The Lowlanders are unaware of the spectacle the trauma they endure year after year causes here. Fae place bets, throw parties, and have favorites that they track as they age within the Race. We have seen brothers betray brothers, wives betray husbands.
“Do you remember that year a mother and father left their child behind while she slept?” I say, turning to look at Plume and resting my back on the balcony wall.
“Wasn’t she in her Ascension year, too?” I nod at Plume, my thoughts drifting back to my own parents. Could they have left the child they had presumably loved and cared for their entire life like those parents left their child?
The fae value that sort of cutthroat behavior as a whole, so maybe my parents would have behaved the same. I was raised to see that ruthlessness as a strength. My parents believed it to be honorable that the humans would put Ytopie above all else - even their family. It has never quite sat right with me.
I am sure there are plenty of others who would disagree with me that power exists in unions with others. I know most of the Patricians, especially Mace Nightroot, disagree. Mace, who sits at their head, was young, by fae standards, when he ended up leading the Patricians, and most attribute that to his shrewd decision-making skills. Really, I think it’s mostly due to his Autumn magic.
Autumn is the magic of influence and prosperity granted by the God Avidor. Those blessed with Autumn magic can speed up decay and manipulate the earth itself. Mace’s particular brand of Autumn magic made it well-known that you could not be too careful eating or drinking from his table. At his best, he would increase the potency of your wine so you get drunk and embarrass yourself.
I have fallen victim to that a time or two in my life.
At his worst, Mace could turn the food in your mouth to ash, decaying you from the inside out. Those who wield Autumn are always quick to rise in political ranks because those who control the crops can control anyone. Add in the influence that Autumn magic can push over others, and you’ve got the recipe for a perfect leader, for better or worse. In Mace’s case, I think it’s worse.
“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Plume slurs, having found a seat at the metal table nearest the door to the tower and helped herself to another glass of liquor from my decanter. That’s at least three by my count, and she was clearly drinking before she came over. An unusual amount of liquor for her, but who am I to judge?
“What look?” I raise my eyebrow, bracing myself for whatever is about to tumble out of her bow-shaped mouth.
“You’re scowling like you’re arguing with Mace in your head.”
