Aspen’s red hair flew out behind her, New-Age Frost putting on an unbelievable burst of speed, wings blurring, barging past River-Reed Prince, swerving as a lightning bolt missed Aspen by inches. Then Frost’s great gray wings soared past Kenna’s favorite, Mountain’s Fear, then Tom Nazari’s black unicorn, Devil’s Own Tears. And Aspen took the lead. “Yeah!” Skandar punched the air. It was a very un-Skandar thing to do, but this was incredible—unbelievable. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the commentator shouted. “Look how far ahead she is!” Kenna gasped, her eyes fixed on the unicorns as they approached the finish. “I don’t believe it!” “She’s going to win by a hundred meters,” another commentator squealed. Skandar watched, mouth open, as New-Age Frost’s hooves touched down in the arena’s sand. Aspen pushed him forward, fierce determination in her eyes as she passed under the finishing arch. Skandar jumped up, shouting with excitement. “They won! They won! See, Kenna, I told you! I called it, I called it!” Kenna was laughing, eyes shining, and that made the victory even better. “All right, Skar. They were really something, I’ll give you that. Those ice crystals, what a move! I’ve never seen—” “Wait.” Dad was standing close to the screen. “Something’s wrong.” Skandar approached him on one side, Kenna on the other. Skandar could hear the crowd screaming, but it wasn’t excitement anymore; it was fear. Unicorns were no longer coming through the arch to finish the race. The commentators were silent, the footage still—there was just a single shot of the arena, as though the camera operators had abandoned their posts. A unicorn landed in the center of the arena. It didn’t look like any of the others—not Sunset’s Blood or New-Age Frost or Mountain’s Fear—whose victory parade it had interrupted. This unicorn’s wings were almost featherless—bat-like—and it was skeletal, half-starved. Its eyes were red haunted slits. Blood was caked around its jaws, its teeth bared at the racers, as though daring them to attack.
