CHAPTER TEN
DNF – did not finish. Finishing in last place would have been better than not finishing at all. All because the Boll brothers insisted on being thick-headed riders who didn’t know how to do a clean overtake.
My poor dragon was limping as I walked him back to Mirendi Tower. As the rush of impact had approached he’d done his best to level out, landing feet first despite the mess we were in. It had still been too fast, even for him.
So I’d dismounted and walked beside him.
The other dragons still flew on the streets parallel to us, Volitant crew had let us out of bounds and pointed us in the right direction.
With each step I felt the aches and pains deepen.
The guilt of letting Gottyk get hurt gnawed at me the most. The closer I got to the tower the more I seethed.
The Kiestral PR manager, Martan, met us as we arrived. He was remarkably calm. I’d seen Thorne launch the clipboard out of his slender hands a few times and that wasn’t even on days he’d been in a bad mood.
‘Thorne—’
‘Don’t bother.’ I spoke through my helmet, thankful for the voice-changer Josie had installed. ‘Just get out of my way so I can get this worthless dragon back to the aviary.’
It hurt to play the role. I could pretend to be a bastard to just about anybody, but doing it to Gottyk … my stomach twisted. All I wanted was to fuss over him and check his injuries.
Martan’s knuckles whitened around his clipboard and he pushed up his wire-framed glasses on his nose, despite them not slipping down.
‘What?’ My patience was running thin even without evoking Thorne.
His eyes focused on my helmet, searching for eyes he couldn’t see through the lit eyeholes. ‘It’s your week to do the post-race press.’
I closed my eyes, forcing my shoulders down and away from tensing. A deep breath. Of course, Bach had done it last race so now it was Thorne’s turn. My turn.
‘Fine.’ I handed Gottyk’s reins over to the orange-clad Kiestral staff spilling out of the doors. ‘In and out, no messing around.’
Martan schooled a smile. ‘Of course. This way.’
He was smart to not waste any time. The cheers from the crowd signalled the end of the race.
The other riders would be filtering into the press room soon and I wanted to be out before the rest descended.
Luckily for me it wasn’t unheard of for riders to keep their gear on after a poor race.
Breezing past journalists who asked questions about their failures was a given.
We entered Mirendi Tower, its interior much sharper than when I’d passed through without my helmet, the giant blocks of cream stone carved with draconic reliefs around the windows and doors honed by my visor.
The rest was far more minimal: the pale polished marble echoed the sound of my booted feet and the taps of Martan’s much lighter footfall.
Like Volitant itself, it decorated itself with legacy, but was a business to its core.
My bad mood fuelled my cynicism.
He led me through the building, past the central lift, to a large carpeted room with wide windows facing out into the streets away from the circuit. The journalists and casters were lined around the three non-windowed sides of the room. They all stared as I entered. I was the first to arrive.
I stalked behind Martan. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, my visor lens focusing on them. Maybe I was too good at pretending to be Thorne. He gestured for me to join the first journalist in the line.
My heart skipped a beat. It was George Cooke, long-time Volitant Chroma pundit and famous throughout the southern continent.
He’d been working in and alongside the sport for decades, a ‘staple of dragon racing’.
He’d coined that term himself, a rebrand of ‘the old guard’ of racing.
Old men who didn’t like change, northerners or women.
Naturally, he and Thorne were the best of friends.
‘Thorne, after a disappointing first half of the season you seemed to take on a new lease of life last week, only for it to come literally crashing down today. Any thoughts?’
Cooke’s unnaturally white smile broadened, while the creases around his eyes persisted through whatever procedures he’d had to slow them down.
His caster held up their orb at head height, the light of an arcanite shifting inside as it cast my likeness to the thousands of receivers all over the continent. Martan hovered behind my shoulder, moving out of the way. He held his own device, audio only, for record-keeping.
‘Another year, another shit dragon.’ The pain blossoming in my side gave a believable edge to my words.
Thorne liked to blame everyone but himself.
Poor results were never due to him, but rather everyone around him.
Deviating from that way of thinking would make headlines: veteran rider Huwin Thorne accepts his own part in a shitty race.
‘So, what’s holding you back from moving teams? Ballenir have started to prove themselves. Would you ever want to race for a home team?’
The honest answer was Thorne wasn’t good enough anymore.
Ballenir had a hometown hero in Theo, a young rider with years of potential ahead of him and charismatic enough to bring in fans and sponsors.
Omar was their more experienced rider and had been performing better than Thorne for years.
Ballenir would be fools to kick either of them for the washed-up rider.
A stupid question from Cooke then.
‘I’m here to beat Bach on equal wings. If I move and win, you parasites will put it down to the dragons.’ I moved on, content to let that line send ripples out into the Volitant news sphere.
Their rivalry was old news and never once had it been more than one-sided.
The only time Thorne had won the Volitant Chroma Championship was during Bach’s stint in the northern series of Volitant Forge.
In the fifteen years since Thorne had started racing he’d only competed against Bach eight times and never once scored higher.
The numbers should have been enough to end the conversation, but Volitant was more than just racing. It was about drama too, and the money it generated.
As the next interviewer got their cast up and running my limbs sagged, heavy and uncooperative, the weight of the crash sinking deeper into my bones. I may have been keeping up my fitness over the past five years, but nothing could have prepared me for a crash like that.
‘Quite an eventful race today. A new choice of weapon for you too. Is this part of a new strategy from the team?’
A choice made in the thrill of the moment was now coming to collect its debts.
‘I’ve heard what you all say. I’m not past my prime. I can fly circles around these kids as long as I’ve got a half-decent dragon. I was showing everyone what I’ve got before the Bolls took me out.’ My voice came out wooden.
The words though were all bullshit. All on brand. I could feel Martan twitching next to me with my proximity sensors.
He needn’t have worried, because Ellas Ruan walked in. The room collectively straightened up and followed last year’s champion with their eyes. He carried a golden trophy, so fitting with the green and gold of his Victrolia flight suit. It was no surprise that he’d won.
He was a rival worthy of Bach. They’d spent two years together at Kiestral before Ellas had transferred to Victrolia and those two years had featured some of the best racing I’d ever seen. Head-to-head battles every race. Clean on-circuit fighting and healthy respect off it.
He scanned the room, his eyes lingering on me before moving on.
His expression was well schooled. In all my time watching him fly – both at home and trackside – I’d never seen him show disdain towards another rider.
He was the epitome of politeness. It was the type of neutrality that the high-end sponsors loved.
I’d never been neutral about anything. I’d never had the chance.
Under my helmet my mouth was open at the presence Ellas brought with him into the room.
Seven races into the season and he’d won all but one of them.
The press liked to argue over everything, but the one thing they all agreed on was that Ellas Ruan was set to move to Volitant Forge by the end of this season, joining its sister Victrolia team in the north.
Speculation on which riders would still have a job next year was always a hot topic.
With the Decennial coming up the year after, teams were scrambling to get their riders and dragons in order.
Everyone wanted a year of consistency before the ten-year Volitant anniversary that saw teams from both Chroma and Forge compete together. Ellas was the current favourite to win.
‘Next,’ Martan whispered to me.
I checked back with the reporter interviewing me, but they were already uninterested, prepping for Ellas instead.
It made things a lot easier, especially as the other riders trickled in one after another. I grumpily deflected questions on the collision, making note to give Gottyk a guilt-ridden extra helping of dinner later as I insulted him time and again.
After the press conference I took the stairs up to the aviary, avoiding the crowds of the lift system that ran up the centre of the tower.
My footsteps echoed on the stones that continued endlessly upwards.
The wrought-iron railings scraped against my glove as I hauled myself forward. My thighs protested at every step.
If the Bolls hadn’t got in my way again I’d have finished higher than Thorne had all season.
Despite what I’d said to the media, Gottyk was an excellent dragon – there was no reason I shouldn’t have performed better in that race.
There was no reason Thorne should have been doing so badly up until now.
Finding the augments up his sleeve after knocking him out cold might have had something to do with it, but the potential for success had been there.
The mistake had been mine and mine alone.
I let out some heavy breaths, trying to regulate myself back to neutral before facing Gottyk. I’d let him down as well as myself. Not to mention I had Josie to answer to. For once I didn’t enjoy the feeling of proving someone wrong.
My chance to calm down was cut short as a Volitant worker came down the otherwise empty staircase. Still fully dressed with my faceplate down there wasn’t a chance of being recognized, but the less time I spent outside of the aviary the better.
Their hat was pulled down low, looking like they’d rather avoid an angry Thorne.
Good instinct. They reached into a deep pocket of their black canvas trousers, the same kind Cam had worn only a few days ago.
Then they pulled out a short baton with copper prongs on the end.
By the time I recognized it for what it was, it was too late.
They stabbed between the gaps of my armour, puncturing my flight suit.
The sharp cold of the copper prongs was brief, then every muscle in my body seized up.
Hitting the floor didn’t register, all I could feel was the contraction of my limbs, torso and neck.
My eyes streamed water through lids that felt fused shut.
I couldn’t scream. Nothing was working. All I could do was lie there, shaking.
It stopped. Air filled my lungs again as my mouth gasped open. Light filtered into my eyes once more, but everything was distorted and blurred. I could hear my suit triggering augments, but whatever it was doing didn’t help.
‘Remember your place, Thorne.’ It was the Volitant worker, whether from nearby or far away I couldn’t tell. ‘We’re not paying you to win.’
The jolts of arcanite power pinging through me must have hit my brain too, because I didn’t even come close to understanding what he meant.
Power ricocheted through me again. It consumed me. Even my fingers bent and seized, my fingernails feeling like they would pop off from the pressure building inside.
‘Hey!’
The seizing stopped. The afterburn felt like peace in comparison.
Two sets of fast and heavy footsteps echoed around me. The blurry light coming through my visor was blocked by a shadow. A hand braced on my shoulder.
‘Paldon? Can you hear me?’ The voice was familiar. The shadow shifted. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
No amount of torture could stop me from recognizing his voice. My chest seized one more time, the panic reigniting the leftover energy. He lifted my faceplate, his purple flight suit swimming into view.
Theo looked down at me, crouched on the stone steps by my side. His eyes were wide and his signature grin was nowhere to be seen. ‘Who did this to you?’
Bile rose in my throat as I tried to speak. I wanted him to go away. I tried to tell him. My head felt like it was going to explode as my eyesight went from blurry to black.