Gemma soaks in the attention. She tosses her dark hair and grins back at the spectators, focusing on the ones who shout out their support for her. Then she hops up onto her stallion’s back in one fluid motion. She balances there on both feet, nimble and petite, her arms crossed in satisfaction. Gemma waves, then jumps back down into a seated position. The entire time, her stallion stays perfectly calm. Of the competitors so far, she is the only malfetto.

The next two quarters’ competitors finally trot out, and the twelve organize themselves into a staggered line at one end of the track. The crowd’s roar is thunderous now. Gemma rubs her horse’s neck, and the stallion paws the ground in anticipation.

“Riders, prepare your horses!” the announcer calls out. The crowd’s roar dies down for a brief second as everyone hushes to watch the start.

The trumpeter lifts a bright yellow silk weighted down with a stone. He flings it skyward. “Go!” he screams.

The horses break. The crowd explodes.

A cloud of dust showers the track as the riders race their first lap around the track. I squint through the haze, then finally catch sight of Gemma’s green silks flying in the pack. She’s among the last half, but she wears a grin that could split her face.

First lap. A Red rider’s ahead, and Gemma is ninth. I find myself cheering for her silently.

All around me is screaming and shouting as each person calls out the names of their favorites. The chaos reminds me of my execution day, and with that, I feel darkness gathering within me. Raffaele had told me to watch the empty space, to look for threads of energy in the air.

The horses thunder around the bend and past me. Gemma has her head thrown back in a wild laugh, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a curtain. I focus on the space between her and the other riders. There’s the flicker of something shining in the corner of my eye. It vanishes when I try to look directly at it.

The horses storm down the track again, nearing the end of the second lap. Only one more lap to go. Gemma is still in ninth. Then suddenly, she makes her move—she pulls on her stallion’s mane, leans close to his neck, and whispers to him. At the same time, a gust of wind blows through the square. Windwalker. She must be watching from a vantage point.

Gemma starts moving up. Fast. Ninth to seventh, then seventh to sixth. Then fifth. Fifth to fourth, to third. The cheers of the Green Quarter’s onlookers turn fever pitched. My heart thuds furiously. With Windwalker’s help, and her own abilities, Gemma pulls gradually into second. I hold my breath. Concentrate. I stare hard at Gemma.

For a split second, I think I see threads glittering in the air, a thousand different colors, moving and shifting like strings on a loom.

The Red riders in first and third place try to block her, forcing her between them. But Gemma pushes harder—the two other riders’ horses toss their heads, startled, when dust kicks up near their hooves. Windwalker must’ve sent a curtain of wind to their legs, pushing them back.

A quarter of a lap to go. Gemma’s horse suddenly pulls ahead in a burst of speed—right into first place. The others try to catch her, but it’s too late. She crosses the finish line. The trumpeter flings the yellow silk in the air again, and shrieks fill the air. The Green Quarter is a sea of dancing silks.

She won.

I can’t resist a smile of relief, even as I pretend to be as subdued as the rest of the Blue Quarter I’m standing with. Perhaps all Teren can do with the information I gave him is to post more Inquisitors to the Tournament when it happens. Perhaps I didn’t affect the Daggers’ plans. All around the square are boos, furious shouts of “Disqualify her!” and “Malfetto,” accusations that she is one of the Young Elites. Still, no one can argue. We saw her win the race.

The trumpeter approaches Gemma, who is taking a bow from where she’s standing balanced on her stallion’s back, and hands her the weighted yellow silk with a ceremonial flourish. Even though he stays festive, I notice him avoid contact with her, jerking his hand away so that he can’t be dirtied by her touch. Gemma’s smile wavers, the first sign that she’s bothered by the treatment—but she still lifts her head high and masks her discomfort behind a widening grin. Then the trumpeter goes around to the other riders, handing each of them a length of green silk. The tradition is the same as it is in Dalia: The losing riders must wear the color of the winner’s quarters on their arms for the next three days, to show their good sport.

“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore!” the trumpeter shouts.

“Order! Order!” one of the Inquisitors calls out from where they’re fencing in the people, but only a few seem willing to listen to him. The Green Quarter in particular is a frenzy of color and sound. The other quarters murmur indignantly among themselves. I start pushing my way out of the crowd, the way I’d come. If the races are over, then I should head back before anyone notices I’m gone.

“Order, I say!” the Inquisitor barks out.

I halt where I am. More Inquisitors block the square’s exits, forcing me to stay put. One Inquisitor calls the trumpeter aside, says something to him that the crowd can’t hear—and then, to my surprise, calls two other Inquisitors over to force Gemma to dismount from her horse. The other riders hurriedly make their way off the track and into the crowd. The crowd stirs as one Inquisitor rides his steed into the middle of the square.

He holds his hands up for quiet. “Ladies and noblemen,” he begins, “I congratulate the Green District and their malfetto on her spectacular win.”