Chapter One. When You Save the Boy You Hate from Certain Death #2
After hearing what he and Colm think about me and the scholarship, maybe it’s more than my competence.
Maybe he truly is classist. Society constantly reminds us of crafting hierarchy.
If you’re half-decent you don’t judge people for that.
An iron-crafter isn’t inherently lesser than a tin, or a tin lesser than a copper.
But I find silver-crafters, at the top, never fail to look down on those they deem beneath them.
Colm Ditters probably only makes the friendship cut because his family is on the brink of social climbing from bronze to silver.
I know for a fact James still looks down on all of us, and me in particular.
An old friend of mine, Cara Moore, overheard James once telling Colm and other riders that I was a worthless know-it-all, a copper nobody, and if anyone thought I was attractive they’d might want to get their eyes checked. So yeah, classist and a conceited jerk.
“Can I help you?” I ask, still somewhat aghast he’s on the ground with me for no reason.
“Just watching.”
I inspect Hort’s last foot. Then because his words still burn from earlier, I whisper, “Don’t think you can beat me in medical just by watching.”
“I know.”
Oh, so he knows. Can he be any more infuriating?
It’s times like this I want to ask why again.
Because “good opportunity” still doesn’t make sense to me.
That’s obvious. A full scholarship to one of the only universities in Toulin that specializes in dragon-related jobs, who wouldn’t consider that a good opportunity?
But why go for the all-around scholarship?
Why take the one thing I need and want more than anything when his parents could pay the tuition three times over and not bat an eye?
Plus, James could get recruited into the racing team and earn a free ride that way.
Most likely that racing scout perches in one of the viewing towers now, eager to jot down his name.
Who am I kidding, they don’t even need to write anything.
They probably have his offer letter ready, and we still have one last year of school.
“Why—” I start.
“Something wrong?” A hard voice slams into us. I flinch. More surprising, so does James.
Mr. John Murphy, James’s father and owner of what feels like the whole town, stands before us. He’s not exactly tall, but damn does he cast a long shadow.
“No, Hort’s good to go,” I announce while I look over to Dad to make sure the head and the wings got his approval.
“Hort’s really growing.” A hidden meaning lies in Dad’s tone and I try to decipher it.
Hort is growing, but he’s three and still within the measurement limits of racing Sprinters.
Height eighteen and a half hands and wingspan forty hands according to the notes I just logged.
Hort likes the attention. As we stare, he raises his head higher.
Cute little show-off. Probably learned that from his owner.
The show-off part, not the cute part, obviously.
James tenses at my father’s words though.
“If there are no issues, get going then,” Mr. Murphy’s hard voice rumbles.
James reaches for Hort’s lead, but freezes and his eyes close.
My dad tilts his head. “Your arm hurting?”
I look down at James’s arms. Dad’s right, one is stiff. James clenches his fist as if in anger. Or maybe that’s pain. “Dr. Burke should be in the medical tent,” Dad continues. “It’s not only dragons who need a checkup every now and again.”
“I’m—”
“He’s fine,” Mr. Murphy informs us. Why does it sound like a threat though? Like drop it or else.
My dad is a lot of things. Friendly, passionate, a pushover, some might say. But he always gets the hint. “Glad to hear it. Good luck, James,” Dad adds warmly, as if he enjoys the races at all.
As soon as father and son are out of earshot, Dad tugs me toward him. “Farren, watch for James and Hort out there.”
“Should we not have passed Hort? Did you sense something?” I recall the way his scales felt. Bones and joints in good condition. He produced his armor of metal seamlessly.
“It’s a gut feeling. Just … watch out for them.”
Twelve Sprinters hover above the crystal blue lake, awaiting the releasing bell.
At the start every dragon wears their natural scales, and a rainbow of color glistens in the sunshine.
From my vantage point I can only see the dragons’ bellies though.
A certain orange dragon on the far outer edge of the group draws my attention.
I shake my head and fiddle with Daphine’s reins.
As an official spotter I’m supposed to watch out for everyone, not just James Murphy.
Daphine turns her slim blue head as if she can read my thoughts. And the judgy look in her eyes tells me she’s unimpressed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I huff. “I’m doing my job.”
The bell peals, the audience above me roars, and a dozen dragons bolt forward.
Wings expand and beat the air, then level out to glide around the first corner.
It’s there the talent separate. James is always in the leading pack, but never the leader—until the last straightaway.
Damn, I even know his strategy. Dad really got into my head and now he’s all I can focus on.
I force myself to watch the other dragons. Cara’s in the back fighting to avoid confrontation. A few riders dip under the main pack to try to gain an edge. Colm’s one of them, taking the next straightway hard and fast.
A part of me yearns to fly as well, to glide alongside those twelve other racers.
But the races aren’t simple entertainment.
I mean, yes, they are entertainment. The flapping banners and cheers of fans filling the sold-out arena evidence enough of that.
But races are also another economic ploy to acquire dragon metal.
Entice dragons to be terrified so they use their metal and thus shed more.
Which means some riders encourage cruelty and violence.
Barreling toward the third curve where I’m stationed, two dragons fly too close to one another and their metal emerges.
A silver tail whips and bashes into the dragon behind and that Sprinter falls back with a howl.
I flinch. Hopefully, not a broken jaw. Thank god dragons don’t breathe fire like the myths depict or we’d be dealing with more than shattered bones.
They are all about to enter my curve of the track and I tense.
The patrol, another type of spotter who flies beneath the race, hangs back to provide a safety net to the dragon in distress.
I can tell every other spotter’s focus is pulled in that direction as well.
Mine too, until my father’s words tug at me to look toward James again.
That’s why I notice the wobble. When Hort falters, I jerk to attention. Wing spasm? James can fix that though. He might fall out of the leading pack, but he can ease Hort’s flying pattern and—
Before I can finish the thought, Hort drops. Right in front of me.
It’s not every day you watch the boy you hate plummet through the air on his dragon. All my emotions knot and twist as James Murphy keeps spiraling. Gleaming silver metal grows over each of Hort’s scales indicating one thing—terror.
Onlookers shout and scream. All eyes are aimed at the tournament favorite falling out of the sky for no apparent reason.
My whole body tightens. Beneath me, Daphine grunts. “Come on,” I whisper. He’ll right himself. He’ll get back control. Half my job as a spotter is knowing when to act. I shouldn’t interfere until—
James and Hort flail past my eyeline and toward the lake below. He’s not going to make it. He isn’t going to bail off Hort either. He’s going down.
I yell. Don’t even know if it’s a command or an outburst of my shock.
But Daphine heeds my intention, nonetheless.
She throws herself from our spotter perch and into the air.
As her wings tuck into a dive, her own copper metal sprouts and encases her scales in preparation for impact.
Wind lashes, sunlight scorches, but that’s nothing compared to the fear pumping through me. Too late, it shrieks. Too late.
James crashes into the water. A thrashing torrent of beating wings.
And I crash right behind.