"Saturday test? What kind of sadist schedules a test on a weekend?" Cain flops backwards onto his bed, arm draped dramatically over his eyes.

  I grunt in agreement, flipping through my history textbook. The pages blur together—endless dates, names, and territorial disputes that mean nothing to me. My only goal is survival, not memorizing which Duke claimed what land during the Third Border War.

  "It's because Professor Linley has family visiting," I mutter, recalling the thin-lipped explanation we'd received. "Wants his weekend free."

  "So he ruins ours instead? Brilliant." Cain hurls a balled-up paper at the ceiling. "What do they even expect us to know? The entire history of Gratis?"

  "Just the Seven Territories and major conflicts." I tap the chapter heading. "Focus on Egozia and Jeolara."

  "Easy for you to say. You probably know all this rubbish already."

  I don't correct him. The truth is, mercenaries don't care about history—only who's paying and who needs killing. Maya taught me to fight, not to recite lineages of pompous nobles.

  Maya….

  The examination hall reeks of anxiety and chalk dust. Students huddle over their papers, scratching furiously. Anja sits three rows ahead, already turning to the second page while I'm still reading the first question.

  Name the major Kingdoms in the Seven Territories of Gratis and their primary resources or characteristics.

  I grip my pencil tighter. This, at least, I know from Maya's strategic briefings.

  Kingdom of Jeolara (Envy): Steampunk technology, manufacturing

  Grand Duchy of Egozia (Pride): Magic academies, military might

  Territory of Flak (Wrath): Warrior culture, constant internal conflict

  Principality of Guldor (Greed): Wealth, dungeons, mixed technology

  Grand Duchy of Slumbra (Sloth): Unknown, isolationists

  Thearcy of Haven (Lust): Entertainment, limited military power

  Thearcy of Glutthar (Gluttony): Resource-depleted, barren

  The next questions grow increasingly specific. I scratch answers where I can and leave blanks where I can't. Halfway through, I notice Cain's eyes darting to my paper. I shift slightly, giving him a better view. Not out of kindness—I simply don't care.

  Two hours later, we spill into the corridor, drained and irritable.

  "That was brutal," Cain moans, slouching against the wall.

  Anja approaches, looking infuriatingly fresh. "I found it quite straightforward, actually."

  "Of course you did," Cain rolls his eyes. "You probably knew the exact date the first Egozian Duke decided to wear purple instead of blue."

  "1423, actually," she replies with a smirk. "During the Chromatic Revolution. How'd you two manage?"

  I shrug. "Passable."

  "I copied half his answers," Cain jerks a thumb at me. "So I'm either brilliant or doomed, depending on how tribal boy here performed."

  "Fifty-fifty," I estimate. The tribal history I know isn't the kind they teach in academies.

  "Splendid!" Wentworth's voice cuts through our conversation as he approaches, clutching a leather satchel. "I see you have all completed Professor Linley's examination. I found the section on territorial expansion particularly fascinating, did you not?"

  Anja and Cain exchange glances.

  "Yeah, riveting stuff," Cain deadpans. "I especially loved the part where I wanted to stab myself with my pencil."

  "Self-harm is no joking matter," Wentworth frowns, missing the sarcasm entirely. "Though I suppose the stress of examinations can—"

  "We're going to the races," Anja interrupts. "Eastern track. You know it?"

  Wentworth blinks rapidly. "The unauthorized vehicular competitions? Those are strictly against Academy regulations and—"

  "Great, you're not invited then," Cain says cheerfully. "Wouldn't want to corrupt you."

  "I was not seeking an invitation," Wentworth huffs. "I merely wished to point out—"

  "Race track. One hour," Anja says, already walking away. "Bring something to hold your stomach in."

  The eastern track is nothing like I expected. Hidden behind abandoned warehouses, it's a sprawling dirt oval surrounded by makeshift stands filled with cheering spectators. The air smells of oil, smoke, and something chemical I can't identify.

  Anja leads us to a canvas tent where her "baby" waits.

  "What in seven hells is that?" Cain steps back, eyes wide.

  Before us sits a monstrous contraption—part motorcycle, part carriage, with exposed gears and pipes hissing steam. Three seats are welded to a frame that looks cobbled together from scrap metal. The wheels are massive, studded with metal cleats.

  "This," Anja runs her hand lovingly along a copper pipe, "is the Jeolaran Vengeance. Zero to deadly in six seconds."

  "You built this?" I ask, genuinely impressed despite myself.

  "Every bolt and gear." Her eyes gleam with pride. "Now, who wants the first ride?"

  I examine the contraption with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant admiration. The craftsmanship is impressive, even to my untrained eye.

  "When did you find time to build this?" I ask, running my fingers along the frame's welded joints. "We've been in classes all week."

  Anja grins, reaching into what appears to be a storage compartment beneath the driver's seat. She pulls out a wrapped bundle and unfolds it to reveal several pastries.

  "There's always time," she says, biting into a meat pie with obvious relish. "Especially after midnight. The engineering workshop has terrible security."

  She offers me a pastry, which I decline with a shake of my head. Nothing surprises me about Anja anymore.

  Cain, however, gapes at her. "You've been sneaking out? Building this death machine? While I've been drooling on my textbooks?"

  "Your priorities," Anja shrugs, talking through a mouthful of food, "are clearly misaligned."

  "Bloody hell," Cain mutters, circling the vehicle with newfound wariness. "This thing looks like it could disintegrate at any moment."

  "Only if you hit something solid," Anja replies cheerfully, wiping grease from her fingers. "Now, who's first?"

  Cain takes an immediate step back, wincing theatrically. "Oh, my back. Terrible pain. Must've pulled something during that test. Mental strain, you know."

  He claps a hand on my shoulder. "But Mark here—he's perfect! Strong, fearless, practically indestructible. Tribal warrior and all that. Right, mate?"

  I narrow my eyes at him, but find myself considering the offer. The mercenary life taught me to assess risks quickly, but it never allowed for... this. Whatever this is.

  "What's it like?" I ask Anja, who's already strapping herself into the driver's position.

  "Like flying," she says, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Like being hunted by a predator, except you're faster. It's life, Mark. Compressed into moments."

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  Something in her words resonates with me. All my existence has been about survival, revenge, and moving forward without truly living. I've never chased a feeling simply because it might be worth experiencing.

  "I'll go," I decide, stepping toward the passenger seat.

  Anja's smile widens. "Excellent! Cain, you're in the back."

  "What? No!" Cain protests, backing away. "I just told you—"

  "Your back pain is imaginary," Anja cuts him off, "and I need weight distribution."

  Before Cain can escape, I grab his arm and haul him toward the third seat. He struggles half-heartedly as Anja tosses me a set of leather straps.

  "Make sure they're tight," she instructs as I secure Cain to his seat. "If he falls out, the Academy will make us fill out paperwork."

  "This is abduction!" Cain yelps as I cinch the final strap. "I'm being kidnapped by my own friends!"

  "We're not friends," I remind him, though the words lack their usual edge.

  "Helmets," Anja announces, tossing leather caps with goggles attached. I pull mine on, barely fitting—while Cain continues his protests.

  Anja flips switches and turns valves. The machine shudders beneath us, belching steam from exhaust pipes. The vibration travels up my spine and settles in my chest like a second heartbeat.

  "Ready?" she shouts over the growing roar.

  I nod. Cain whimpers.

  She pulls a lever, and the world explodes into motion.

  The force slams me back against my seat. Wind tears at my face despite the goggles. The track becomes a blur of brown and grey, punctuated by flashes of colour from the spectators.

  Anja howls with laughter as she takes a turn, the vehicle tilting so far I'm certain we'll flip. Somehow, we don't. Mud sprays in our wake. Cain's screams become a continuous, high-pitched wail.

  And I—

  I feel something unfamiliar bloom in my chest. Not fear. Not rage. Something lighter, brighter. My lips pull back in what might be a smile.

  For these moments, hurtling around a dirt track in a contraption that defies both logic and safety, I'm not thinking about vengeance or survival or the dead. I'm simply... here. Present. Alive.

  I understand, suddenly, what Anja chases.

  We rocket down the straightaway, the Jeolaran Vengeance's engine screaming like a wounded beast. Anja's hands move across the controls with practised precision, adjusting valves and levers I couldn't begin to understand. The vibration travels through my bones, rattling my teeth, but I don't care. This feeling—this rush—is unlike anything I've experienced.

  I glance back at Cain. His head lolls against the restraints, mouth slack. Passed out cold.

  "We lost Cain!" I shout over the roar.

  Anja cackles, not bothering to look. "Lightweight! More fun for us!"

  Ahead, five or six other vehicles spread across the track—sleek, polished contraptions with brass fittings and ornate detailing. Academy students with money to burn.

  "Watch this," Anja yells, cranking a lever that sends a fresh burst of steam hissing from the pipes.

  We surge forward, closing in on a gleaming silver machine with decorative wings welded to its sides. The driver, a thin boy with goggles too large for his face, notices us approaching and tries to accelerate.

  Anja swings wide, then cuts inside as we approach the curve. "Nice ornaments, Belmont!" she shouts as we pull alongside. "Shame they don't make you any faster! Maybe Daddy can buy you some actual talent next time!"

  The boy's face contorts with rage, but we're already past him, leaving him choking on our dust.

  My heart hammers against my ribs. I should be worried about Academy rules, about drawing attention, about a hundred different things—but all I feel is the wind against my face and an unfamiliar lightness in my chest.

  We approach a bright red vehicle that sputters black smoke. Two riders—driver and passenger—both wearing matching crimson scarves.

  "Coming through, Bachilds!" Anja shouts, swerving dangerously close. "That's what happens when you spend more on your outfits than your engine! Maybe sell one of those fancy scarves and buy some decent fuel!"

  The passenger makes an obscene gesture as we pull ahead.

  "Did they teach you that at etiquette class?" Anja laughs, returning the gesture with enthusiasm.

  Three more vehicles ahead—a sleek black one, a bulky green monstrosity, and a brass-plated machine that seems to be having trouble maintaining speed.

  Anja bears down on the green one first. "Move your rolling greenhouse, Gardener! Plants grow faster than you drive!"

  The driver—a stocky girl with braided hair—shouts something back that's lost in the wind. Doesn't matter. We're already pulling past the black vehicle.

  "Nice paint job, Morrington! Matches your personality—dull and overpriced!"

  I find myself laughing. Not the bitter laugh I've grown accustomed to, but something genuine that bubbles up from somewhere long buried.

  The brass-plated vehicle is our final obstacle. It weaves erratically, blocking our path.

  "Amateur hour!" Anja shouts, feinting left before cutting sharply right. "Your daddy's money can't buy skill, Covington!"

  Wait—Covington?

  I catch a glimpse of Wentworth's horrified face as we thunder past. His mouth forms a perfect 'O' of shock, his carefully styled hair now a windswept disaster.

  "Wasn't he—" I begin.

  "Not invited!" Anja finishes, cackling with glee. "But the rich ones always think rules don't apply to them!"

  We've cleared the pack now, nothing but open track ahead. Anja pushes the Vengeance harder, the needle on the pressure gauge edging into the red zone. The finish line approaches—along with what appears to be the longest stopping area I've ever seen, littered with hay bales and sand pits.

  "Anja," I warn, eyeing the rapidly approaching end. "Anja!"

  She waits until the last possible moment before yanking back on the brake lever. The Vengeance screams in protest, wheels locking, sending us into a sideways skid that tears through the first sand pit, then the second. We plough through a hay bale, straw exploding around us like shrapnel.

  Finally, mercifully, we stop—mere inches from the final barrier.

  Silence falls as the engine ticks and cools. My knuckles are white where I've gripped the frame. My heart feels like it might burst from my chest.

  Anja turns to me, face split with the widest grin I've ever seen. "So? What did you think?"

  I should be angry. Should be lecturing her about risks and exposure and a dozen other rational concerns. Instead, I hear myself say:

  "When can we go again?"

  I haul Cain's limp form off the back of the Vengeance, his head lolling against my shoulder. His face is pale as chalk, mouth hanging open like a dead fish.

  "Is he breathing?" Anja asks, not sounding particularly concerned.

  I check. "Unfortunately."

  She grins, pulling off her driving gloves. "Splash some water on him. There's a pump over by the maintenance tent."

  Two buckets of cold water later, Cain sputters back to consciousness, coughing and flailing like a drowning cat.

  "What—where—" His eyes focus on me, then Anja, then the Vengeance. "Oh no. It wasn't a nightmare."

  "Rise and shine, lightweight," Anja says, tossing him a rag to dry his face. "You missed all the fun."

  "I think I'm going to be sick," Cain groans, doubling over.

  "Not on my boots," I warn, stepping back.

  After Cain finishes retching behind a stack of tyres, Anja announces she's starving. "Nothing builds an appetite like leaving the competition in the dust," she says, patting her stomach. "I know a place nearby. Best grease-soaked food in the district."

  I notice Wentworth hovering at the edge of the track, his brass-plated contraption now parked haphazardly among the other vehicles. His normally immaculate appearance is dishevelled—hair windblown, face smudged with oil, expensive clothes covered in dust.

  "Mark!" he calls, hurrying over with an awkward gait. "What a surprise to encounter you here! I had no idea you possessed an interest in vehicular competitions."

  "I don't," I reply flatly.

  "He was just leaving," Anja adds, grabbing my arm. "We all were."

  Wentworth falls into step beside us as we head toward the exit. "I must say, your friend's driving technique is most unorthodox. Effective, certainly, but with several clear violations of standard racing protocols."

  "There are protocols for illegal racing?" Cain asks, still looking slightly green.

  "Well, not officially documented, of course, but gentlemen's agreements exist among—"

  "We're going to eat," I cut him off.

  His face brightens. "Splendid! I could certainly partake in refreshment after such exhilaration."

  "You're not invited," Anja says bluntly.

  Wentworth's smile falters. "I... see. However, Mark, if I might have just a moment of your time? Those markings of yours—I've been researching similar phenomena and believe I may have discovered some relevant historical precedents that could—"

  "No," I say, turning away.

  "But—"

  "Piss off, fancy pants," Anja snaps. "Can't you see he's not interested?"

  We leave Wentworth standing there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  The "Crankshaft Café" looks like it might collapse if someone sneezes too hard. Nestled between a scrapyard and what appears to be an illegal chop shop, it's exactly the kind of place no self-respecting Academy student would enter. Which is precisely why Anja chose it.

  "Trust me," she says as we push through the oil-stained door. "Best damn meat pies in the city."

  The interior is dimly lit by gas lamps with soot-blackened chimneys. Every surface gleams with a thin layer of grease. The patrons—mostly mechanics and factory workers—give us curious glances before returning to their food and conversations.

  We settle at a wobbly table near the back. Cain immediately starts fidgeting with the cutlery, balancing a fork on the edge of a knife.

  "Watch this," he says, spinning a spoon on his fingertip. "Learned it in detention last year."

  I ignore him, scanning the room for exits out of habit. Two doors, and three windows, all easily accessible. Good.

  "Damn it," Anja mutters, nodding toward the entrance. "Look who couldn't take a hint."

  Wentworth stands in the doorway, looking horrifically out of place in his expensive clothes. The café falls silent as he picks his way through the tables toward us.

  "I apologize for the intrusion," he says, standing awkwardly beside our table. "But I simply must insist on a brief conversation regarding your unique condition, Mark. The academic implications alone—"

  "Sit down," I finally say, tired of his hovering. "Order something. Stop talking about my 'condition.'"

  Relief washes over his face as he pulls up a chair. "Most gracious of you. I shall endeavour to be discreet."

  Anja rolls her eyes but signals the server.

  While we wait for our food, Cain continues his impromptu performance, stacking utensils into increasingly precarious towers. "In Jeolara," he explains, "street performers make good money doing this stuff. Better than studying, that's for sure."

  The food arrives—enormous meat pies swimming in gravy, served on chipped plates. Wentworth stares at his portion with thinly veiled horror.

  "The, ah, culinary presentation is certainly... rustic," he manages.

  "Shut up and eat," Anja says, already halfway through hers.

  As we finish our meal, Cain stands dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen—and Wentworth—for my final trick, I shall remove the tablecloth without disturbing a single dish!"

  "Cain, don't—" I start, but he's already gripping the edge of the cloth.

  "Observe!" he announces, giving a sharp tug.

  The cloth catches on something—probably the rough edge of my plate—and instead of sliding free, it yanks everything forward. Plates, glasses, and leftover food crash to the floor in a spectacular mess.

  The café falls silent. The owner—a mountain of a man with tattoos covering his massive arms—emerges from the kitchen, face darkening like a thundercloud.

  I look up just in time to see Anja and Cain bolting for the door.

  "Sorry!" Cain calls over his shoulder. "Mark's got this! He's good for it!"

  They vanish into the street, leaving me alone with Wentworth and the approaching owner, whose knuckles are cracking ominously as he flexes his hands.

  Wentworth swallows audibly. "I don't suppose you have a contingency plan for this scenario?"

  Those fuckers.