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By now, she's caught me staring and I've had to look away. It’s not easy. Girl has somehustle. “She’s not bad,” someone murmurs discreetly to me, nodding his head in the human’s direction. “She doesn’t stand much of a chance on this mountain, of course. But still.”
I don’t respond, feeling strangely uncomfortable with trash-talking this woman though I have no idea why. He’s right, ofcourse. Still, watching her lean thighs cut through the course in great time, I don't doubt she’ll do well in this race.
Damn, but that ass. Not to mention the go-to-hell look she gave me when I offered her my hand. Truth be told, it’s not like me to offer a hand to anyone or care what snarky remarks anyone else makes. I don't know what’s come over me.
Before I have the chance to think it over, the last man has run his course and the whistle blows.
“That concludes this morning's practice session, everyone. We’ll reconvene in two hours, so everyone eat and rest until then.” The instructor breaks our practice with another quick word. “Before you go, comm rooms are open and available for your use. The Leaguehighlyencourages you to make final preparations with friends or family before the race.”
In my three years competing in the Challenge, it never gets any easier. The challenge is always daunting, the conditions are always brutal, and the yearly family phone call always unnerves me before the final gun. If I were superstitious, I’d say the nerves that drag my feet to the comm rooms were as lucky as yesterday’s socks.
But I'm not. With my hand clutching the handle of the first available booth, I pause, wondering what the heck I will say to them after another year's silence. Before I can open it, I feel a slight rap on my shoulder.
“Sir?” A gentle-faced Kiphian older than myself, whose geometric patterns cover his shoulders, grabs my attention.
“Can I help you?” I see he’s holding a battered copy of Lightfoot Magazine, a rare paper print edition I haven't seen in a decade or more. I made the cover in the year of my first trial run, at the ripe age of fourteen. It was something unheard of by League standards.
“Would you mind signing it?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper. He pulls the beanie from his head and bows as though I'm royalty.
“Where did you find this?” I beg, curious as the paper wilts in my fingers. “I haven't seen one in ages.”
“I’m a bit of a collector,” he offers sheepishly. “If you could sign it though? It's for my wife.”
“Sure, what’s her name?” I ask as he hands me the pen.
“Thippe,” he responds in a hurry, wringing the beanie into knots. “If you could write, ‘To my fellow aspirant, good luck.’” After I scribe the words verbatim, a horrid thought jumps into my brain.
“Wait, your wife is here? On the Challenge with you?”
“Yes.” He beams. “We’ve entered separately in years past. This is our first year to take the Challenge together.” I can hardly believe what I’m hearing, but as it's none of my business, I sign the magazine and hand it back to him.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Xanath. Name’s Maxe.” He shakes my hand. “Honestly, it's an honor competing alongside you, sir. My wife and I are thrilled! Just thrilled!” He rushes off with his prize while I try to let the words settle over my disbelief.
Closing the door of the booth, I lock it and try to clear my mind. I can hardly think of anything more irresponsible than to bring a spouse on a trial like this. I know I'm being judgmental but still.
My past experience tells me that it’s the selfishness of one partner that forces the other one to follow their reluctant lead. I can’t help but pity whichever one of them is being dragged into something so challenging.
With reluctance, I sit down at the booth to ping my parent's line. Sure enough, my mom’s face shows up beaming from the other side. Dad is… somewhere, I guess.
“Baby boy,” she gushes from the comm. It’s nice to see she’s dressed up, even if in the background it's clear that she and Dad are living in tents again. “I am just delighted to see your face, son. You look good. How are you?”
“I’m doing great. Feeling ready, you know. You look great. How are you?” I try to compliment her when I can. My father never does.
“Oh, the usual.” She sighs. “My class in the village school hates me, but it's better than herding chordatas. Otherwise, we carry on. Your father feels he’s just so close this time.”
“Where are you guys these days?”
“Look.” She picks up her comm to take it outside the yurt-style tent she and my father call home. “We’re East of the Clint Mountains, near the sea of Hanon. Look at those chalk cliffs!”
When she takes it back inside, I see that the living situation is the same as it was all my life. A messy tent, littered with maps and mining tools, and a crazed old man in the corner hovered over his atlases and letters.
“Your father wants to say hello.”
I try not to groan as I see the old man enter the frame.
“Hullo, Rylan. How’s the competition looking this year?” It's the same every time. He has no real idea what I do here. He just knows his maps and his mirconium.
Years ago, my father and the late Thane of the Mountain Kingdom discovered a vein of rare minerals. Suddenly, there was a huge boom to mine it. But the mines were quickly emptied, and the industry went bankrupt. My family lost everything. Dad just wouldn't give it up, and his search for mirconium has led us all over Kiphia.
