The Thunderfoal
The thunderfoal's name is Static, and the moment the starting horn blows you learn why: the world goes sideways.
You have ridden a bike downhill with no brakes. You have ridden the county fair Tilt-a-Whirl the year the man let it run long. You have never ridden anything like Static, who takes the first mist-gate at a speed that turns your cheeks inside out and passes three court riders like they're parked.
By the second lap you're in the lead pack and Static is barely trying. That's when he shows you the shortcut. He banks toward it without asking: a narrow arch of mist off the marked course, glowing faintly gold, through which — his whole crackling body is certain — you could cut the entire third lap and win by a mile.
Below the arch, far down, you can see yesterday's patrol leader watching from the stands. It might be your imagination, but you think he's shaking his head, very slightly, the way you'd warn someone without wanting to be seen doing it.