The Dinosaur Race

The roar of the crowd hit like a physical thing. Dust and heat churned together as the gates thundered open and the dinosaurs surged forward in a violent burst of muscle and instinct. The stands shook with shouting—names, curses, prayers to gods both remembered and forgotten.

Arabess didn’t move.

Her eyes tracked the field with cold precision, posture still, unreadable even as Zongo lagged behind the pack in the first stretch, heavy-footed and unimpressive.

A shadow slipped into the empty seat beside her just as the racers rounded the first bend. Boots on wood. A breath slightly quickened but steadying fast.

“Did I miss anything important?”

Arabess didn’t look at him.

“You missed the part where I had to find the betting cages alone,” she said.

Cal leaned back, one arm draping casually over the back of the bench as if he’d been there the entire time.

“Sounds like you managed.”

“I did,” she replied. “That wasn’t the point.”

Only then did she glance at him.

A brief, measuring look.

“You’re late.”

“Timing,” Cal said. “It’s an art.”

She studied him a moment longer, then asked, “Where were you?”

Cal tilted his head slightly. “Setting us up for later.”

Arabess’s eyes narrowed. “You’re very bad at explaining what that means.”

He flashed a quick grin. “If I explained it, it’d sound less impressive.”

Her gaze lingered a moment longer, then flicked back to the track.

“Zongo,” she said.

Cal’s grin was immediate. “Zongo.”

They watched in silence as the race unfolded. Zongo didn’t surge ahead. Didn’t impress.

But he didn’t break, either. One by one, the faster beasts faltered; bad turns, collisions, panic in the dust-choked chaos. Zongo endured. By the final stretch, endurance was enough.

The payout line was chaos. Voices raised, hands waving slips, accusations flying at the bookkeepers who suddenly found themselves very unpopular. Arabess stood at the counter, composed as ever, her winning slip already presented.

The bookkeeper scowled as he counted out the gold.

“Thirty-to-one,” the man muttered. “Should’ve known better than to doubt a fool’s luck.”

Arabess said nothing. The coins hit the counter in heavy, satisfying stacks. Cal stepped in beside her, brushing dust from his sleeve as he glanced at the pile.

“Beautiful,” he said. “I always did like long odds.”

He reached forward and Arabess rested a hand lightly on the gold before he could.

“No,” she said.

Cal paused.

Then slowly looked up at her.

“…no?”

“You don’t take from my winnings,” Arabess said. “You earn yours.” A small smile touched the corner of her mouth; sharp, but not unkind. “You weren’t there when the bet was placed.”

“Wait a minute. Half of the bet was from my own stash. That makes us partners.”

Arabess’s eyes narrowed just slightly. Her fingers tapped once against the coin.

“As I recall you were a little short. Sixty-forty.”

“You wouldn’t have made the bet without me!” Cal protested.

“Sixty,” she said gazing into his eyes. Then smirked. “Forty.”

Cal considered pushing it. You could see it, the instinct, the impulse, the almost. Then he exhaled through his nose and nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “Sixty-forty.”

Then, with a flicker of that familiar grin, 

“But next time, I place the bet.”

Arabess allowed the faintest curve of a smile.

“Next time,” she said, “you show up on time.”

They divided the winnings there at the counter, efficient, unceremonious. Separate shares.

Shared understanding.

Evalise found them shortly after, already muttering under her breath as she adjusted her goggles, lenses clicking softly.

“That shouldn’t have worked,” she said. “Statistically, that should not have worked.”

An’ric arrived without sound, his presence settling beside them like still water.

Tavril lingered just behind, his gaze moving between the two piles of coin… then to the two who had earned them.

He said nothing.

But he noticed.

By the time they returned to the villa, the city had begun to settle.

The heat lingered, thick and unmoving, but the noise had softened; drawn inward behind walls and shuttered windows. Inside, the group dispersed naturally.

Evalise and Equandi  claimed a table, maps and notes spreading outward in careful disarray. Ink, parchment, and quiet obsession. The world narrowed to lines and possibilities only they could see.

An’ric moved to the courtyard. Breath. Step. Motion. His kata carved calm through the heavy air, each movement precise, deliberate; a ritual of control in a city that offered little of it.

The villa had gone quiet. But not silent. It was enough. Enough to slip through.

Cal moved first. Of course he did. He lingered just long enough to make it look like he wasn’t going anywhere at all; leaning back in his chair, one boot hooked over the other, a coin rolling lazily across his knuckles. Anyone watching would’ve sworn he was settling in for the night.

No one was watching. Evalise was buried in her maps, lenses clicking softly as she chased lines only she could see. An’ric’s focus never broke; each movement of his kata as precise as the last, eyes fixed inward.

Cal let the coin vanish into his palm. Rose without a sound. Crossed the room at an easy pace; not sneaking, not creeping. Just… leaving. At the door, he paused only long enough to listen. Nothing. A faint grin tugged at his mouth. Then he slipped out into the night. 

He returned the coin to his pouch and smiled to himself.

“Forty percent,” he murmured. “Let’s see what that turns into.”

Tavril waited. Not long. Just long enough. He stood near the edge of the courtyard, watching An’ric finish a sequence, the quiet discipline of it grounding in a way he respected. His hand rested briefly over the symbol of Helm on his tabard; an unconscious gesture, more habit than prayer. Then he turned. No announcement. A quiet purpose in his stride. He moved along the shadowed edge of the villa, steps measured, deliberate. Where Cal flowed through space, Tavril chose his path; avoiding loose stone, passing through darker pockets of the courtyard where lanternlight didn’t quite reach. At the gate, he stopped. Listened. The night answered back; soft wind, distant voices, nothing more. He opened it just enough to slip through, then eased it closed behind him without a sound.

Arabess was last. She adjusted the fall of her robes with practiced precision, ensuring nothing would catch or betray her movement, then crossed the room in a straight, unbroken line. At the door, she paused only long enough to let the outside air brush against her senses. Warm. Still. Waiting. Then she stepped out into the night.

The villa remained behind them. Quiet. Occupied. Unaware. Three different paths. Three different intentions. All vanishing into the same darkness.  Each certain they had left unnoticed. 

Each correct.