The Sunken Crown Race

The starter's flare still smolders in your peripheral vision as you slam the throttle, the rattletrap skimmer's engine screaming its protest. Dawn light bleeds orange across the Sunken Crown's broken skyline, and the air tastes of ozone and old dust. You're already third, and you haven't even cleared the starting arch.

Kael's rig pulls ahead on your left, sleek and gleaming—a machine that cost more than your entire life savings. He doesn't look at you. He never does. But you know the set of his shoulders, the way he drives with his jaw clenched like he's outrunning something.

The course winds into the first canyon, and the crowd's roar fades behind you. Ahead, the ruins of the old city rise like the ribs of a dead god. You know this route. You mapped it in secret, night after night, while your sister slept and the debt collectors hammered the door.

You're meant to win. You're meant to save her.

But Kael knows the route too. And he doesn't know why.