The Sovereign League

There are three things I know for certain.

1. Dragon scales sell for five thousand credits a pop on the black market,
2. The League hoards them in cold storage behind the east arena like greedy bastards,
3. And tonight? I'm absolutely going to get myself killed.

The access panel clicks open under my trembling fingers. 

Am I really doing this? 

My hands shake as I punch in the maintenance override code. The tremor makes me miss the third digit before I stab it in correctly. It beeps once, and a door to the hall slides open, revealing a row of cold storage fridges fifty feet ahead.

The League spends millions on dragon security but can't be fucked updating a six-digit password regularly. 

Their laziness is my ticket in. Assuming I don't get caught and turned into dragon chow.

I slip into the corridor, keeping close to the wall. My work boots are rubber-soled and silent against the cold concrete underfoot. I duck my head, yanking my cap low to hide my face from the cameras studding the hall. I’m wearing the League’s standard gray maintenance outfit, and in the three weeks I’ve worked for the League, it’s become increasingly apparent that the uniform doesn’t just grant me access to places most never see, but it also renders me practically invisible.

Which is perfect, because if anyone clocks me now, I'm done.

A roar shakes the walls, vibrating up through the floor into my bones. Screams follow only to be drowned out by a thunderous wave of noise from the thousands of assholes above me losing their minds.

The radio at my hip crackles with the League's security freq.

"—Rider down—" Static bursts. "—crowd's getting restless. Fifteen riders to go—"

Fifteen more riders buys me at least another hour of chaos—probably more, considering how long it takes to scrape failed candidates off the sand.

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, fighting the grim memory of scrubbing riders’ blood and guts from the arena sand. 

I’ve been on shit-shoveling duty, cleaning the dragon waste from pristine sand in the arena between practice rounds while privileged riders preen and posture for the cameras and sponsors. 

But the Games must go on, and with the Sovereign League starting in three weeks, the riderless dragon needed a replacement immediately. Emergency trials were scheduled, which meant all hands to the arena.

Leaving cold storage conveniently unguarded.

Bracing myself, I continue forward, ears straining for any sound that isn't the distant roar of the crowd.

I can’t afford to fuck this up. 

The hallway opens into a junction. Left to the main stables, straight to cold storage. Right to—

I freeze at the scraping of a boot on concrete. 

Fuck. 

I duck right, pressing flat against the wall behind a service cart piled with feed buckets and med supplies. It smells like chemicals and rotting meat.

Please don’t come this way. Please don’t look.  

Two guards round the corner, chatting quietly, their weapons hanging loosely at their sides. 

"—can't believe this crap’s still going," one grumbles. "It's been four hours."

"Sounds like a dragon’s being picky.  But what are they gonna do? Scrap it? Those things are worth billions.” 

"Might not be a bad idea. Did you see what it did to that poor bastard last week?"

"No, but I heard he needed a closed casket. Can’t imagine a new rider will last long in the games with only three weeks to lift. Doesn’t seem fair to throw some rookie in like that.”

“That’s assuming the dragon chooses to bond.”

“True. Gods only know what makes them choose a rider.” 

They pass within three feet of me. I don't breathe. Don't twitch. Just pray I'm as invisible as these coveralls make me feel.

"Well, my credits are on Gabriel Vekk. Kid's won once already, and Helix? Best damn dragon in the League. Saw 'em in practice—untouchable."

"Another decade of the Vekk dynasty. Lucky us." 

"Hey, at least we still have jobs."

Their voices fade as they turn the corner.

My heart pounds while a voice in my head screams at me to move. But I force myself to wait, to count to thirty before I stand. 

My legs are like jelly as I bolt for the cold storage. The door is unmarked except for a small AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY placard. Beside the handle is a green glowing keypad, waiting for a pin to be inputted.

My hand hovers over the pad.

Reason and a delayed sense of self-preservation crash into me. I could bail right now. Walk away. Pretend I was never here.

I don't have to do this. I don't have to risk arrest, imprisonment, losing everything all for a handful of dragon scales.

Except we’ve already lost.

As if summoned by my wavering resolve, my wrist buzzes, the small screen flashing with KAI.

Shit.

I glance over my shoulder triple checking that the corridor is empty before tapping accept. Kai's face doesn't appear. Instead, a holo-ad fills the cracked screen of my comm unit. It was the only model that came with a plan I could afford. The catch? Thirty seconds of unskippable fucking ads before every call.

As if summoned by the guard’s conversation, Gabriel Vekk stares out at me in full flight gear, dark hair pushed back, jaw tight. He's positioned half-turned toward the camera, one hand resting on his dragon, Helix's flank. The Sovereign League crest spins gold beside his head. 

SEASON 17. THE GAMES THAT SHAPE YOUR WORLD. Brought to you by Terraform Industries — Feeding the Future.

Feeding the future? Sure, if you like ration packs that taste like wet cardboard and paste.

The counter in the corner ticks down. Twenty-two seconds. Eighteen.

I stare at Gabriel Vekk's face wondering what it's like to never want for anything. To never count credits at a market stall or eat Terraform cardboard for dinner or be forced to watch an ad tick down before you can hear your brother's voice. To know the system that your company controls is the same one grinding everyone else to dust.

Must be nice.

The ad dissolves and Kai's face pops up, half in shadow, the glow from his communication tablet painting the other half an electric blue.

“Hey brother,” I whisper, forcing a grin despite my nerves. “What’s happening?” 

He grunts, flapping one hand in agitation while he types his message with the other. Kai is autistic and nonspeaking, he uses a tablet to communicate. 

A line of text blinks across the bottom of the screen.

[COME HOME]

“I’m at work, remember? But I’ll be home for dinner. Promise.”

Sweat trickles down my spine at the lie. Dinner? Try never, if this goes south.

Kai shakes his head, rocking as he types in his response. 

We share the same dirty blonde hair and sharp chin, but where Kai got Mom's clear blue eyes, mine are a muddy hazel that can't decide if they want to be green or brown.

He’s tall for eleven, and my constant shadow despite the fourteen-year gap. I guess in some ways he’s my kid too. Born just before Dad’s accident, Mom had been forced to put him aside and focus nearly all her attention on Dad’s recovery and keeping a roof over our heads, leaving me to raise Kai. 

He deserves better than a slum apartment and a glitchy comms tablet. 

[I WANT TO WATCH THE TRIALS. DAD IS MAD.]

I wince. “Yeah, I bet he is. You know he doesn’t want you watching that stuff, bud. Too much blood.”

In truth, Dad loathes the League and everything associated with it. Has ever since they let him go after his accident and cut off his medical support. He blames them for our rapid descent from middle-class comfort to the slums of the rookery.

If he knew I worked here... yeah, no. There are some secrets better worth keeping.

[WILL YOU PLAY CHESS WITH ME WHEN YOU GET HOME?] 

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You bet. How about you go set up the board and I’ll be home before you know it.”

He coughs, a great wet, hacking sound that racks his skinny frame. 

My gut twists and I hold my breath, praying it’s not bad. 

An illness swept the rookery last month, hitting him hard. The medication to clear his lungs cost more than two weeks’ pay, and the city charged impacted citizens a cleaning and medical tax for the outbreak. The small amount of credits we held dried up, and the next thing I knew, there was an eviction notice on our door. Which is why I’d taken this job, but even with my new increased League wages, I couldn’t bring in credits fast enough to cover the bills that keep coming. 

Kai catches his breath and types. 

[OKAY. LOVE YOU.]

My chest tightens. "Love you too, Buddy. See you soon."

The screen blackens and I’m once again resolved to do this. 

He’s my why. I don’t have any other choice. 

Gritting my teeth, I punch in the maintenance override code. The keypad beeps twice, flashing red.

Shit.

I try again, this time with a backup code.

Red again.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

The crowd roars again. Louder this time. Someone's either acing their run or dying spectacularly. Either way, I'm running out of time.

I rack my brain, trying to remember the final code. 

Fuck. What was it? 3,8, 9…

It’s the universal reset I'm not supposed to know about because I'm not supposed to have seen it when my boss, Clive, punched it in after his personal code failed.

I shouldn’t have it, but that’s the problem with a brain that loves patterns. You just don’t forget. 

I hit the final digit and pray for a miracle as the keypad thinks. 

Green.

The door swings open, cold air rushing out to cool my flushed skin. 

“Thank the gods,” I mutter, slipping inside and pulling the door shut. 

The temperature drop is brutal, the chill stabbing like knives at my skin. My coveralls are worthless against the frigid cold. I should’ve worn layers, but winter gear in summer would have screamed ‘look at me, I’m a thief’.

I hug myself and move deeper into the facility. My breath comes out in barely-visible puffs in the dim light as I walk, goose-bumps rising on my skin. 

Industrial shelves tower like giants, packed with vacuum-sealed protein slabs the size of me. Plastic crinkles under the cold air from the vents. The whole place reeks of sharp chemicals strong enough to burn my nose. 

I wince as my boot squeaks against the metal mesh floor. I lift onto the balls of my feet, scanning for the section I need.

There—back left corner. A biohazard symbol marks the cabinet.

There be dragon scales.

The locked cabinet has a glass front. Inside, rows of scales are organized by dragon designation. They shimmer under the dim lights—iridescent blues and purples, oranges and greens, blacks and deep, fiery reds. Each hue is a dragon's signature and no two are the exact same.

I draw close, staring at the softly glowing scales. 

I only need six. Six measly scales will change our lives. They won't be missed. Not when thousands sit inside this cabinet. 

The lock is electronic, and the same keypad system as the external door.

I try the maintenance override again.

Green.

The cabinet clicks open and I pull the door wide, breathing in the slightly sulfuric scent that clings to the scales. 

“Idiots,” I breathe, grabbing without looking. Scales are shoved into the sewn-in insulated pockets I created last night. They’re surprisingly heavy, like curved tiles that press against my ribs. 

I don’t understand why they’re marked as biohazard or why they’re in cold storage, but it’s convenient for me since no one’s around to see my descent into criminality. 

I’m stuffing the last one in my uniform when I hear it–the soft thud of footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving fast.

"—said the motion sensor triggered in cold storage—"

"Probably another malfunction. System's been glitchy all week."

My heart kicks into my throat as I struggle to zip up my coveralls. 

Hurry, Liz. Hurry, hurry, hurry!

I gently push the cabinet closed, praying it doesn’t make a sound. It doesn't catch.  

Shit. 

“You take the middle aisle, I’ll go this way.”

“Roger.”

I lean against the door, relieved when it does finally click shut. And I’m moving, keeping the shelving between me and the voices. I hug the opposite side of the aisle from where I came in, tip-toeing across the metal mesh floor. There’s no second exit in the room, I'll have to circle back the way I came or risk being caught inside when they relock it.

Flashlights slice through the stacked rows casting shadows and light. Two guards, maybe three, their voices are low as they sweep left, then right.

Forcing my breathing to slow, I cram into a gap between a crate and shelf. It’s barely wide enough, the metal bitingly cold.

Hold still. Don't breathe.

A beam slides past my hiding spot..

"There’s no one here. It’s those fucking sensors again.” 

"Protocol says we check the whole room. Just do it, Ryan."

Shit.

I wait until their steps drift down the aisle before moving. 

Please keep walking. Don't look this way.

Their boots echo on the metal mesh. One guard passes right by my hiding spot—so close I could reach out and touch him.

Then they're past, moving toward the back of the storage facility.

Now. Go now!

I wait until their voices fade, then ease out, hurrying down the aisle and around the shelving until I’m near the service door. 

Slow and steady, Liz. Don’t make a noise. Don’t rush. Don’t fuck this up. You’re so close. 

A sharp clatter fractures the quiet, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting ground. Metal buckets roll off their shelf, their hollow ringing echoing through the cold storage. I flinch, freezing in place. 

A guard yelps. "What the—fuck!"

"Tripped over something. Give me a sec—"

The light of the flashlight flicks straight over me as the guard struggles to stand on the other side of the shelving. 

Fuck! 

I remain still, praying he didn’t see me in that brief flash. 

"Wait. I think I saw—” 

The light snaps back, locking on me. 

For one frozen heartbeat, neither of us moves.

"Hey! You’re not meant to be here! Intruder!"

I lunge forward, bolting for the door. 

"STOP! SECURITY!"

Radios crackle to life. Multiple voices overlapping. 

"—intruder in cold storage—"

"—seal the exits—"

"—backup to sector three—"

My boots pound against the metal mesh. The service door is right there. Five feet. Three.

I hit the push bar with both hands.

The door explodes open and warm air rushes in. I stumble out, tripping as I try to catch my balance. Steadying, I barely keep myself upright as I sprint to the junction corridor.

Just as I hit it three guards appear from the left corridor blocking my exit. 

"There! Stop her!"

Fuck! 

My stomach drops. I pivot on instinct and cut right.

The corridor’s a nightmare of sickly flickering emergency light and shadows. It pins you in, making every footfall obscenely loud. My breath claws at my throat, my chest burning for breath as I pump my arms, desperate to outrun them. 

Move, move, move!

The unfamiliar hallway twists, taking me past service doors and dead-locked maintenance gates. 

If they catch me, my family is dead. The League will make examples of us all. 

Stupid! You never should have done this. What a stupid fucking idea! 

"She's heading for loading dock B!"

"Cut her off at—"

I can't hear the rest over the pounding of my heart, my ragged breathing, and the thunder of guards at my back.

I turn another corner, there are two corridors–I take the right. It takes me only a second to realise how wrong my decision is. I let out a gasping sob as the corridor dead-ends at a single, final door. There are no other exits. No side passages. Nothing but that one singular door. 

Trapped. 

I glance back, any hope I have of escape dying. There are half a dozen guards chasing me, weapons drawn, faces furious. 

Guess we’re going through. 

I pick up my speed, slamming into the door's push bar with my full weight.

It flies open, sunlight blinding me as I stumble forward, boots skidding on smooth concrete—

There's nothing but air and the ground far below. 

I windmill my arms. Lean back. Try to catch my balance.

The scales weigh down my front, pulling me over the sheer drop. 

Fuck!

The world tilts. Sky and ground switch places. The scales cut into my ribs like accusations. Wind tears at my clothes, my hair, stealing my breath as I plunge, falling toward the arena sand. 

Someone screams.

I can't tell if it's me.

The ground rushes up, and I have one final, crystalline thought. 

So this is how I die.

The world spins like a cheap holo-vid, sky-sand-sky blurring as I fall.

The gods must be bored—or cruel—because instead of splattering into the ground, I slam into something solid mid-fall. 

I claw, twist, grab—leather, cloth, a saddle ridge biting my fingers. My nails scrape skin, desperate to hold on.

“What the—GET OFF!” The voice is male, furious, and way too close.

“Help me, asshole!” I snap, digging my nails into his arm.

He curses, and for a beat I think he’ll kick me off. But he leans down, hauls me up, muscles bunching under his fancy flight leathers. My feet kick uselessly against the scaled hide of his dragon, scrambling for purchase as he yanks me across his saddle.

“Just—hold—on!” he growls. 

“I’m trying!” 

Below, the arena’s a shitshow. A gray-blue dragon rears, tossing its rider like a ragdoll, who pinwheels to the sand with a sickening crunch.

Fuck.

The dragon under me bucks, sending me bouncing. Its rider uses the shift to sling me against him, my chest slamming into his, our limbs tangling together. I clutch at him, noting ridiculously that he smells really fucking good. He shifts us, leaning me to the side as his dragon banks, circling the arena. 

His breath is hot and ragged against my cheek, smelling faintly of peppermint. That’s when I make the dumbass mistake of looking up.

His eyes are so dark brown they’re almost black. And all I can see reflected back at me is black fire. Furious doesn’t begin to cover how he’s feeling right now.

My gaze sweeps up, registering his dark hair, inky-brown skin, the scar running from his left ear down to the middle of his chin. 

Oh fuck me sideways, I’ve landed on Gabriel Vekk. 

Elite prick, Vekk Industries heir. The League’s golden boy and winner of the previous Games. 

Of all the dragons in this arena — and there are dozens of them, circling like a bloody buffet — I fell on his.

Not good. Not FUCKING GOOD!

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he snaps, attempting to control his dragon one-handed. 

Oh shit, I’m on Helix. I’m riding fucking Helix—the most badass queen dragon in the League. 

FUCCCKKKK! 

"As if I meant to plunge to my death, hotshot!" I squeak, wrapping myself around him like a terrified koala. 

He might be everything I hate—privileged, entitled, arrogant, born with more money in his back pocket than my entire bloodline will ever see—but right now, he's the only thing standing between me and splattering across that arena sand.

We grapple as Helix sways, her purple-chrome scales glinting like she’s pissed about the extra baggage. She steadies, and Gabriel’s glare drops to my grays. His jaw tightens and I can see the disbelief transform into disgust.

"You're fucking maintenance. What the fuck is a grunt doing screwing my run?"

"I was—" attempting to steal from the league to save my family from ruin, you fucking asshole, "—taking a shortcut when I fell."

"A shortcut? From where? The moon? That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever—"

His gaze snaps to something behind me, his eyes widening. He locks his arm around my middle, crushing me to him so tight I can’t breathe. 

"Hold on!" he bellows, hauling the reins. I cling to him desperately as Helix banks a sharp right—too late. A massive gray-blue tail whips by, the displaced air slamming into us like a hurricane. Helix dives to avoid crashing with a third dragon, but it’s too late. 

The three dragons crash together, the impact ripping us free. We’re airborne, tumbling, weightless and tangled. Gabriel’s face is inches from mine, his gaze mirroring my panic. My heartbeat drowns out the roar of the crowd and the scream of air as we fall.

"Fuck!"

The ground rushes and at the last second Gabriel twists us, so we hit the ground on our sides.

The impact punches the air from my lungs. Pain explodes—ribs, shoulder, skull. I lose my grip on him, rolling twice before ending flat on my back. The world spins crazily, everything fuzzy and sparking. When my vision finally clears, I realize I'm staring up at open sky and a halo of camera drones circling like buzzards.

Fuck. 

The League loves a show, and I've just given them a front-row seat.

I try to sit up and every muscle screams in protest. My ribs feel like they've been put through a grinder, and something warm trickles down the side of my face. Blood, probably.

I shift, rolling until I find Gabriel. He’s not moving. His face is turned my way, eyes shut, a cut above his brow leaking crimson onto the sand. His chest rises and falls—shallow, but alive. 

Thank the Gods. I’m already in enough trouble without killing their golden goose. 

A shadow drops over me like a guillotine.

I look up in time to see Helix swooping down. The massive dragon lands with a ground-shaking thud three feet from her rider, and the air changes. Hotter, thicker, carrying a low vibration I can't hear so much as feel in my bones. Her purple scales shimmer like oil on water in the afternoon sun. She's humungous—easily seventy feet of lean muscle and barely contained fury. Her eyes—violet, intelligent, murderous—fix on me.

Uh-oh. 

She rears back, her chest flaring orange. Heat ripples the air between us, distorting everything like a mirage.

She’s gonna roast me.

I try to scramble backward but my arms won’t hold me. Sand burns under my palms, scoring the cuts and scrapes. 

The stolen scales in my pockets dig into my bruised ribs like an accusation.

Was this really worth it? 

Helix takes a step toward me, opening her jaws.

Not even a little bit. 

I can see down her throat to the white-hot glow building inside. She’s readying to end me. 

"Please—" my voice cracks. "I didn't mean—"

A ROAR shakes the arena, deeper than Helix’s, rattling my busted ribs.

The gray-blue dragon lands with a crunch on the sand in front of me. He spreads his wings, head lowered, scales bristling like a storm cloud.

He plants himself between me and Helix, his message clear. 

Back. Off.

The arena crowd is deadly silent as they watch this plucky male dragon attempt to stand up to the massive, dominant female. 

“This isn’t gonna end well,” I mutter. 

Helix rises to her full height and hisses — a sound like tearing metal that scratches at my eardrums. She spreads her wings wide, flapping them twice. Bigger, meaner, a combat-bred queen glaring down a scrawny male who should know better.

But the gray dragon doesn't flinch. He matches her, wings flaring, throat rumbling with a sound I feel in my bones. His tail lashes behind him, kicking up sand and nearly taking me out. 

They’re in a standoff. 

Then Helix's gaze flicks to Gabriel's unconscious form. Back to the gray dragon. To me. She seems to be calculating the risk to her rider of pursuing this fight. 

She hisses—softer this time, more warning than threat—and steps back. Rather than approach the upstart male, she moves to Gabriel, lowering her massive head to sniff him. Her tongue flicks out, tasting the air around his body. 

Her rider comes first.

I may be clear now, her violet glare stays locked on me and the smaller dragon, the viciousness in her gaze promising murder.

I don’t even have time to breathe a sigh of relief before the gray dragon turns toward me.

I freeze. 

His eyes—pale green, like sea glass with silver flecks—lock on mine. He’s maybe fifty feet of mottled gray-blue scales that shimmer in the light. They’re remarkable, shifting silver to blue to almost clear at the edges. 

It’s definitely a male dragon. Has to be, given the size difference between him and Helix. Male dragons are always smaller than their female counterparts, and this guy doesn’t look like he’s a fresh hatchling. 

He takes a step toward me and I stiffen. The air around him is different from Helix — cooler, but charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. I can feel a faint vibration through the sand, rhythmic, almost like a purr if purrs could rearrange your insides.

He takes another step, then another.

His head lowers, his nostrils flaring as he catches my scent, inhaling it. 

“Um, thanks for saving me.” 

He bares his teeth and I’m unsure if that’s a smile or an invitation to crawl into his mouth and become his next meal. 

“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t eat me. I have a brother I need to get home to.” 

He tilts his head to one side, watching me with those unsettling eyes.

This is it. Saved from one dragon only to be killed by another.

His nostrils flare and he glances at my left pocket.

He knows. Oh god, he knows I'm a thief.

I close my eyes, bracing for what’s about to come. 

A solid, warmth butts gently against my chest. 

I open my eyes.

His snout rests against my sternum, right over the stolen scales. 

His eyes are so close I can see the way the flecks of silver merge with the green. There’s intelligence reflected in their depth. Awareness.

Then he does the last thing I expect.

He steps back, folds his massive front legs beneath him and lowers his head until his chin touches the sand.

He’s… bowing?

Oh, fuck. 

He’s bowing. 

I stare slack-jawed, then lift my gaze to the stands. The crowd is losing it, roaring like I’ve won the damn Games. My face—dirt-streaked, blood-smeared, terrified—plasters the arena’s giant screens.

I drop my gaze back to the dragon bowing to me. He watches me now, patient, like he’s got all day for me to catch up with his decision. 

“I’m so fucked.” 

The words barely leave my mouth before they're on me.

League security swarm the arena floor—a sea of dark suits moving in formation. Their weapons are drawn as they approach, followed by medics wheeling stretchers across the sand. The dragon's head swings toward them, and that warning rumble builds in his chest, his tail snaking through the air. 

Without thinking, I reach out and place a hand on his snout trying to calm him. The scales are warm under my palm, shifting colors in the afternoon light—gray to blue to silver.

"Easy," I murmur, unsure if I'm talking to him or myself.

"Step away from the dragon." 

I pull my hand from his snout and his warmth lingers on my palm like a brand.

Nope, don’t like that. 

Security haul me onto my feet, holding me in place. The guard beside me is maybe five-six in her boots. Petite. She’s got the kind of build that looks good in the League's fitted uniforms–which I guess is why they’ve got her on arena duty.

I'm five-eleven and built like a brick shithouse—broad shoulders, calloused hands, muscles that come from years of work in the factory. I can see the moment she clocks our differences, and recalculates my ability to shake her off.

Jokes on her, I’ve got nowhere to run. 

"Wait, what about him?" I nod at the dragon. "And—" My gaze flicks to Gabriel, who's still out cold on the sand.

"The dragon will be contained." The female guard signals a handler in protective gear. "The rider's being handled."

Sure enough, medics swarm toward Gabriel, dropping beside him to check vitals.

The handler closes in on the dragon. His warning rumble deepens, vibrating the sand under my boots. The first dart hits his shoulder. He flinches, but holds. The second thuds into his flank. He shakes his head, hissing at the handler. 

My throat tightens. Don't fight it. Please.

The third dart drops him. His legs buckle, and he collapses sideways, chest heaving in slow, drugged breaths. 

He’s out cold. 

He saved me, and this is his reward?

“Come with me.” The head guard takes my bicep in a punishing grip, dragging me across the arena. I stumble but follow–I’m not about to fight what is sure to be a losing battle. Six guards fall in around us, armed and stone-faced. They herd me through the dim tunnels like a prize pig to slaughter.

The tunnels twist and turn in the labyrinth that sits under the arena until I’m completely lost. Lights flicker overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. We pass service doors and maintenance hatches that form the guts of the arena. It’s a place most of the world will never see. I've worked here three weeks and never been this deep.

The air grows cooler as concrete walls give way to reinforced steel. We turn left, then right, then follow a ramp that drops us another level.

Finally, the guard opens a door to yet another corridor, but this one is different. It’s sterile white with bright lights and the strong smell of antiseptic which burns my nose.

I can’t tell if this is a medical bay entrance or the gateway to something even worse. 

They shove me into a small windowless room at the end of the hall. It too is white. There’s a table and two chairs bolted to the floor, and a one-way mirror on the far side of the room.

Interrogation chic. How original.

They push me onto a chair, cuff me to the table, search me and remove all the scales before filing out.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Well, that was needlessly dramatic. 

I stretch my neck, accidentally catching my reflection in the mirror.

Oh, damn. 

I’m barely recognisable. Blood crusts my hairline, and drips down my temple, the cut on my forehead is still bleeding. My gray coveralls are shredded at the shoulder, and torn at the knee. My ribs throb, and there’s a deep ache in my shoulder. Sand is everywhere—in my hair, ground into the fabric, under my nails. My left eye's starting to swell, and there’s a bruise on my chin. 

I look like I went ten rounds with a dragon.

Wait.

Make that two dragons, and one very pissed-off rider.

I prod the cut, wincing. I glance at the mirror again. “Could you send someone with a med kit in? I need a bandaid.”

I wait, minutes dragging by as my request remains unanswered. With a sigh, I shrug. “Fine. But you’re the ones who are abusing my human rights.”

Eventually my adrenaline crashes. I try to stay alert, waiting for my executioner to arrive but exhaustion drags at me like a riptide.

My eyes drift closed and I doze for who knows how long. The slamming prison door jolts me awake.

I jerk upright, chains rattling.

How long was I out?

I blink, trying to shake off my fatigue as I stare at the woman standing across the room. She’s at least mid-fifties, with steel-grey hair pulled so tight it has to hurt. She’s wearing the standard League black, but her outfit isn’t like any I’ve seen so far. It’s a tailored pant suit made of an expensive, plush material. The ebony black highlights her sharp cheekbones, sharp gaze, and stern mouth. 

Everything about her screams power.

She meets my gaze, holding it as she pulls out the chair across from me and sits. Without breaking our stare, she sets a tablet on the table between us.

The silence stretches. 

I cock an eyebrow, waiting for her to break. 

Finally, she speaks.

"Elizabeth Reeves,” she greets, letting me know they’ve discovered my identity. As if I could hide it. “Do you know who I am?"

I should probably say no, but I'm too tired and too fucked to bother.

I gesture at her clothing. "It’s clear you're League, and high up if the shoes and suit are anything to go by." I lean back as far as the cuffs allow. "You’ve got the crisp upper-cusp accent that the elites hold, and you’ve got a polished look that says you’re not used to dealing with grunts like me.” I tilt my head to one side. “Let me guess—you're the lunch lady?"

Her mouth doesn't smile, but I catch a flicker of amusement. 

"Not quite. I’m Administrator Kovac, Head of League Operations." She taps the tablet. "And you, Miss Reeves, have created quite the problem."

I wait for her to elaborate. She doesn't.

Fuck it, let’s see if I can bullshit my way out of this.

"A problem," I repeat. "Because I fell off a loading dock? Lady, I think you’re the one who’s in trouble. I could have died. You’ll be lucky if I only sue for injuries." 

Kovac inclines her head toward the scales on the table. "We both know you were stealing League property."

I shrug. “I found them on the ground and picked them up. I didn’t know they were missing.” 

She makes a soft ticking sound with her tongue and presses some buttons on her tablet before turning it to me. The security footage is grainy but clear. There I am, punching in codes to the cold storage. 

My stomach drops. 

"Theft of League property during trials," Kovac continues. "Do you understand the consequences of such an act?"

I shrug. “I’m sure whoever did it will spend a few months in jail and come out a fully functional citizen.” 

"You committed treason, Elizabeth." She leans back, her eyes cold. "You didn't just steal scales. Your fall into the trials has undermined the process that keeps our society from collapsing."

Wait. What?! I knew stealing was illegal. I didn't think they'd call it treason.

"Hold on now, that's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?" 

"Is it?" She tilts her head. "You know how the Games work, Miss Reeves." 

I roll my eyes. "Whoever wins gets to play ruler for a decade, yeah, yeah. What does that have to do with me?” 

"You didn't just steal property." Her voice goes flat. "You interfered with a governmental process during its most critical phase."

"I fell off a loading dock—"

"After breaking into a restricted area. After stealing League assets. During active trials that are used to not only pair riderless dragons with competent, experienced players, but for our technocrats to choose their teams. The teams that will compete in just three short weeks for this decade's governance." She leans on the table, her black painted nails glinting in the fluorescent light. "Your actions—intentional or not—have disrupted the selection process. That disruption could be seen as an attempt to influence the outcome of the Games."

"That's insane. I fell—"

"The mandatory minimum sentence for treason against the Sovereign League is execution."

The word slices like a blade through my chest. 

Execution.

Not prison. Not fines. Not community fucking service.

Death.

My mouth goes dry. "You cannot be serious."

Her gaze doesn't waver. "You are an uncleared, untrained maintenance worker from the bowels of the rookery. You illegally bonded with a dragon. What else could it be but an act of treason?” She shakes her head again, her expression pulled into one of fake regret. “No, Ms Reeves, the law is clear. Execution is our only option."

Silence.

She lets the word execution hang between us like a noose.

I force myself to breathe. To think.

There has to be a way out. There's always a way out.

"However…."

My head snaps up.

Kovac crosses her arms. "You've created a unique situation, Miss Reeves."

"Unique how?"

"You bonded a dragon that's been rejecting riders for months. A dragon that's cost the League billions in wasted trial fees, facility damage, and injured riders." She straightens. "A dragon we were planning to euthanize tomorrow, should he have remained riderless."

"You were going to kill my dragon?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "He was deemed defective. Unbondable. A financial loss." Her gaze doesn't leave mine. "Until he chose you."

"So un-bond us. Make him choose another rider. One of your fancy academy types who trains their whole life to do this shit."

"It doesn't work like that." For the first time, annoyance flickers in her expression. "Once a dragon chooses, the bond is permanent. The only way to sever it is—"

"Is what?"

"Death." She says it simply. "Yours or his."

Oh hell no. 

"Wait a damn minute here. I didn't ask to fall into your arena. I didn't ask some dragon to bow at me." I lean forward as far as the cuffs allow. "That's on you. Not me."

"The bonding has already occurred—"

"Then that's your problem, not mine. I didn't bond shit. Your dragon did that all on his own."

"And yet the law doesn't distinguish intent." Kovac lifts the tablet from the table, tapping on it with her long fingernails. "A bond exists. You are now responsible for that dragon's care, maintenance, and well-being. Dragons require specialized feed, medical care, climate-controlled housing—" She looks up. "That’s roughly one-hundred and fifty thousand credits per month. And that is for juvenile dragons, which yours is not."

My stomach drops.

Kovac resumes her seat, crossing one leg over the other. "So here are your options.” She doesn't bother making it sound like it’s a real choice. “Option one, You plead guilty. I execute you. Your family loses their housing. Your brother is turned out on the street."

I curl my fingers into fists, glaring at her. 

"Option two: We euthanize the dragon. Following that, we’ll put you on trial for treason—which will take months. During that time, your family still loses everything. Your brother's therapy stops. Your father's medication runs out. And at the end of it all, you're still executed."

My throat is tight. "Is there a third door?"

Kovac leans forward, her nails tapping once on the table.

"You compete in the Sovereign League."

I swallow, staring into her eyes. 

I've seen the footage. Everyone has. The last Games—ten years ago—started with twenty-four riders.

Only one survived.

Gabriel Vekk.

The rest died in the arena. Broadcast live. Dragons tearing through riders like tissue paper. Fire. Blood. The kind of violence that makes good television.

This is just a different method of execution. One that takes longer and will entertain millions while it happens.

I'm going to die either way.

But if I compete, at least my family might gain some benefit–if I’m smart. 

Some fucking choice. Death now or death in the first game. 

I’m an untrained rider three weeks out from the Games with a dragon that sounds like a nightmare to ride. There’s no way I’m going to last beyond the first game. 

"Fine." The word tastes like ash. "I'll compete."

"Good." Kovac starts to stand.

"But I have conditions."

She stops. "You're in no position to negotiate, Miss Reeves."

"We'll see." I gesture at her chair. "Sit."

For a beat, I think she'll refuse. But something in my face—maybe the fact that I've got nothing left to lose—makes her pause.

She sits, gesturing at me to speak. 

"I want to go home first. I want to tell my family about this deal before they see it on the news." I lean forward as far as the cuffs allow. "And any contract negotiations go through my mother. Not me. Her."

Kovac's eyebrow raises. "Your mother? Not an agent?"

"She knows better than anyone what my family needs." I hold her gaze. "You want me to sign a contract? You negotiate with her."

Kovac frowns. “Fine. I’ll direct inquiries to her.” 

"And my family stays out of this completely. No press. No interviews. No cameras in our apartment." My voice hardens. "You can do whatever you want with me, sell my feet pics on the blackmarket, force me to make a sex vid for funsies, broadcast my death in 4K for all I care. But footage of my family doesn't get shown. Ever. That's non-negotiable."

Kovac studies me, tapping one foot against the cold concrete floor. 

“Anything else?”

I pause, contemplating what else I might need. “What’s the dragon’s name?”

“Eight B.”

"Eight B? What kind of name is that?"

She doesn't answer.

"Eight B then. If I die in the Games—when I die—Eight B still gets proper care. Full support. For the rest of his life. That goes in the contract. In writing."

"The dragon will be cared for regardless of outcome," she says finally. "That is league policy."

"I want it in my contract that even if he never bonds to another rider, he’s cared for."

Kovac's eyes narrow. "Dragons are League assets. Their continuation after a rider's death is at our discretion."

"Then make it part of the deal. You want me to compete? That's my price."

She’s silent as she watches me, seemingly weighing whether this is worth fighting over.

"Fine," she says finally, though her tone suggests she doesn't like it. “Any other desire you wish to grace me with?” 

A never ending packet of TimTams? Better not push my luck. 

"No, thank you."

"Don't thank me, Miss Reeves. You're still going to die in that arena." She stands, moves to the door, and opens it. "You can come in, Nikolai."

A man steps into the room. He wears an expensive suit, slicked-back hair, and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Miss Reeves." He extends a hand. "Nikolai Brandt, League Promotions. I'll be handling your introduction to the league." His smile widens. "And your new identity."

Fucking brilliant. 

Kovac pauses at the door, one hand on the doorframe.

"One more thing, Miss Reeves.” She waits until my full attention is on her. “My agreement to your demands is contingent on you competing in the Games. All of this—the contracts, your family's support, the dragon's care—goes away if you die before then." 

I blow out a breath. “Aren’t you Little Miss Sunshine. It’ll be great working with you.” 

She scoffs. "I run the Games, Miss Reeves. Not the nursery that prepares you for them. You'll see me when you're standing in my arena." Her gaze holds mine. "If you make it that far."

The door clicks shut behind her.

Nikolai's smile never wavers. "Shall we? We have a car waiting. And—" He pulls out a tablet. "—multiple sponsors have already made contact. I’ve already got the team brainstorming how to hard launch you, and let me just say, we’re eager to make this happen."

I lift my cuffed hands, shaking the chain. “Sure. Wanna unlock me?”

His smile dips slightly but bounces back. “Of course.” He glances at the two-way mirror. “Security?”  

A guard walks in to unlock the cuffs, and I stand, rubbing my wrists where the metal bit in.

Nikolai gestures toward the door. "After you."

Four guards escort us back through the tunnels and out to a private lot where a sleek black car idles. Two guys with shoulder-mounted rigs stand beside it, looking bored as a woman with a tablet directs them.

I stop. "What the hell?"

"Promotional footage!" Nikolai beams. "We need content for the news cycle. We'll film your final moments at home—very brief, very tasteful—and some interview content during the drive. The footage needs to hit feeds within the hour."

He opens the car door, waiting for me to slide in. I stand my ground. 

"I said no cameras on my family."

"And we'll honor that! We'll only film you. Your bedroom while you pack. You saying goodbye at the door. Very respectful." His smile is unshakeable, which is unnerving as hell. "The world wants to know who you are, Elizabeth. I’m here to give them your story."

The story you think they want.

"The camera stays out of the common areas. No shots of my family. You film me, I’m out."

"Absolutely. You have my word." He makes a little hurrying gesture. "In you go." 

Resigned, I slide into the backseat. The leather is buttery soft and obscenely comfortable. And clean, pristine clean. Which I, definitely, am not. 

Nikolai and the camera crew climb in and settle into the seating of the limo across from me. 

The car pulls away from the arena.

"So!" Nikolai says, his creepy smile still plastered on. "How are you feeling?"

Like I just sold my life to save my family.

“Fine.”

"Now, for the viewers—can you tell us what went through your mind when the dragon chose you? How did you feel?"

That I was fucked.

"Surprised."

He waits for me to answer, but I don’t elaborate. 

"And when you realized you'd be competing in the Sovereign League Games?"

That dying doesn’t seem like a good way to end my day.

"Overwhelmed."

His smile drops a fraction of a watt. “Elizabeth, may I call you Lizzie?”

“No.”

“Lizzie, you need to work with me here. At this very moment you’re a hot commodity. The only reason you’re alive is because that dragon chose you. He’s the bad boy of dragons and captured the imagination of the world. Long before you dropped down into the arena that dragon has been trending. There were bets that he wouldn’t choose anyone before the trial ended. Do you know how many riders he rejected?”

I finally shrug when I realise he’s waiting for an answer. 

“Thirty-two. Do you know how many available riders there were in the trials?”

I shake my head. 

“Thirty-four. The final two were waiting for their goes when you dropped onto Gabriel Vekk and ended up claiming a dragon.”

He taps on his tablet for a beat, then hands it to me. “Look.”

The screen shows social feeds, along with an analysis. The shot of Eight B bowing, and me touching his head is everywhere. 

Millions of views. Hundreds of millions.

"This—" He gestures at the screen. "—is the only reason you're still alive. Do you understand?"

I hand the tablet back. "Kovac made that pretty clear."

"I don't think you get it." His smile is gone now, and somehow that’s even more disconcerting than it being perpetually in place. "Right now, you're a story. A fairy tale. Poor girl, desperate family, chosen by the dragon no one else could tame. The people love that." He leans forward. "But that love is fickle, Lizzie. You stop being likeable? Stop being the underdog they can root for? The team manager drops you, and the sponsors disappear. And without sponsors—" He snaps his fingers. "—you're worthless to the League."

"I thought I was competing either way."

"You are. But there's competing with a team, with gear, with protection—" He pauses. "—and there's becoming a sub. Being a sub, it means no one's watching your back in training. No one's stopping 'accidents' from happening. The Academy is dangerous, Elizabeth. Riders die in training all the time. Equipment failures. Sparring incidents. Dragons that get a little too aggressive during exercises."

A chill shimmers down my spine. 

"You do not want to be a sub. You need a team to survive until the Games begin. Teams need sponsors, and sponsors want someone the public loves." His smile returns, colder now. "So when I ask you questions, when the cameras are on you, you give them someone to love. Someone to root for. Someone they'll mourn when you inevitably die in that arena."

He sits back.

"Be overwhelmed. Be grateful. Be humble. Be the Cinderella story they want. Because if you're not—" He shrugs. "—you'll be dead before the week is out, your dragon will be euthanized, and your family will lose everything anyway. Contract or not."

The car turns onto the Meridian Highway, cruising downtown toward the slums. 

"So I'll ask again." His smile is back, full wattage.  "How are you feeling about this incredible opportunity?"

I force a smile I don’t feel. Give them someone to love.

It's not hard. I've been performing my whole life, pretending to be someone I’m not. Pretending happiness and contentment for Kai and my parents, making myself likeable to win jobs and extra shifts. I’ve done whatever I can to scrape together a living and make sure no one knows the depth of my frustration, my anger, my despair at our circumstances. This is no different. 

"Honestly? I still can't believe it happened. One minute I'm just... trying to get through my shift, and the next there's this dragon bowing to me like I'm someone important." I shake my head. "I'm nobody. I shovel dragon shit–er—poop for a living. This doesn't happen to people like me."

Nikolai nods enthusiastically. "Perfect. Keep going."

"I mean, I've watched the Games my whole life,” I lie. “Everyone has. You see these incredible riders—people who've trained since childhood, who come from families with money and connections." I gesture at my torn coveralls. "That's not me. I'm just... I'm from the Rookery. I dropped out of school to work in a factory. I never thought I'd even touch a dragon, let alone bond with one."

"And yet you did."

To my everlasting horror.

"Yeah. I did." I look down at my hands. "I don't know why he chose me. But... I'm going to do everything I can to be worthy of it. To not waste this chance."

It’s a death sentence but at least I can give Kai a future. 

"That's beautiful," Nikolai says, wiping a fake tear. "Humility, gratitude—it’s exactly what people want to see." 

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the camera lens. “Wait, should we be doing this after I clean up?” I gesture at my face. “I can’t imagine this is the look you want the public to see.” 

He shakes his head. “We’ll edit you in post.” He glances out the window. "Oh, we're almost there."

The car drives deeper into familiar territory. Clean streets and glass buildings have long since given way to cracked pavement and graffiti-tagged walls.

We turn onto my street.

My stomach drops.

There's a crowd.

News vans are parked along the curb, reporters set up with cameras on tripods. People I've known my whole life press against security barriers that weren't there this morning, held back by League guards in riot gear.

Of course. The trials were broadcast. Everyone knows.

Someone sees the car. Points. Shouts. The crowd surges forward.

"Perfect!" Nikolai is practically bouncing in his seat. "This is exactly what we need. Look at this turnout!"

The security vehicles pull up first, guards getting out to reinforce the barriers. Then our car slides into a space right in front of Building 14.

My building. Home.

The crowd presses close. I can see faces now—Mrs. Netz from 2B who never returns Mum's borrowed sugar. John from across the hall who complains when Kai's stims become too loud. The kids I used to babysit, now teenagers, watching with wide eyes.

Everyone wants a piece of this.

Everyone wants a piece of me.

Nikolai gets out first, and the crowd roars. He waves like he's the star, then gestures for me to follow.

I take a breath. Steel myself.

You’re doing this for Kai. And, hopefully, to survive. 

I get out. 

The sound hits like a physical force—screaming, shouting, my name over and over until it doesn't sound like a name anymore, just noise. Cameras flash. People push against the barriers.

Security pushes through the crowd, helping me move. I get slapped in the face by some fabric and grab it only to find it’s a t-shirt with my face on it. 

Someone is making T-shirts. Fucking T-shirts with my face on them from a photo that can't be more than two hours old.

How? How is this—

"Elizabeth!" someone screams. "Can I get your autograph?"

"Are you dating Gabriel Vekk?"

"Can anyone bond with a dragon?"

What the fuck? 

The camera crew follows, filming everything—the crowd, the building, my face as I try to process this nightmare.

I keep my expression blank. I refuse to give them more than they're already taking.

The building entrance is twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

Someone breaks through the barrier. A girl, maybe sixteen, her outstretched hand.

"Please! Just touch me!"

Security intercepts her, gentle but firm, pushing her back.

Her face crumples, like I broke her heart.

I don't know you. You don't know me.

We make it inside. The door closes, muffling the crowd to a dull roar.

The lobby is dark and cramped—flickering fluorescent lights, cracked tile floor, the smell of mildew no amount of cleaning can fix. Someone spray-painted graffiti on the mailboxes again.

Apartment 1C is right there. It’s been our home since Dad's accident, because wheelchairs and stairs don't mix.

The cracked paint on our door is peeling, and someone has left a lopsided note taped to it. It reads Congratulations in shaky handwriting.

I slide my key in and push the door open.

Mum is standing in the middle of our tiny living room, staring at the screen on the wall. It's showing the replay—me falling, the collision with Gabriel, the dragon bowing. On loop. Over and over.

She turns and she stares.

"Lizzie?" Her voice cracks. 

Then she sees Nikolai. The camera crew. The security filling our small entryway.

Her face goes pale.

"Mrs. Reeves!" Nikolai extends a hand, all charm and teeth. "Nikolai Brandt, League Promotions. Your daughter just made history!"

Mum doesn't take his hand. She's looking at me. Just me.

"Lizzie, what did you do?"

We're crammed around the kitchen table, me, Mum, Dad, and Nikolai. Mum sits rigid, her factory-worn hands wrapped around a chipped mug. More than a decade on assembly lines have left their mark in her calloused palms, and the scar across her left thumb. She's thin in that way people get when they've missed far too many meals trying to feed others. Stress has washed out her blonde hair to a silver, and etched lines in the corners of her face. 

In this moment, she looks far older than her fifty-three years. 

Dad sits in his wheelchair at the head of the table, his right hand resting on the joystick control. His left arm lies motionless in his lap. He’s still an attractive looking man, with his salt and pepper hair, and dynamic hazel eyes. It’s rare that I’ve ever seen him this drawn and pale. 

We're alone now. Mum banished Kai to our room as soon as I walked in the door, and Nikolai kept his word—the camera crew quickly collected their footage and left.

Now it’s just the four of us, staring at each other as tea sits untouched in chipped mugs. The silence from my parents is thick enough to choke on. Nikolai apparently has no qualms filling it. 

"We already have six offers from interested teams, and another fifteen from major sponsors," he’s saying, breaking the silence. He begins to scroll through his tablet like he's discussing vacation plans instead of my potential death sentence. "Shinhu Industries is offering two hundred thousand upfront, with performance bonuses. Meridian Tech is at two-fifty but wants exclusive branding rights—"

Mum's knuckles are white around her mug. Dad hasn't said a word. They stare at me with twin looks of horror. 

"The signing needs to happen within the hour," Nikolai continues. "We need Lizzie processed and at the Academy before midnight. The optics of immediacy are—"

"Stop." Mum's voice is quiet but cutting. "Just... stop talking for a minute."

Nikolai's smile falters.

Mum takes a deep breath then turns fully to me. 

"You're prepared to do this?"

I swallow. "I don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice—"

"No." The word comes out harsher than I intended. "Not this time, there isn’t. It's this or they execute me."

Dad flinches. “We’ll hire a lawyer.”

“With what money?” I wave my hand at our dingy apartment. “We’re about to lose our house, Dad. There’s nothing left. At least–” my voice breaks. I take a second to swallow the lump in my throat forcing myself to say aloud what we all know. “You don’t have to like this decision, but it’s the best option for all of us.” 

"Your daughter is making an extraordinary sacrifice. One that will transform your lives." He leans forward, voice dropping into something that might be mistaken for sympathy if it weren't so calculated. "The moment she signs, you're entitled to rider family benefits. Housing in the North Quarter—climate controlled, with full serviced rooms. There are medical facilities on-site, and your son's therapy would be covered indefinitely. I can also guarantee your husband's care, his medications—all of it."

He pauses, letting that sink in.

"And after Elizabeth dies, those benefits will continue for your and your son’s life. Your family will never struggle again. Your son will have every opportunity. You'll be taken care of."

The uncomfortable truth sits heavy, I'm worth more dead than alive.

An untrained rider with three weeks until the Games? There's never been someone less prepared in the history of the League. Everyone in this room knows I won't survive the first round.

But my death? That has value.

Dad's face crumbles. "Lizzie—"

"Go pack," Mum says, her voice cracking at the edges. "I'll handle the negotiations."

I stand abruptly, pushing away from the table.

The apartment is tiny—two bedrooms for four people. Mum and Dad have one. Kai and I share the other.

I push open our door and find Kai hiding in his blanket fort in the corner. His tablet glows from inside, the light glowing through the fabric.

"Hey, buddy," I say quietly.

The light goes still. He's listening.

I kneel beside the fort. "Can I come in?"

The blanket lifts in answer.

Inside, it's dark except for his tablet. He's got his battered noise-canceling headphones on, but he pulls one side off when he sees me.

Oh, Kai.

How the heck am I going to explain this to my favourite person in the entire world? How can I leave knowing I might never get to see him grow up? 

"I have to tell you something. It’s important," I say, forcing brightness into my voice. I wait for a beat, giving him time to tune into what I’m saying before continuing. "I got a new job. It pays well. Isn’t that great?” 

He rocks back and forth, but he doesn’t type on his tablet so I keep speaking. 

“But there’s an issue. I have to leave here and go work somewhere else.”

He grunts, pressing on his device. 

[WHERE ARE WE GOING?]

“I’m sorry, Kai. But you can’t come with me. I have to go alone. But,” I say, trying like hell to sound positive when all I want to do is sob. “I'll call you as often as I can, and I promise I’ll come home as soon as I’m allowed. Do you have any questions?"

I wait, giving him time to think and type. 

[WHAT JOB]

"I’ll be working for the League."

[DAD HATES THE LEAGUE] 

“I know. But the pay is really good.” 

[WHAT WILL YOU BE DOING?]

I hesitate, unsure of how much to tell him. 

“I’ll be working with the dragons. Isn’t that cool?” 

[NO. WANT YOU HERE.] 

"I know, Buddy. I know. Hey now, listen." I reach for his hand but he pulls back. "This job—it means you'll get a better tablet. A newer one. And new headphones. The good noise-canceling kind. And—" My voice cracks. "—your own room."

[WANT YOU.] 

I swallow rapidly, fighting the tears clogging my throat. “I know. I want to be here with you too. But sometimes we have to do things that suck.”

He makes another disgruntled sound, stabbing at his tablet. 

[STAY.]

“I’m sorry, bud. I can’t.” 

I give him time to process, letting him sit with it. 

“Can I have a hug before I go?” 

He shakes his head, letting me know that he’s not interested in physical contact. 

“Okay, bud.” I memorise his precious face, the pucker of his lips, the curl of his hair, his funny little boy smell. 

[LIZ, TAKE A ROCK] 

I frown. “I don’t understand.” 

He crawls out of his tent and fumbles around in the room then comes back, handing me a small rounded pebble. It’s a Dragon's Eye crystal, blue-gray and mildly translucent. I curl my fingers around the precious gift, wiping at the one tear that snuck through. 

“Thanks, Kai. I love you.” 

He pulls on his headphones and pulls up his game once more, disappearing into the tablet. 

With great reluctance, I leave the safety of the blanket fort, wishing beyond wish that I could stay curled inside there forever. 

I grab a small bag and begin packing, depressed to find that nearly everything I own fits inside. A few changes of clothes, a couple of trinkets, the one framed photo I have of Kai and me which cost more than a month’s wage to buy. Kai’s crystal goes in my pocket, pressed against my hip.

With the bedroom done, I move to our shared bathroom, shoving my toothbrush into the bag. In the cracked mirror, I can see just how awful I look.

“Damn.” 

With a sigh, I strip off the torn coveralls which are crusted with blood and sand and sweat. I wad them up, shoving them in the laundry basket. Hopefully Mum can salvage the material for another purpose. 

The shower is cold—hot water costs extra in the rookery—but I don't care. I scrub the arena sand from my hair, the blood from my face, wishing my sins could spiral down the drain just as easily as the dirt from my skin.

I pull on clean clothes—jeans, a tank top, and the only jacket I own. Everything is worn and faded, but comforting. It’s a feeling I desperately need. 

When I open the door, Dad's waiting in the hallway. His wheelchair blocks the narrow space. 

"Walk with me," he says quietly. He wheels toward their bedroom and I follow. “Close the door, Elizabeth.”

I do, then take a seat on the bed. 

For a moment, he looks at me.  

"You shouldn't have done this," he says finally.

"I know."

"There's always—"

"Don't." My voice breaks. "Please don't tell me there was another way when we both know we were getting far too close to the end of our options."

He's quiet, his finger tapping against the arm of his chair. 

"I have such regrets,” he murmurs, seemingly lost to his own thoughts. “There are so many things I wish I could tell you. Things I should have taught you. Warned you about. Given you. But I was too much of a coward. Too afraid of losing what little we had left."

"Dad—"

"Open the closet, Liz. Top shelf. There's a box. It’s green, with a dent on one corner."

I do as he asks, having to stretch on my toes to reach the box. It's old. Battered. The kind of thing that's been moved from place to place for years.

"Open it."

I set it on the bed and lift the lid. Inside is a mess of old tech. Outdated cables. Broken drives. Things that haven't been used in a decade or more.

"There's a holodisk near the bottom. It’s in black casing."

My hands shake as I search, pushing aside corroded battery packs and ancient memory chips.

“Found it.” I pull the case free, holding it up to show him. "What is it?"

"Everything I don’t have time to teach you." His gaze meets mine. "Don't read it here. Not in the Academy where they monitor everything. Not on any system connected to the League network." His right hand grips the joystick so tight the chair jumps forward a beat before he releases it. "There's a library in the Academy with old equipment they haven't updated, including vintage holodisk readers. Use one of those. But only when you're absolutely certain you're alone."

"I don’t understand.”  

His lips quirk sadly. “You will.” 

Mum calls my name from the kitchen. 

“I guess that’s my cue.” I stand, slipping the holodisk inside my pocket. 

“I love you, Chicken.” He lifts his arm. “Come give me a hug.”

His grip is weak, the nerve damage making his arm and fingers barely functional, but it’s comforting, and I desperately need to be comforted right now. 

"Promise me something."

"Anything," I readily answer. 

"Survive. Don't trust the League. Don't trust the sponsors. Don't trust the other riders. But whatever you do—survive."

He squeezes me as hard as he can.

"Dad, you're scaring me."

"Good. You should be scared." He releases me. "But you're also strong. Stronger than you think. You raised Kai when your mother and I couldn't. You kept this family together. You survived the Rookery." His voice drops to a whisper. "You can survive this too, my girl. You have to."

I nod once, unable to speak. I press a kiss to his cheek and leave the room, finding Mum and Nikolai waiting in the kitchen. 

Nikolai's tablet sits on the table between them.

Mum's posture is rigid. Her eyes are red but dry.

Nikolai's smile is strained.

"Four hundred thousand," Mum says as I enter. It’s a statement, not a question. "Plus a monthly stipend that covers living expenses for all of us and your dragon. They’ll include full medical coverage for Kai and your father, and—" She can't finish.

"Your Mother drives a hard bargain," Nikolai says tightly. "But it's all in the contract."

Mum holds out the stylus to me. "Come sign, Elizabeth."

It feels as if I’m walking to my own execution as I cross to the table. Nikolai turns the tablet toward me. Pages and pages of legal text scroll across the screen.

"Page twenty-three," he says. "Initial here, here, and here. Final signature at the bottom."

My hand shakes as I take the stylus.

This is it. The moment I make it real.

I initial. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the signature line.

Elizabeth Jane Reeves.

Just like that. Everything we’ve ever needed paid for with my life.

I set the stylus down and wait for a flood of emotions — grief, maybe. Or terror, rage, anything. But nothing comes. 

What's left of me is only logistics — a body that needs to show up at the right place at the right time to complete the delivery. Strange, how peaceful it feels to sign your death.

Nikolai stands. "The car's waiting."

Mum stands too. She pulls me into a hug so tight my ribs scream, but I don't pull away.

"Fight," she whispers. "Fight like hell. Every single day. Don't you dare give up."

"Mum—"

"You’re the reason we—" Her voice breaks. "We’ll live. You’re the reason Kai will get his therapy. You’re the reason your Father will get his care." She pulls back, cupping my face. "So you fight. You hear me, Elizabeth Jane? You fight until the very last second, and then you fight some more."

I nod.

She kisses my forehead. "Go, before I change my mind."

“I love you,” I murmur, squeezing her one final time. 

“I know, darling. Be brave.”

I leave in a daze, escorted once more past screaming crowds that have only deepened in the hour or so that we’ve been locked inside. I’m hustled into the car as Nikolai begins to outline the pitiful remainder of my life. 

"—orientation starts at 0600 tomorrow," Nikolai is saying, scrolling once more through his tablet. "You'll be assigned quarters, meet your team manager, begin basic flight training—"

Assuming I survive that long.

"When can I call Kai?" 

He doesn't look up. "Rider communications are restricted during the training and competition period. No personal calls. No unapproved devices. League security protocol." 

"No calls?" I repeat, because surely I've misheard. "At all?" 

"It's standard for all riders. The League can't risk external interference during—" 

"He's eleven. He's my brother. He's not going to interfere with anything."

Nikolai's expression doesn't change. "No personal communications. It's in the contract you signed." 

Of course it is. Buried in the pages I didn't read. 

I stare out the window and watch the city change in reverse as we drive.

The crude streets of the rookery fade as poverty gives way to wealth. The North Quadrant is where the wealthiest of the city’s citizens live—it’s where my family will soon be. 

The car turns a corner, and then we start climbing.

The Academy sits on a hill overlooking the city. The hill top is visible from anywhere in the city, a distant gleam of glass and steel, unreachable but always lurking. It sits like an eye looking down on the rest of us.

The gates to the Academy are massive and ornate. The League crest worked into the ironwork in gold.

They glide open as we approach.

Of course they do. Wouldn't want the rich kids to wait.

The car continues down the long drive and I’m struck by how pristine every part of it appears. From the manicured lawns to the algae-less fountains, the trees and bushes are perfectly sculpted, while each flower and stone seems to have been placed by an individual’s hand. 

I catch glimpses of buildings through the tree-lined drive, surprised that they look more like palaces than school rooms. 

All this wealth when people are starving. Fuck these rich pricks.

"Welcome to the Academy," Nikolai says, gesturing out the window. "This is where you'll live,  train, and—" He catches himself, coughing to cover his error. "—where you'll become a rider."

Where I'll die, you mean. 

The car pulls up to the main building. 

Students in expensive clothes stop to stare as I climb out. I'm still wearing my battered jeans and faded jacket. 

Yeah, get a good look. The trash just rolled in.

"Come on," Nikolai says. "I'll show you to your quarters."

I grab my bag. Start up the steps.

And then I feel it.

A prickling awareness. It’s a feeling I’ve honed after years of living in the rookery. I’m being watched.

I stop, glancing around for the perpetrator. 

I find him standing in a window on the third floor—Gabriel Vekk.

Even from here, I can see the hatred burning in his eyes.

Our gazes meet.

He doesn't look away.

Neither do I.

You want me dead? Get in line, pal. 

“This way, Lizzie,” Nikolai calls, hurrying ahead of me. 

I raise my hand, flicking a sarcastic salute at Vekk, and follow Nikolai into hell. 

I wake to silence. It’s not the kind of silence you hear in the Rookery, where there's always an underlying buzz of humanity, be it sirens or shouts, the hum of faulty wiring, or the drip of a leaking pipe. 

This silence is all encompassing. I don’t know how to describe it as anything but expensive, which feels like a strange word to ascribe to sound, but having lived my entire life surrounded by the small noises of the world and the humanity that occupies it, the total absence is disconcerting. It’s as if those inside the walls of the Academy have made it easy to forget the world outside. 

Which makes sense. Why worry about the plebs outside the walls when you could have this. 

My gaze dances over the high ceiling with its ornate crown molding. Painted in deep burgundy and gold leaf, it catches the early morning light with soft shimmers. A chandelier hangs overhead. An actual goddamned crystal chandelier, as if I’m a princess and not some trash dragged up from the Rookery.

The walls are covered in rich wood paneling carved with intricate patterns. It’s real wood, not the synthetic shit most of my furniture at home is made from. I stroked it for a while last night, committing to memory the cool, satin-like feel of its polished surface. 

The bed I'm in has four dark wood posts with heavy velvet curtains tied back. The windows are floor to ceiling with leaded glass that distorts the view into diamond patterns. Through them I can see manicured grounds and the distant shapes of the training grounds where the dragons are waiting.

There's a fireplace. It’s carved marble with the League’s crest worked into the mantle.

Overall, it’s not bad, for a prison cell. 

The strangest part of this whole experience is my body. Yesterday I fell off a loading dock, was hit by a dragon, slammed into sand, and dragged through underground tunnels while handcuffed. I should feel like I went ten rounds with a cement mixer.

Instead, I feel... fine.

Better than fine. I feel incredible. 

I touch my forehead searching for the cut only to find smooth skin. I throw back the covers—a velvet duvet, naturally—and lift my shirt to inspect my injury. The cuts are gone, and the bruises have faded to pale yellow-green shadows. Even the scrapes on my palms have sealed over, pink and new.

There's a note from the League’s intake office on the nightstand. It’s heavy cream cardstock, with the League’s crest embossed in gold at the top.

Medical evaluation completed during intake processing. Advanced regenerative gel applied. Expect injuries to fade within 24 hours. Report to Orientation in the Main Hall at 0900.

—Academy Intake Services

They need me pretty and primped for the cameras. Can't have Cinderella looking too beat-up before the Games begin. After the first siren? All bets are off. 

I check the clock on the wall. It’s antique, brass, and, like the rest of the room, probably worth more than everything I own. 

0534. It appears that a decade of early mornings have wormed their way into my psyche, stopping me from sleeping in. May as well drag my carcass out of bed and see what new horror awaits. 

“Time for my first day in hell.” 

I swing my legs out of bed and my feet hit an actual Persian rug. It’s made from rich reds and golds, and looks like the kind of thing that belongs in a museum. It probably costs more than the Rookery’s yearly sanitation budget. 

I move to the windows and the view takes my breath away.

The Academy sprawls across a hilltop estate, all stone and ivy and Gothic architecture. Gardens stretch in formal geometric patterns, a riot of flowers under the early summer sun.

My bedroom is at the front of the main residence, the city spreading below, and I can see all the way to the Rookery from here, if you count the gray smudge on the horizon as seeing.

I hope Kai’s okay. 

They gave me an induction pack when I arrived last night with maps of the grounds, surrounds and the different buildings. It sits untouched on an antique writing desk. Now I pull it out, examining the glossy folder, which is yet another item with the League’s crest embossed in gold. Inside are maps, schedules, and a crisp guide with the Academy’s rules and regulations.

I toss those aside and examine the map. The Academy grounds are massive—formal gardens, training facilities, dragon circles numbered 1 through 6, stables, exercise yards, an oval arena for practice Games. The map is a spider’s web of corridors and courtyards that represent an entire campus dedicated to the art of dying beautifully.

I wash up in the ensuite bathroom. It's larger than my bathroom at home, and far more gorgeous. It contains a clawfoot tub with gleaming brass fixtures, and tile work in deep emerald and cream. The mirror is framed in the same dark wood as everything else in the room.

I stare at myself, noting the hard look that’s taken up residence on my face. 

I look like someone who knows she's already dead.

Dressed, I pocket Dad’s holodisk and Kai’s crystal, and head for the door.

Time to meet my executioners.

The interior of the building is just as gorgeous as my room, with high vaulted ceilings, and rich timber floors covered in plush runners. Portraits line the walls, and it takes me a beat to realise they’re paintings of past riders. Some wear armour that looks centuries old, while others are dressed in modern flight suits. They’re all ages, sizes, shapes. The only commonality seems to be that they’re all dead. They stare down at me with their creepy painted eyes that follow my every move.

Hello, friends. I can’t wait to join you.

There are windows along one side of the hall looking out over the grounds. The glass is old—slightly warped, with bubbles trapped inside. Everything about this place whispers of history, and legacy, and permanence.

Ironic, considering I’m temporary.

I follow the signs toward the Main Hall where brass plaques are mounted on the walls, inscribed with elegant script. I pass other riders. They're easy to spot, they’re dressed in expensive, perfectly fitted flight suits, as if they have to be ready to jump on the back of their dragon at a seconds notice. 

They glance at me in my Rookery clothes, some doing a double take, others sneering openly. I might as well be wearing a sign that reads Doesn't belong here.

A girl in an immaculate flight suit, black with silver accents, looks me up and down as I approach. She stands at the base of a staircase with another woman, also dressed in black and silver. They’d look like twins, if not for the obvious age difference. 

"Lost?" she asks. It’s a simple question, but I get the feeling the question is less about helping and more about making a point that I shouldn't be here.

Believe me, bitch. I know. 

"Nope." I keep walking.

Her friend laughs. "Is that the grunt?"

"Apparently. At least we don’t have to worry about her. She’ll be dead before the first siren sounds."

Their voices echo off the walls, following me down the corridor.

Their words roll off my shoulders. I've dealt with worse in the Rookery. At least here, they won’t try to stab me.

Maybe. 

The hallway opens into a massive entrance hall stopping me in my tracks.

It's three stories tall, maybe more. A grand staircase sweeps up the centre, splitting into two curved branches leading to upper galleries. The bannister is carved wood—dragons and flames worked into every inch. Stained glass windows on the landing throw coloured light across the stairs—blues and purples and deep reds.

The floor is marble. Black and white in a geometric pattern that makes me dizzy the longer I look at it.

A chandelier hangs from the ceiling—bigger than the room they’ve given me. It’s crystal and brass, and holds hundreds of tiny candles burning inside.

It's obscene. Beautiful but obscene. The opulence is nothing but a mask to hide that this is where they train people to die. 

A guy shoulder bumps me as he walks past. “Fucking grunt.” 

I ignore him, checking out the directory near the base of the stairs. It’s a brass plaque mounted on a wooden stand, and holds the same elegant script as the others, but this one lists rooms and locations.

Main Hall: East Wing, Second Floor.

I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear quick footsteps behind me.

"Wait!"

I brace, half-turning, waiting to see what fresh batch of hell is about to be unleashed upon me. 

A woman my age is jogging up the stairs after me. She's small, maybe five-three, with a plump round face, and a riot of dark curly hair that’s pulled into a messy bun. She's wearing Academy blacks, but they're rumpled as if she slept in them. A tablet’s tucked under her arm, and she's puffing as she closes the gap between us. 

"You're Elizabeth Reeves, right? Lizzie?" She stops two steps below me, shoving thick glasses up her nose as she blinks at me with wide brown eyes. "I'm Allie. Allie Cartwright. I'm your Tactician."

I cock an eyebrow. "My what?"

"Tactician. I'm assigned to your team—well, technically I'm assigned to Azura Ascendancy, and you were drafted to Azura, so we're teammates." She shifts the tablet, fiddling with her glasses. "I was supposed to meet you at your quarters but you left early and I thought maybe you'd gone to breakfast but then I checked the schedule and saw Orientation was first so I came here but you weren't in the hall yet so I figured you were still coming and—" She takes a breath. "Sorry. I talk a lot when I'm nervous."

“You’re nervous? Why?”

“I don’t like meeting new people,” she says, with a grimace. “Especially ones who look like they might bite.”

Despite myself, I’m amused by her honesty. “Fair warning. I probably will.”

She looks about as dangerous as a kitten.

Don't trust anyone, Dad said.

But I'm going to die anyway. Might as well have a tour guide.

“Why were you looking for me?” 

"Oh. Um." She fidgets in place, not quite meeting my eyes. "I thought you might appreciate a tour before orientation. We could grab something to eat on the way?"

I'm about to refuse but my stomach betrays me with a loud rumble.

Allie's lips twitch. "I'll take that as a yes."

Fuck it. I'm starving, and have no idea where anything is.

"Lead the way."

I follow as she leads me through the halls of the building, pointing out rooms as we pass. It’s far bigger than I thought, with this wing housing team offices, medical services, and administrative halls. 

“How long have you lived here?” I ask as we pass a room dedicated to statues and busts of long-dead men. 

"I grew up here." She pushes her glasses up once again. "My uncle is on the Academy's governing council, so I've been around the League my entire life. Just not as a Team Tactician until recently."

"Recently?"

"Last week. Azura's previous Tactician got poached by Vekk Industries. Better pay, better team, better... everything." She says it without bitterness, just fact. "So they needed someone fast. My uncle suggested me. I'd been training as a backup Tactician for years, but no one wanted to actually hire me." She glances at me. "Being a council member's niece doesn't inspire trust from the teams. They think you'll report everything back to him."

"Will you?"

"No. He's family, but this is my job. I'm good at my job. Or I will be. Once someone gives me a chance to prove it."

We turn down another corridor, and she leads me to a small side room. It’s some kind of service kitchen, with a table with pastries, fruit, coffee urns. She grabs two plates, loading them up.

"Riders eat in the main dining hall," she explains. "But support staff can eat here. I prefer it. It’s quieter, with less people."

I take the plate she offers, examining the spread. The pastries probably cost more than a week's groceries, and every piece of fruit is fresh and without bruises or bugs. 

We take a seat and I bite into a pastry, groaning as the flavour explodes on my tongue. It’s made with butter. Actual butter. The flaky crust melts on my tongue.

Maybe dying here isn’t so bad. 

Allie watches me with a small smile. "Good?"

"Better than good. Seriously." I take another bite. “I think this is better than sex.” 

"The food here is excessive. Everything here is excessive." She picks at her plate. "It's designed to remind you the League has unlimited resources."

I swallow another bite. "Sounds like you don't like it here."

"I don't. Not really." She takes a sip of coffee. "I've spent my whole life watching rider hopefuls walk through those doors. Most won’t get chosen by a dragon. The rest will either triumph, or die on the field." She's quiet for a moment. "My family wanted me to be a rider. But I'm terrified of heights. And flying. And dragons. So I... couldn't."

"Your parents were riders?"

"My father was. He died in the Games when I was two." She says it matter-of-factly, but her hands tighten on her coffee mug. "He was Azura Ascendancy's best flyer. Everyone said he'd win. He didn't." 

“And your mother?”

She hesitates. “Mum isn’t part of all of this. I was a one-night-stand mistake. But when Dad died, I became his only heir. She handed me over to my uncle to raise in exchange for a payout. She’s married with another family now. We don’t speak much.”

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a long time ago." She sets down her coffee. "The Academy is all I've ever known. I've lived here, studied here, watched people die here. But never as part of a team." She looks at me. "Until now. So we're both new at this. Kind of."

I study her. This girl who grew up in luxury but still doesn't belong. Who lost her father to the Games but is now part of the system that killed him.

"Why stay?" I ask. "If you hate it here, why not leave?"

"Because I'm good at tactics, and it’s the tactics that keep people alive in the Game." She meets my eyes. "And if I'm good enough, maybe I can ensure fewer people end up like my father." 

I don't know what to say. We eat in silence, but the food has lost some of its appeal. 

"Come on," she says, standing. "I'll show you the grounds. You should know where your dragon is before orientation."

We head outside, where Allie points out the exercise yards, the stables, the formal gardens. Then the dragon training octagons, there are six of them arranged in an arc to the east.

"Circle 3 is Azura Ascendancy," she says. "That's where you’ll train with Eight B."

My chest tightens. "He's here?"

"Since last night when they brought all the dragons back from the Arena. Duncan—our Handler—has been with him." She glances at me. "Duncan's good. He's worked with difficult dragons before.” 

"Eight B’s difficult?"

She hesitates. “Let’s just say he’s not the most collegial dragon in the stable block.” 

Allie points to another training octagon in the distance. "Circle 5 is Vekk Industries. The purple and chrome dragon in the oval? That's Helix, Gabriel Vekk's dragon."

“Why do you call it a circle when it’s an octagon?” 

She shrugs. “It’s just what they’re called.” 

Fair enough. 

I squint, watching as Gabriel and Helix begin their run through a complex pattern of obstacles–some of which are moving.

"Gabriel trains every morning," Allie says. "Five until seven. I've watched him for years. He never misses a day. Rarely makes mistakes." She's quiet for a moment. "He's twenty-eight now. He was eighteen when he won the last Games. The only survivor out of the thirty riders who entered. I remember when he came back. Everyone acted like he was a hero but he just looked... empty."

"Do you know him well?"

"I know of him. Everyone at the Academy does." She shrugs. "We've never actually spoken. He doesn't talk to support staff. But I've studied his patterns. His strategies. It’s my job to know every rider so I can predict their moves."

"He hates me."

"Good,” she says, surprising me. “We can use that."

I watch Gabriel's dragon complete another flawless manoeuver.

"You really think I can survive this?"

Allie is quiet for a long moment.

"Honestly? The statistics aren't in your favour. You're untrained. Unprepared. Your dragon has issues." She looks at me. "But you survived bonding with a dragon that's killed people. It’s gotta counts for something." She turns back to toward the Academy "I figure you’re a fifty-fifty chance right now."

Despite everything, I chuckle. "Well that’s better than what I woke up thinking."

She smiles. It’s small, but genuine. “Let’s get you to Orientation."

Orientation is held in a room that is a shrine to the League.

That’s my first thought when Allie and I step through the double doors and into the Main Hall. The ceiling soars three stories up, ribs of stone arching overhead, every surface polished. Banners hang from iron rods—six of them, one for each team—in silk so fine it ripples in the draft from the air vents. Sunlight pours through tall arched windows and hits the gold-leaf detailing so everything glows like a damn holy place.

Except this isn’t a temple to gods.

It’s a temple to the League.

At the far end of the hall a mural takes up the whole wall. Not dragons burning cities, like the street stories from the Rookery. This one shows us tearing each other apart with airships, cannons, and cities split in half, humans against humans. Above it, a single line in gold script:

FROM FIRE, PEACE.

Sure. If by peace you mean “televised murder.”

Rows of seats line the room, already filled with riders in black and silver, handlers in gray, admin in deep navy. Right at the front, on low benches, are kids. They range in age from about six to ten, at the oldest. They’re adorable in their tiny uniforms and tiny boots, their spines ramrod straight as they await the start of the event. Their hair is brushed to a shine, and some wear little League pins at their throats. 

My stomach turns.

“Who invited the kindergarten class?” 

“Initiates,” Allie corrects, without looking up from her tablet. “Children from the North Quadrant are recruited at the start of every Games in preparation for the next one. They get ten years of training before they’re old enough to approach a dragon.”

“Surely they’re too young to leave their families?”

“Not when it’s easier to feed them the hero narrative before they’re old enough to start asking if they’ll die.” 

“I don’t understand. The upper echelon want to send their kids off to die?”

Allie tips her chin toward them. “Only the spares are riders. Never the firstborns. The oligarchy can’t risk actual inheritance lines. Glory for the House, honor for the bloodline, prestige for the name. It doesn’t matter if the second or third borns die so long as everyone sees them fly before they do.”

I glance around, noting the average age of the riders seems to be early to mid-20s. “So how does this place work, exactly? Is it a school?” 

She drops her tablet into her lap, shrugging. “It’s a funnel.”

I wait for her to elaborate. She doesn't.

"Care to expand on that?"

Allie gestures at the Initiates. "The kids live here. They’re taught everything children in the outside world would learn, but the League adds a layer of education specific for dragons. They’re taught dragon anatomy, flight theory, combat strategy. They're groomed for a decade." Her finger traces an invisible line through the air toward the older riders. "At sixteen, they're allowed near the dragons for the first time. If a dragon chooses them, they stay as bonded riders, and start training for the Games."

"And if no dragon picks them?"

"They keep trying. Every time a dragon loses its rider or a new dragon is introduced to the league, they’ll try and force a bond. But dragons rarely pick anyone over twenty. Something about the neural plasticity required for the connection. So once you hit twenty without a bond..." She makes a slicing motion across her throat.

"They kick them out?"

"Officially? They 'graduate' to support roles—handlers, tacticians, logistics and so on." Allie's mouth twists. "Unofficially? Yeah. They wash out. Most of the families see it as a disgrace. All that money and time, and your kid didn’t get chosen."

I look at the riders again. They're watching the Initiates with expressions I can't quite read. Nostalgia? Pity? Disappointment they're not sitting on those benches anymore?

“What about the ones who bond?” 

"They can come and go once they hit twenty, but most stay until the Games start." Allie gestures at the room. "The League invests too much in bonded riders to risk losing them in some random car accident."

“When can a rider retire?”

Allie snorts. “When they’re dead. The bond is forever, Liz. Why do you think Gabriel’s playing again? He’s the oldest rider because he survived.” She gestures at the audience. “There aren’t old riders for a reason.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Welcome to the League.”

A chime rings through the hall, and the conversation dies. A line of male officials walk onto the raised dais. Three are in black, one in deep red, and the final is a short man with steel-gray hair wearing a gold outfit with the League crest embroidered across his chest. He steps to the front.

“Director Rhodes,” Allie whispers. “He’s in charge of the Academy.”

“Not Kovac?”

“Kovac? Who’s Kovac?” 

“Honoured Guests,” he begins, his booming voice cutting through the room. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you here today.”

A holo blooms behind him. Not the cheap street adverts that I see on my way to work everyday, this is the good stuff. Crystal-clear, floor-to-ceiling imagery. 

It starts with grainy footage from a time long ago, when war ravaged the world. Cities burn, fleets sink, borders shift like tides. Soldiers in armour fire into crowds fighting to get to water. I’ve seen holos like it in museums, but never this clearly. 

“Once,” Rhodes says, “humanity devoured itself. We warred for territory, for resources, for faith, for pride. We stood on the brink of extinction—not from beasts, not from gods—but from our own ambition.”

The holo shifts to show mushroom clouds blooming across continents. Borders collapse and reform as a red ink spreads across maps—casualties, I realise.

“Governments failed, and chaos reigned. But hope hovered on the horizon.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’m not sure how much more melodramatic this guy can be. 

The holo shifts to show the first dragon prototypes. They're beautiful but wrong—unevenly proportioned, missing tails or claws, half-metal and half-flesh. The footage shows scientists testing flight and fire, claws and teeth. It shifts again to a dragon wheeling over a battlefield, melting steel and flesh under its fiery breath.

"The dragons were designed as the ultimate deterrent," Rhodes continues. “A weapon that could not be corrupted by politics or power. A deterrent. A single, undeniable force capable of ending all others. The dragons.” 

The holo zooms in on the first dragon — Salvatore. A red, massive beast with dead eyes and misproportioned legs. 

"Bioengineered apex predators, bonded at the genetic level to human pilots. One dragon could level a city. One rider could end a war."

The six logos light up the screen, corporate crests I've seen on everything from transit passes to the gruel packets at the Rookery market.

"From the rubble of humanity came the technocracies," Rhodes intones. "Six powers who controlled what remained. Six corporations who could have destroyed each other, and the world."

Six dragons emblazoned with the crests circle each other far above a stone octagonal arena. 

“Through the dragons, peace was brokered.” He pauses dramatically. “And through the Game, order was restored.”

A highlight reel plays of dragons diving, fire lighting up twilight, riders clashing midair. It's beautiful and terrible and I can't look away.

“Every decade, the six send a team of riders into the arena. The victor gains the right to govern, and the others honour the accord. It is through the Game that humanity is preserved."

A purple-chrome dragon fills the screen—Helix, though younger, smaller. "Vekk Industries. Advanced weapons systems. Energy infrastructure. Currently our governing body."

The dragon shifts to sleek black with gold accents. "Shinhu Consolidated. Transportation networks. Global supply chains."

Deep blue with silver markings. "Meridian Technologies. Communications. Data. Surveillance."

Green with bronze scales. "Terraform Solutions. Agriculture. Water rights. Environmental control."

Red and black, massive and scarred. "Krasnaya Collective. Mining. Raw materials. Heavy industry."

And finally a dragon in mottled silver and blue that makes my breath catch. Those sea-glass eyes are unmistakable.

"Azura Ascendancy. Medical advancement. Biotech. Human augmentation."

I glance at Allie. "That's us?"

She nods. "We used to place first or second every Games. Then we started losing riders faster than we could replace them." Her mouth twists. "We’ve been dead last the last five Games. We’re the underdogs."

“More like corpses.” 

On screen, the six teams stand in formation, their dragons behind them, looking like gods of war.

"And now," Rhodes says reverently, "our reigning champion. The sole survivor of the 2515 Games. The Hero and Heir of Vekk Industries—Gabriel Vekk."

The room detonates. Riders leap to their feet, Initiates scream his name, even the handlers and tacticians rise, clapping so hard it sounds like gunfire. The sound crashes over me in waves filled with worship, adoration, hunger.

I don’t understand what I’m seeing. This is more than hero worship, it’s an almost cult-like frenzy of desperation. They don’t want him, they want to be him. 

I stay seated.

Allie shoots me a look. "Stand up."

"Is it mandatory?"

"Well, no. But—"

“Then I’m good. Thanks.” 

His dark uniform is tailored and pressed to perfection, the Vekk crest gleaming on his shoulder. The material hugs every inch of his long, strong body, emphasising the power in his limbs. His dark hair is cropped military-short, so nothing softens the brutal angles of his face or the scar running from his left ear to his chin. He doesn't smile, doesn't wave, doesn't acknowledge the screaming crowd as he makes his way onto the stage. He just exists, and that's apparently enough.

His gaze sweeps the hall slowly, as if he’s cataloging every face in the crowd.

Then he finds me, still sitting.

Even from this distance, I can see his eyes narrow a fraction. Just enough that I know he’s clocked me. 

I offer a jaunty wave, grinning when he scowls in return. 

Hello to you too, asshole. 

The applause finally dies and the audience resumes their seats. Rhodes steps aside, offering Gabriel the floor.

"Twenty years ago," Gabriel starts, voice low and cutting, "I stood where you're standing now, hoping one day I’d be chosen for the Games."

The room is deathly quiet. 

"Ten years ago twenty-nine riders walked into the arena with me. Good riders. Trained riders. Riders who'd spent their entire lives preparing for that moment." He pauses, and the silence stretches. "I watched them all die."

He lets that sink in.

"They died because they believed talent was enough. Because they thought their bloodlines would save them. Because they assumed the dragons cared about their names." His jaw tightens. "The dragons don't care. The arena doesn't care. And when you're bleeding out in the sand, I won't care."

Someone gasps, and is quickly shushed by another. 

"The Games are not a tournament. They're war. They’re a culling. The weak, the foolish, the unprepared die." His gaze slides back to me, deliberate and cold. I meet it, holding his stare. "And those who don't belong? They die first."

My blood spikes.

Game on, fucker. 

"Some of you earned your place here," he continues, our gazes still locked in battle. "You were raised for this. Trained for this. You understand what it means to carry your Team's name into the arena."

He finally breaks our stare down, scanning the rest of the crowd.

"And some of you... weren't."

The room shifts, heads turning toward me.

Look all you want. 

"Some of you were given access to the Academy through... unprecedented circumstances." He makes it sound as if I sucked and fucked my way into their house of slaughter.

Believe me, Buddy. I’d rather be shoveling dragon shit than sitting here listening to you. 

He straightens. "You're here because a dragon made a mistake. Because the League is generous. Because someone decided the rules that have kept this institution strong for centuries could be bent."

My fingernails dig into my palms.

"Those people," Gabriel says, voice dropping to almost a whisper, "should remember they're here on sufferance." His eyes find mine again. "They're here because we allow it. And that indulgence can be revoked."

The threat hangs in the air.

I don't think. I lift my hand and flip him off.

The hall gasps.

One of the Initiates squeaks. Someone behind me chokes on a laugh, quickly smothered. Allie grabs my arm, hissing, "Elizabeth, what are you—"

Gabriel's mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. 

"Duly noted," he says, as if I just filed a complaint at a help desk.

He steps forward to the edge of the dais, hands clasped behind his back, his attention never fully leaving me.

"Let me be clear," he says. "I don't care where you came from. I don't care what dragon chose you. I don't care if you think you're special." His voice hardens. "In three weeks, you'll be in the arena. And in that arena, mercy is a luxury no one can afford."

He pauses, his gaze sweeping the crowd.

"Some of you will fight. Some of you will fold. Most of you will die." His gaze cuts back to me one final time. "And when you do, I'll step over your corpse without a second thought."

Silence.

“As for the rest of you, learn well your lessons. Study hard. Your life may one day depend on it.” 

He nods sharply to Rhodes and walks off the dais. The room erupts with applause, whispers, and the shuffle of bodies as people turn to stare at me.

Allie's still gripping my arm. "What the hell was that? He just threatened you in front of the entire Academy!"

"Looks like it." I stand, brushing off my jeans. 

“How do you know Gabriel?”

“I crashed into him yesterday.”

She winces. “That’s right. I saw the replay.” She glances over at the door he disappeared into. "You're going to get yourself killed before the Games even begin."

"What can I say? I’m an overachiever.” 

The rest of Orientation is a blur of administrative bullshit.

I'm herded through the Academy along with the young Initiates. Biometric scans. Uniform fittings. Equipment assignments. An ID chip gets embedded in my wrist with a sharp sting and a warning not to lose it. As if I could somehow misplace something under my skin.

By the time we're dismissed, it's nearly noon and I'm starving.

Allie leads me through a maze of corridors to what she calls the "Team Wing," a section of the Academy reserved for the six competing teams. Each team has their own dedicated space, including offices, strategy rooms, equipment lockers, and even private dining areas.

"Azura's on the third floor," she explains, climbing a spiral staircase. "We're not as flashy as the other teams, so we don't need as much space."

Code for: we're broke compared to them. Got it.

The Azura common room is nice but less ostentatious than I anticipated. Leather couches face a wall of windows overlooking the training grounds. Behind the couches, long tables groan under fresh fruit, real sandwiches, and desserts that look like someone arranged them on purpose. My stomach makes a noise I'd be embarrassed about under other circumstances.

Four people look up as we enter.

The first is a woman in her mid-twenties, tall and lean, dark skin and close-cropped dark hair. Azura blue uniform. When she smiles, it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Elizabeth," she says, crossing the room with her hand extended. "Kiera Onn. Team Captain. Welcome to the team."

I shake her hand. Her grip is firm, assessing. I get the feeling she's not here to fuck spiders.

"Thanks for having me."

"Not like we had a choice."

The blonde woman lounging in an armchair like it's a throne glares at me. She's beautiful in that effortless way wealthy people are. Honey-blonde hair in a sleek ponytail, perfect skin, expensive jewellery glinting at her throat despite the uniform regulations. "I'm Chloe Reeves-Laurent." Her lip curls in a way that shouldn't be attractive but is. "I've made it clear to marketing that we are in no way related."

Of course we share a fucking surname. Of course we do.

A guy sprawled on the couch beside her laughs. "Jesus, Chloe. Give her five minutes before you start." He sits up, grinning. "Jackson Charles Harrington. But call me Jax. Don't mind Chloe, she's like this with everyone."

She ignores him.

The fourth rider stands by the window, arms crossed. He's quiet, dark-eyed, with bronze skin and the kind of stillness that suggests he doesn't waste energy on unnecessary movement. He gives me a single nod.

"Ty Okafor," Kiera supplies. "Our scout. He doesn't talk much."

So I've got the Captain, the heiress, the comic relief, and the brooder. Five seconds in and I've already been cast as the underdog in a story I didn't audition for.

Kiera gestures to the food spread on the table. "Eat. You look hungry."

I don't argue. I load up a plate with real bread, actual cheese, and meat that doesn't taste like reconstituted protein paste. The first bite nearly makes me groan. Somewhere across the city, my family is splitting noodle packs and I'm out here biting into actual cured ham. The guilt lasts about half a second. I keep chewing.

"So," Kiera says, settling into a chair. Her tone is conversational, but I catch the way she's studying me. "Have you ever flown before?"

I snort around my mouthful. "Not unless you count falling."

The team don't react to my joke. Tough crowd.

"That's going to be a problem. The Games start in three weeks. Most riders here have been training since they were children." Kiera rubs her palms across her pant legs.

"I'm aware."

"Are you?" Chloe leans forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're a maintenance worker who got lucky with a dragon that doesn't know mignon from chum. You're not a rider. You're a liability."

"Chloe," Kiera starts.

"No, she needs to hear this." Chloe's gaze stays cold on me. "My family has competed in four Games. My grandaunt ended up paralysed. My uncle lost his legs. My brother died in the arena. I've spent my entire life preparing for this, and now we're going in with dead weight."

The room goes quiet, waiting for me to finish chewing. I swallow. Pick my words. The first response that comes to mind involves a hand gesture I'd probably get fined for, so I try the second one.

"You're right, I'm not trained. I haven't spent my life in a fancy academy surrounded by pompous assholes with an overinflated sense of importance." Chloe puffs up but I keep going. "We all know I'm a risk. So instead of pointing it out, how about you use the time we do have to teach me?"

The team exchange glances, but I'm too busy inhaling my sandwich to clock who looks at who. If I have to die soon, at least I'll feast like a king before then.

"What do you know about the Games?" Allie asks, taking a seat beside the giant holoprojector.

"Nothing. And I mean nothing. I was working when the last Games were on, and I left school before they covered them in civics class." I shrug. "I know they involve dragons and killing each other. I get that they serve as a proxy war for the sovereigns. But that's all I know."

Kiera blows out a long breath. "Alright. Let's give you a crash course." She stands, beginning to pace. I get the impression she's someone who needs to feel productive even when she isn't.

"Of the six teams competing, Azura's been at the bottom for five Games running. The team principals want a win."

More like they want to rule the entire fucking world.

"This Game is different from previous years. Only one rider made it out of the arena last time."

"Gabriel Vekk," I murmur, pushing my empty plate aside. "Tell me how the Game works."

Allie types something into her tablet and the holoprojector whirs to life. The hologram blooms in the air between us, a massive octagonal arena that looks like it could swallow a city block. Eight towering walls rise from a sand floor, each one marked with a different team's crest. Above, the sky is open, but the faint shimmer of energy barriers cuts the air at the edges.

"The Sovereign Arena," Allie says, manipulating the display. "Thirty kilometres across, bounded by electrified barriers." The hologram shows shimmering energy walls rising into the sky. "Cross the outer barriers and you're disqualified."

The display zooms in. The barriers ripple like heat waves over hot bitumen.

"These," she highlights eight glowing sections that slice the arena like pizza wedges, "are the zones. Six for the competing teams, two for bonuses." She points to the wedges marked 1 to 6. "That's your territory, where you store your orbs." Then she highlights the two blue sections. "And these are the Bonus Zones. Neutral territory with deadly obstacles."

Bonus Zones. Cute. Like the deadly is a perk and not a feature.

She zooms in on the centre. "This inner circle," a smaller octagon appears in the middle, "is the Central Obstacle Course. That's where the regular orbs spawn at the start of each Game. It's neutral ground, and it's where most of the initial combat happens."

Right. Let's emotionally dissociate from any references to combat for the moment.

"Why the centre? Why not in each territory?"

"Because you can't cross between territories," Allie explains. "See these lines?" She traces the barriers between each wedge. "Electrified too. To get to another team's zone, you have to go through the Central Obstacle Course. Everyone funnels through the middle."

"Got it. Orbs?"

Kiera continues to pace, jabbing a finger toward the screen. "The key to winning the Game is to accumulate points over the entire playing period." She gestures at the hologram. "These," small glowing spheres appear scattered in the centre of the octagon, "are orbs. Each one is worth points. The team with the most points at the end of the season wins."

"How many Games are there?"

"Seven." Kiera manipulates the display, showing a calendar. "The first three are played back to back, one day after another. There's a four-week break mid-season. Then we play the next three in a different arena. There's another two-week break before the grand final."

Seven chances to die. Maths I can do.

The hologram shifts, showing tiny dragon figures wheeling through the air, diving toward the glowing orbs in the central circle.

"Regular orbs are worth one point," Allie explains. "They spawn in the Central Obstacle Course at the start of each Game, and teams fight to collect them."

"So you just grab orbs and bring them back to your zone?"

"If you're hoarding, yes." Jax grins. "That's the boring strategy. Fly around, collect orbs, defend your stash. Safe but slow."

"There are three main strategies." Kiera counts them on her fingers. "Hoarding, where you collect and defend the orbs. Obliteration, where you focus on attacking other teams to steal or destroy their orbs, or eliminate the competition. Or Strategic, which is a mixture of both, but also requires you to go for the bonus orbs."

Seriously? How complicated can this game get?

"Bonus orbs?" I ask, almost reluctant to know the answer.

Allie circles the two blue zones on the hologram. "These are the Bonus Zones. They open at the forty-five-minute mark of a Game. Each has one bonus orb inside, worth four regular orbs. But they're surrounded by deadly obstacles. Fire traps, crushing mechanisms, things that'll kill you or your dragon if you're not fast enough."

I stare at the hologram. "I think I'm understanding why you guys have to go through decades of schooling to play."

Chloe stands, flicking her hair back. "That's right, grunt. The Game isn't just about who can ride a dragon. It requires knowledge of combat techniques, strategy, and resource management."

I may not like her tone, but the woman has a point. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it.

"So let me get this straight. You can win by hoarding the most orbs. You can win by eliminating all the other teams. You can win by being smart and grabbing those bonus orbs while everyone else is fighting. Am I missing anything?"

Allie nods. "The critical part. The points are cumulative."

"Cumulative?"

"Across the whole season," Ty says, surprising me. He's been silent up until this point, and when he does speak, his voice is low and rough. "The orbs you collect in Game One carry over to Game Two. Game Two to Game Three. All the way to Game Seven."

"So if you collect ten orbs in the first Game,"

"You start Game Two with ten orbs already," Kiera finishes. "And if you collect eight more in Game Two, you've got eighteen total going into Game Three. At the end of the season, whoever has the most cumulative orbs wins."

My stomach drops. "So early Games matter just as much as late Games."

"More, actually," Jax says. "Because once an orb is destroyed, it's gone forever. Well, except the bonus orbs. Those restock each Game. But regular orbs? Finite resource. By Game Seven, there's maybe thirty orbs left in play total."

"How do orbs get destroyed?"

"Combat," Ty says. "Dragon fire. Crushing. Sometimes teams destroy them deliberately. If you can't steal an enemy's stash, you might destroy them so they can't use them either."

I look at the hologram again, watching the tiny dragons swarm. Bloody hell. I'm so out of my depth I can't see the surface.

"How do teams get eliminated?" I ask.

"The rider dies," Ty says flatly. "Or the dragon does. Same result."

"Dragon death is automatic elimination," Jax adds. "If you die, your dragon grieves itself to death unless it bonds with someone. But they'll have to wait until the next Games to compete. You can't sub in additional players after the first Game begins."

One of the tiny dragon holograms falls, spiralling toward the sand. Another dragon, its rider presumably, collapses mid-flight. It's animation. It isn't real. My stomach doesn't care.

"Six teams enter each Game," Kiera continues. "All at once. It's chaos from the first second. The Game lasts sixty minutes, divided into three twenty-minute periods with short breaks between. You can collect orbs, raid other teams' zones, defend your hoard, go for bonus orbs, whatever strategy you think will win."

I nod. "What are the rules in the arena?"

"Don't die," Ty says.

"That's it?"

"No weapons restrictions," Kiera answers. "No forbidden tactics. You can form alliances, betray them, hide, fight, run, whatever keeps you alive and gets you orbs. The only rule is you have to stay in the arena. Cross the barrier, you're disqualified." She hesitates.

"And teams can merge?"

Kiera's expression tightens. "When teams are too decimated to continue, usually by Game Three or Four, the League allows survivors to merge. The team principals negotiate it. Once that's worked out, you're allowed to combine orb hoards and riders. It keeps the competition viable when half the teams are dead."

I wince, glancing at the hologram where six teams circle each other in the arena. "So you're fighting for orbs, but you're also trying to kill each other."

"Obliteration is a valid, and popular, strategy," Kiera says. "By eliminating other teams entirely, you're statistically more likely to get to the end."

Allie shifts beside me, pulling up something on her tablet. "Actually, there's a statistical pattern to survival rates. If we look at the last three Games, teams that survive focus on,"

"Formation," Kiera cuts in, not looking at Allie. "We know. Standard defensive cluster with the strongest riders covering each other."

"But that's exactly what everyone expects," Allie says, her voice gaining confidence. "If we adjusted to a scattered formation with,"

"A scattered formation leaves us vulnerable," Chloe interrupts. "Anyone with basic tactical knowledge knows that."

"Not if we account for the chaos factor," Allie persists, pulling up a diagram on her tablet. "Look, if Elizabeth takes a position here, and we use her as,"

"Use Elizabeth?" Kiera's voice goes sharp. "Allie, stop. You think you know a lot, but you don't."

"That's not, I mean, strategically speaking,"

Allie's face flushes. She looks down at her tablet, fingers white-knuckled.

I file that away. The girl has ideas. The girl is being shut down. Two things to remember about Allie. Three, if I count the fact that she's the only one so far who's looked at me like a person.

I hesitate, not sure I want the answer to my next question. "Did Vekk voluntarily kill the other riders, or did he just happen to be the only one left standing?"

The room goes quiet.

Ty is the only one whose eyes meet mine. "What do you think?"

I've managed to piss off a state-sanctioned mass murderer. Go me.

"Honestly," Jax says, standing and stretching, "the best way to understand how this all works is to see it in person. Or at least see us practise in the training yards. Reading about it and experiencing it are totally different things."

Kiera nods. "He's right. Elizabeth, you need to meet Duncan anyway. And Eight B." She checks her watch. "We've got time before evening training. Let's go."

Circle 3 sits at the far end of the Academy grounds, one of six massive stone octagons arranged in a wide arc. Each is maybe three kilometres across, ringed by low stone walls with electrified barriers that can extend upward when activated. Inside, training equipment. Obstacle courses. Flight markers. Targets mounted on poles.

"Each team has their own circle," Allie explains as we walk. "No one crosses into another team's space without permission."

"What happens if they do?"

"Depends on the team," Jax says cheerfully. "Vekk Industries will file a formal complaint. Meridian Collective will break your legs."

"We're somewhere in the middle," Kiera adds.

As we approach Circle 3, a low, guttural sound vibrates through the ground. Not quite a roar. More like a warning.

The gate to Circle 3 is open. Inside, a man stands in the centre of the training ground, arms crossed, watching a dragon pace along the far wall.

"That's Duncan," Kiera says quietly. "And that's your dragon."

Eight B is bigger than I remember. Fifty feet of mottled grey-blue scales that shimmer silver in the afternoon light. His wings are folded tight against his body, muscles bunching under his hide. Those sea-glass eyes track everything with predatory intelligence.

He's beautiful. And terrifying.

The man, Duncan, turns as we enter. I'd put him at mid-forties, sun-weathered skin, the kind of permanent squint that comes from spending decades staring at the sky. His forearms are thick and corded with muscle, covered in old burn scars that speak of too-close encounters with dragon fire. His salt-and-pepper beard is kept military short, and he's wearing Azura blues with a handler's insignia on his shoulder. He moves with the slight limp of someone whose left leg took damage years ago and never quite healed right.

I know all too well what that looks like, having grown up in the Rookery.

His gaze sweeps over me once, a single assessing look that catalogues everything worth knowing, then dismisses me just as quickly. "You're late."

I cock an eyebrow. "Didn't realise we had a date. Should I have brought flowers?"

He ignores me, gesturing at Eight B. "Every minute you're not training is a minute that prevents the bond from solidifying."

Eight B's head swivels toward us. Toward me.

For a moment we stare at each other. Me and this dragon who chose me for reasons I still don't understand.

Then he does something I don't expect.

He bows.

Not low, like in the arena. Just a slight dip of his massive head.

He remembers me.

Something warm cracks open in my chest. I shove it back down before it can take up space.

"Well," Duncan says, his voice dry. "At least he hasn't tried to kill you yet. That's progress."

"Has he killed riders before?" I ask.

"Four riders in the last six months, and two of them were after he'd already bonded with them." Duncan scratches his beard. "He's injured seventeen more, and he's rejected twice that number of bonding attempts." He walks toward Eight B, who watches him but doesn't move. "He doesn't trust humans. Never has."

I fall in beside him, matching my stride to his. "And now he's chosen me."

"Yeah." Duncan looks at me. "He's unpredictable. Violent. And if you make one wrong move up there," he points at the sky, "he'll throw you off and won't bother catching you."

My throat tightens.

"So why keep him if he's that dangerous?"

"Because he's fast," Duncan says. "Faster than any dragon Azura has produced in forty years. And when he does decide to cooperate, he's brilliant. Intuitive. Reads combat patterns three moves ahead. The problem is getting him to cooperate."

We stop a few hundred metres away from the big beast. Eight B's gaze hasn't left me.

"Can I approach him?"

"Slowly," Duncan says. "Let him come to you if he wants. Don't make sudden movements. Don't reach for him unless he initiates."

I take a step forward. Eight B tenses, his wings flaring.

I stop.

"Easy," I murmur. "It's just me. Remember?"

Eight B tilts his head, studying me. Then, slowly, he takes a step forward. Then another.

He stops three feet away, close enough that the heat from his scales hits my face like a wood stove. His nostrils flare, pulling in my scent.

I hold perfectly still.

Eight B lowers his massive head until his snout is level with my face. Up close, every detail comes into focus. The way his scales shift colour in the light. The intelligence behind his eyes. The scars along his jaw that speak of past violence.

"Hi," I whisper. "I'm Elizabeth."

He exhales, a warm breath that smells faintly sulphuric, and bumps his great snout gently against my chest.

"Should I take the fact that you haven't eaten me as a good sign?"

He snorts, butting me once, hard enough to shove me back a step.

"Good," Duncan says from behind. "That's good. He's acknowledging you."

Eight B pulls back, but he doesn't retreat.

"Now what?" I ask.

"Now you learn to fly."

Oh, I'm absolutely going to die.

Duncan leads us to a storage building at the edge of Circle 3. Inside, flight gear hangs in neat rows—sleek tactical equipment that looks more like it belongs in a fighter jet than on a dragon's back.

The rest of the team, excluding Allie, begin to pull down items and tug them on. 

"Arms up," Duncan says, pulling a harness from the wall.

I obey, and he begins strapping me in with practiced movements. The material is something synthetic, lightweight but incredibly strong. The surface has a faint iridescence, like oil on water, and I can feel it adjusting to my body temperature the moment it touches my skin. I’ve never felt anything like it. 

"Smart fabric," Duncan explains, noting my expression. "It regulates heat, monitors vitals, and can seal minor punctures automatically." He adjusts the harness straps then clicks the buckles into place across my chest, around my waist, and between my legs.

I wonder how many times he’s done this for people who never came back. 

 Each one glows briefly as it locks. Straightening, he taps a disc-shaped unit mounted at the center of my chest. "Electromagnetic anchors. The clips work with the saddle's magnetic field to keep you positioned during flight."

"So I can't fall off?"

"You can. The magnets just pull you back—if you stay within range." He tugs the harness, testing the tension. "It’s a three-meter radius. Stay inside that bubble and the system will pull you back on board. Get thrown beyond it..." He shrugs. 

“I’ll squish like a bug under a kid's shoe?”

"More like break every bone in your body and slowly bleed to death from internal injuries." 

"Happened to a chap in my year,” Jax supplies cheerfully from where he's leaning against the doorframe. “Lovely bloke. Such a pity he passed, but I did get his dragon.”

“How fortunate for you.” 

Duncan moves to a shelf lined with helmets, each one resting in its own climate-controlled case. He selects one, the case hissing as it opens. "This is the important part."

The helmet is unexpectedly beautiful in a clinical way. It’s made of matte black composite material with a heads-up display visor that covers the upper half of the face. I reach for it but Duncan holds on tight. 

"This is your neural interface," he says, tilting it so I can see inside. The lining is embedded with what looks like circuitry—impossibly thin filaments that pulse with a faint blue light. "These connect to the neuromesh embedded in Eight B's brain. It's how you’ll communicate with him."

"You mean like talking?"

"No. Dragons don't process language the way we do." He taps the filaments. "The connection bypasses verbal centers entirely. It works at the level of raw cognition—intent, spatial awareness, sensory data. You think 'bank left' and the interface translates that thought into neural architecture he can parse. He responds the same way—proprioceptive feedback, threat assessment data, spatial positioning feeds directly into your vestibular system."

I stare at the filaments, watching them pulse with that eerie blue light.

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Then you fall." 

I roll my eyes. “Right, so the answer to everything is fall?” 

"Yes.” He raps his knuckles lightly against my forehead. “The bond between rider and dragon is what makes the neural handshake possible. Without the bond, the helmet is just expensive safety gear. With it—" He shrugs. "—the interface bridges two fundamentally incompatible neural architectures. But with Eight B, it’s always a crap shoot."

"How utterly reassuring that the dragon who chose me is turning out to be a picky little bitch."

He tosses the helmet to me. "Put it on, smartass."

I catch it, surprised to find it’s far lighter than I was expecting. “Yes, Uncle.” The composite material cool against my palms. I lift it over my head and settle it into place.

The moment it seats properly, the interface activates.

It's not painful, but it's fundamentally wrong. I can feel thousands of micro-connections forming across my scalp as my neural pathways are mapped and indexed in real-time. The Heads Up Display—HUD—flickers to life inside the visor to begin sending biometric data streaming across my vision. I watch in real time as my heart rate spikes as the system calibrates. 

“This is—-” I gasp as a sensation I can only describe as my nervous system being pulled hits me. It stretches beyond the confines of my own skull, making me feel both lightheaded and utterly rooted to the spot.

"Relax," Duncan encourages. "The initial handshake takes thirty to forty seconds."

The pulling intensifies, probing outward, searching. Then it finds something.

Eight B.

The connection snaps into place and I'm aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with sight or sound. It's like gaining a phantom limb—I know where he is, how he's positioned, the tension coiled in his haunches. The HUD populates a new data stream I don't understand—neural coherence percentages, synaptic response times, something called "bond stability" that's flickering amber instead of green.

"I think we’ve got lift off," I mutter, watching the data scroll.

"Barely," Duncan says, squinting at something on his own tablet. "Your coherence is at forty-two percent. Most riders hit seventy on their first link."

"Is that bad?"

"It means the neural architecture between you and Eight B isn't meshing cleanly. The interface is having to work harder to translate between you two." He taps his tablet. "Could be bond instability. Could be that Eight B's neuromesh is damaged. Could be you." He looks up. "Guess we’re about to find out."

We return to the Circle where Eight B watches me. Duncan has already fitted him with the saddle—a sleek rig of reinforced composites and adaptive polymers that sits behind his shoulder blades, between his wings. Indicator lights glow along its surface, syncing with my harness.

"The saddle has magnetic anchor points on either side of the seat." Duncan explains. "Once you sit down, your harness electromagnets sync with the saddle's field. The system monitors your position relative to Eight B's movements. You start to slip, it should pull you back up."

"Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?” 

He gives me a droll look. "Mount up."

Taking a deep breath, I approach Eight B slowly. Through the neural connection, I feel... something. Not words, not even images. More like pressure against the back of my thoughts. Curiosity mixed with wariness.

I stop a few feet away, meeting his gaze.

"Hey," I say quietly. "I know you want to fly. I do too. Well—I think I do." I glance at the saddle, then back at him. "Is it okay if I get on?"

Eight B's awareness shifts. He lowers his head slightly, snorting. He paws the ground like a horse then waits, seemingly unfazed by my request. 

“I’ll take that as permission.”

I walk around to his side, grazing my finger tips along his scales as I go. The skin ripples in response, and his great head twists to watch me. He might not be as big as Helix, but he’s still tall, and there is no way I’m getting up there on my own. 

“There are retractable footholds built into Eight B's saddle assembly,” Duncan calls. 

I hesitate, unsure how to get them to deploy.

"Try your wrist guard.” 

I hit a button and they extend with a soft click.

Murmuring nonsense to Eight B about not kicking me off, I climb, my boots finding purchase on the smart-material grips that adjust to my weight. As I rise, I keep one hand on Eight B's scales, maintaining contact. He remains still, seemingly content to wait for me.

When I swing my leg over and settle into the saddle, everything changes.

The neural connection escalates from background awareness to full sensory integration. The HUD floods with information—thermal maps, threat assessment overlays, flight envelope parameters I don't understand.

And underneath it all, is Eight B’s awareness of me–a near overwhelming feeling of other locked in my head. 

“Don’t know about you, but this is creepy as fuck.”

He snorts again, bobbing his head as if in agreement. 

My coherence drops to thirty-eight percent. An alert flashes in my peripheral vision: NEURAL HANDSHAKE UNSTABLE.

"Adjust until the magnets clip in or you’ll—”

“Fall, I get it, Duncan. All roads lead to me falling.” 

My hands shake as I reposition myself on the saddle until the magnetic aspects lock. They snap into place with satisfying thunks, and the harness goes rigid, integrating with the saddle's structural network. Status indicators turn green.

Eight B shifts his weight.

The HUD tracks the motion before I consciously register it—he’s shifting his center of gravity, his muscle tension redistributing. But the translation feels wrong, like there's lag between his movement and my awareness of it.

"Okay, dude," I murmur. “Let’s take this nice and slow.” 

Through the connection, I try to project calm. The interface attempts to encode the emotion—I can see it on the HUD, watch as my thought pattern gets translated into neural impulses and transmitted through the neuromesh.

Eight B receives it as something else entirely.

I feel his confusion ripple back through the link. What I meant as reassurance, he parsed as... uncertainty? Fear? The translation degraded somewhere in transmission.

He responds with raw sensory data, bombarding me with, not images, exactly. More like compressed spatial awareness. The weight of sky above, the texture of wind, the vast openness beyond the Circle's barriers.

He wants to fly.

"Start simple," Duncan says. "Think about him extending his wings. Just the mechanical action. Don't overthink it."

I close my eyes, focusing on the motor command. Wings spreading, membranes unfurling.

The interface translates it, sending it through.

Eight B's wings explode open.

The motion is so sudden and violent my neck snaps back. His wingspan must be seventy feet, maybe more. The HUD tracks every articulation point, showing me our aerodynamic profile and calculating lift potential.

"Not what I asked for, but it’ll do." Duncan does a ‘come here’ gesture. "Now get him to move forward. Walking first."

I construct the thought carefully. Forward motion. One foot, then another. Slow.

The interface processes it. Sends it.

Eight B doesn't move.

I try again, watching the HUD as my neural pattern gets encoded and transmitted.

Nothing. Coherence drops to thirty-five percent.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck! 

"He's not responding," I call down.

"Make him. You're the rider. Assert dominance through the link."

I don't know how to do that. I push harder, forcing the command through with more intensity.

Eight B's response comes back as pure rejection. A wall of NO slams into my consciousness so hard I gasp.

He doesn't want to walk. The sensory data flooding back through the link makes it clear—walking is beneath him, insulting, pointless when he has wings.

"Duncan, I don't think—"

Eight B launches.

There's no warning. The HUD's threat assessment explodes with alerts—RAPID ALTITUDE CHANGE, G-FORCE EXCEEDED, STABILITY COMPROMISED—as Eight B’s legs coil and detonate upward with enough force to gray out my vision. His wings beat once, twice, and suddenly we're climbing at an angle that shouldn't be possible.

The ground drops away in a stomach-lurching rush. Twenty feet. Forty. Sixty. The HUD tracks our ascent—twelve meters per second, fifteen, eighteen—while my inner ear insists we're falling. Eight B climbs at a vicious angle, his wings hammering the air with strokes that send shockwaves through the saddle's dampening system.

"EIGHT B, STOP!"

He doesn't. Through the neural link, all I receive is exultation—raw, savage joy coded in dopamine spikes and synaptic cascade patterns the HUD can’t seem to understand. 

We hit a hundred feet and he banks a hard right.

The world pivots. The HUD tries to compensate, maintaining a level horizon while my actual vision shows sky, ground, sky, ground in nauseating rotation. My coherence drops to twenty-eight percent. Warning alerts multiply.

"LEVEL OUT!" I shout, trying to push the command through the degrading connection.

The interface translates my panic into corrupted data. Eight B receives it as noise—conflicting signals that make his flight pattern stutter and jerk. I feel his confusion ripple back, frustration at my inability to communicate clearly.

We drop ten feet in a sickening lurch.

I abandon any attempt at cognitive control, grabbing the saddle with both hands. The motion translates through the neural link as interference. Eight B responds with a surge of irritation—raw emotional data that bypasses the interface entirely and hits my limbic system like a punch.

I'm interfering, distracting him. My fear is degrading his flight control.

He banks left this time, even harder, and I feel the aerodynamic calculations happening in his brain—angle of attack, airspeed, structural load on his wings. But I can't interpret the data fast enough. The interface is struggling to translate his spatial awareness into formats my human neurology can process.

My right leg comes loose from the stirrup. For one horrifying second, I'm held in place only by the magnetic harness while the HUD screams warnings—POSITION UNSTABLE, RECOMMEND EMERGENCY DESCENT.

“NO SHIT YOU FUCKING PIECE OF JUNK!” 

Through the connection, I feel Eight B's awareness of my terror. But his response is confusion, not concern. He doesn't understand why this bothers me. 

The fundamental incompatibility between our nervous systems has never been more apparent.

We're at two hundred feet now, and still climbing. The Academy grounds spread below like toy models. I can see the other training circles, tiny figures watching from the ground.

Waiting for me to fall. 

I close my eyes, sucking a deep breath as calm washes over me. 

It’s here or the Arena. At least here Kai won’t see my death splashed on TV. 

Eight B levels out for a moment, wings spread wide, gliding.

The neural link quiets. Data streams instead of raw emotion. It’s as if he’s trying to teach me a language the HUD can’t translate.

I try to send a command. Descend. Controlled descent.

He dives.

It’s a full, wing-tucked, gravity-assisted plummet that the HUD flags immediately—TERMINAL VELOCITY APPROACH, IMPACT IN 8 SECONDS.

“HOLY FUCKING SHHHHHHIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTT!” I scream, abandoning the reins to clutch at the saddle horn. 

The ground rushes up at nightmare speed. Wind screams past, and my harness straps cut deep as my body tries to lift from the saddle. The HUD counts down—7 SECONDS, 6 SECONDS—while our coherence flatlines at fifteen percent.

"EIGHT B!"

A single, furious thought solidifies. It’s a thought that has no business being in my head. 

I don't want to die.

Not here. Not like this. Not yet.

I try again, desperate, forcing every ounce of intent through the failing interface. Pull up. Wings spread. Now.

Through the fragmenting connection, I feel his confusion crystallize into understanding. 

The command gets through.

At the last possible second—maybe fifty feet from impact—Eight B's wings snap open. The deceleration is so violent something pops in my shoulder. My vision tunnels. The HUD briefly flatlines before rebooting.

We level out barely twenty feet above the sand, so close I can see individual grains in the training ground's surface.

Eight B lands hard, his claws gouging furrows in the ground. Impact sensors in my harness flash red.

I'm shaking so badly I can't work the magnetic releases. My fingers won't cooperate with the touch controls.

Duncan appears beside us, his expression carved from stone.

"That," he says flatly, "was a disaster."

I manage to disengage one clip. Then the other. The harness releases and I slide off Eight B's back. My legs give out the moment I hit the ground.

Don’t vomit. Don’t you fucking vomit!

Allie and the rest of the team are running toward us. Kiera reaches me first, dropping into a crouch, her hand hovering near my shoulder but not quite touching. "You intact?"

"Define intact," I manage.

"Bloody hell, that was spectacular!" Jax is grinning like I just performed an impressive party trick instead of nearly dying. "Absolutely mental flying. Terrifying, obviously, but you've got to admit the commitment to that dive was rather impressive—"

"She has no business being on a dragon," Chloe interrupts. "She’s going to get herself, and everyone else killed."

"Chloe," Kiera says quietly, still crouched beside me. A warning, not a reprimand.

I rip off the helmet, tossing it aside. My head pounds where the neural interface pressed against my skull. Through the fading connection I feel Eight B's emotional state. He's frustrated. The bond exists, but the language is broken.

"We'll try again tomorrow," Duncan says.

"Tomorrow?" I stare at him. "I almost died."

"Yes. And tomorrow you'll almost die again. And the day after that. And likely the day after that." He crosses his arms. "You've got three weeks before the Games, Reeves. Every single one of those days, you're going to get on that dragon, and you're going to keep getting on him until either the Games start, or he kills you."

He walks away, leaving me sitting in the sand, still shaking.

Eight B lowers his head, snout hovering near my shoulder. He huffs in a way that might indicate concern. Or perhaps he’s disappointed that his rider is catastrophically incompatible with him.

I reach up, resting my hand against his scales.

"We'll figure it out," I whisper. “We have to.”

The Academy halls have a peculiar smell. I've been living here for a week and still can't get used to it. It's a mixture of money and privilege, of beeswax polished wood, fresh flowers in crystal vases, and the faint tease of expensive cologne.

I keep my head down as I walk, acutely aware that I'm still wearing yesterday's training gear. I fell asleep before washing last night, and I overslept this morning which left me no time to change. The smart fabric might regulate temperature and seal punctures, but it can't hide the grass stains or the tear along my left shoulder from where Eight B's wing clipped me during our fourth failed attempt at a banking turn.

A group of trainees rounds the corner, their uniforms pristine. They see me and freeze.

"That's her," one whispers, not quietly enough. "The grunt. She almost died again yesterday."

"My brother says her dragon's defective, and that she'll be dead before the first Game ends."

Jokes on him, I'm not making it to the first Game.

Their instructor—a stern woman in Academy grays—hurries them along with a sharp word, but not before I catch the pity in her expression.

I don't need pity. I need a miracle.

The dining room is already packed when I arrive. Trainees sit by year level, while riders are clustered by team at their designated tables. Vekk Industries sits near the windows, their black and gold uniforms catching the morning light. Gabriel's there, listening to something his teammate is saying, his expression unreadable. He doesn't look my way.

Azura's table is in the back corner, as always. The underdogs get the worst real estate.

"Morning," Jax says cheerfully as I drop into a chair. He's already halfway through a stack of pancakes that could feed three people. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead." I grab a piece of toast, too tired to deal with anything more complicated.

"You smell it," Chloe mutters from across the table. She's picking at a fruit salad. "Another stellar training session yesterday, I hear."

"Chloe," Kiera warns but it's full of grudging resignation. She and I both know Chloe's incapable of leaving me alone.

"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking." Chloe sets down her fork with a soft click. "We have nine days until the Games. Nine. And she still can't complete a basic flight pattern without crashing into one of us or nearly killing herself."

"Elizabeth is improving," Allie says quietly from beside me. She's got her tablet open, as always, fingers tapping against the screen.

Chloe stands, abandoning her half-eaten breakfast. "I need to train. With people who actually know what they're doing."

She leaves, her blonde ponytail swinging.

"She's absolutely bricking it," Jax says, watching her go. "Poor form, really, taking it out on you. But understandable, given the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Her brother died in the opening minutes of his first Game. His dragon took a hit to the wing, went down hard. Gabriel Vekk was the one who killed him, actually. Well, his dragon did. Helix doesn't mess about." Jax shoves another forkful of pancake into his mouth. "Chloe's convinced she's going to end up the same way. Makes a person rather unpleasant."

Kiera clears her throat. "Elizabeth, you're scheduled in Circle 3 at oh-eight-hundred."

"Can't wait. Wonder what new bruises I'll be wearing tonight."

She checks her watch. "You've got twenty minutes. I'd suggest you eat something more substantial than toast."

I grab a protein bar from the center of the table, shove it in my pocket, and stand. My legs ache from yesterday's magnetic corrections—every time the system yanks you back into position, it feels like your joints are being pulled apart and reassembled wrong.

"Elizabeth?" Allie's voice is soft. "Can I... can I walk with you? To the Circle?"

I shrug. "Sure."

We walk in silence at first, cutting across the manicured grounds toward the training circles. Other riders are already out, their dragons wheeling through morning drills.

A deep blue dragon—Meridian Tech's creation, I think—executes a perfect barrel roll, wings tucked tight, before snapping open at the last second. The rider doesn't even wobble.

"That's their scout," Allie says, following my gaze. "Each team has five positions. Scout, Captain, Defender, Striker, and Support."

We approach the fence barring their arena from ours. I lean against it, watching. "I keep hearing about these positions but I don't understand them. Explain it to me?"

"Scouts are reconnaissance—fast, agile, they identify enemy weaknesses and retrieve orbs from dangerous positions. That's Ty for us." She adjusts her glasses. "Captains lead the team. They're strategists who need to make split-second tactical decisions. That's Kiera. Defenders protect our orb hoard and intercept enemy raids—Chloe. Strikers can be either offensive or defensive. They go after enemy hoards or protect against threats—that's Jax. He can flex between positions."

"And Support?"

Allie's quiet, not meeting my gaze. "Support is backup. Usually the least experienced rider. They fill whatever role is needed, help where they can, and..." She trails off.

"And?"

She swallows. "They're the expendable player. When the teams need a sacrifice, it tends to be them."

Fucking great.

I pinch my nose. "I don't know why I'm spending my last few days trying to bond with a dragon that seems incapable of cooperating when we both know how this will end."

"We don't actually. Statistically, yes, support positions have the highest mortality rate in the opening minutes."

I watch the Meridian scout complete another flawless maneuver, their dragon moving like liquid silver through the air.

"They make it look easy."

"They've been training since they were children," Allie says. "You've had a week."

"Fourteen days until I'm supposed to compete against them."

"Thirteen days, technically. The Games start at dawn on the tenth." She adjusts her glasses, clutching her tablet to her chest. "I've been running probability models. Your odds of survival in the first Game are currently sitting at approximately twelve percent."

"Fucking hell, Allie."

She cringes. "Sorry. I know that's not helpful. My uncle always says I should stop leading with statistics." She hesitates.

"Spit it out. You've already ruined my morning."

"It's just that the models the League tells us to use don't account for unpredictability. Eight B is unpredictable. You're unpredictable. Sometimes that's an advantage."

The Meridian scout finishes his pass, and we continue down the lane, passing Circle 5, where Helix is perched on a training platform. Her purple-chrome scales gleam in the light, and she's easily twice Eight B's size, with a wingspan that could blot out the sun. Gabriel's standing beside her, one hand on her neck, talking to his handler. He's already in full flight gear, helmet tucked under his arm.

He doesn't look our way, but I feel the weight of his presence anyway.

"He watches you train," Allie says suddenly.

I stop walking. "What?"

"Gabriel. He's been at Circle 3 during your last four sessions. Stays for maybe ten, fifteen minutes, then leaves." She pushes her glasses up. "I thought you should know. I track everyone's training schedules, and his pattern changed after your first flight."

My stomach twists. "Why would he watch me?"

"I don't know. Assessing the competition? Waiting for you to fail?" She hesitates. "Maybe he's curious. You're doing something no one else has managed. Surviving a dragon that killed his previous riders, I mean."

"Barely."

"It's still more than the others managed." Allie's voice is soft. "The last rider who bonded with Eight B died in their third outing. You've had seven."

"Lucky me."

We reach Circle 3. Eight B is already there, pacing along the far wall. Duncan's leaning against the fence, tablet in hand, looking like he's been up since dawn.

"You're late," he says without looking up.

"By two minutes."

"Two minutes is two minutes." He finally glances at me, his expression unreadable. "Gear up. We're trying something different today."

"What kind of different?"

"The kind where you don't ask questions." He turns back around and I flip him off. "I saw that."

Allie lingers at the gate as I head for the storage building. "Elizabeth?"

I turn.

She's fidgeting with her tablet, not quite meeting my eyes. "Have you ever tried... watching him? Eight B, I mean. Without the neural link?"

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just... observing. How he moves when you're not connected. How he positions his wings when he's relaxed versus when he's agitated. The way his tail shifts before he changes direction." She's speaking faster now, the way she does when she's nervous. "I do that sometimes. With all the dragons. You notice different things when you're not trying to communicate through technology. Patterns."

"Isn't that your job as Tactician?"

"Well, yes. That's what I'm supposed to do. But usually for enemy teams, not our own dragons." She pushes her glasses up. "But I've been watching Eight B. A lot. And I think... I think focussing on the neural link might be creating more problems than it's solving. At least for you two."

"What are you proposing exactly?"

"You stop relying on it as your primary communication method." She nods toward Eight B. "Dragons existed long before we embedded neuromesh in their brains. The first dragons communicated with their handlers through body language, behavioral cues, and trust. The technology should enhance that foundation, not replace it."

I stare at Eight B, who's stopped pacing and is watching us, his tail swishing lazily back and forth.

"You want me to learn dragon body language."

"I want you to learn his body language. Every dragon's different. Eight B's especially different."

"What do you mean?"

Allie hesitates, then pulls up something on her tablet. It's a video feed—security footage from Circle 3, date-stamped two days ago. Eight B's alone in the Circle, and he's... playing? He's tossing a training dummy around, his wings half-spread, tail lashing as he strikes it, keeping the dummy from hitting the ground.

"Watch his wings."

I do. They're not fully extended, but they're not folded either. They're held at a specific angle, membranes slightly taut.

"That's his 'ready' position," she says quietly. "When he's alert and engaged but not threatened. His wings are at forty-five degrees, membranes loose enough to catch air if needed but not rigid."

She swipes to another clip. Eight B's wings are pulled tight against his body, membranes completely folded. His head is low, tail tucked.

"Defensive," she continues. "He does this when someone comes too close or when other dragons fly overhead. He perceives a threat and is readying for it."

Another swipe. Eight B's wings are fully extended, membranes stretched taut. His head is high, tail straight out behind him.

"Aggressive display. He often displayed this before unseating a rider."

My mouth goes dry. "So I need to learn the difference between 'ready,' 'defensive,' and 'I'm about to murder you.'"

"Among other things. His tail position indicates balance and trajectory intent. But there's also the way he shifts his weight before a maneuver. The sound of his breathing—short and sharp means stress, long and steady means he's calm. Even his eyes." She tucks the tablet under her arm. "You've been trying to force him to understand you. Maybe it's time you learned to understand him, instead."

"And if it doesn't work?"

She shrugs. "What have you got to lose?"

"Reeves! Stop gasbagging and get your ass inside! I don't have all goddamned day!"

I ignore him, turning to watch Eight B. "Can you teach me? The body language stuff?"

Allie's face lights up. "Absolutely!"

"Reeves!" Duncan bellows.

Rolling my eyes, I start walking backward toward the stables. "I'm coming!"

Duncan has me in the saddle within minutes, the helmet's neural interface already humming against my skull.

"Wings out," he barks. "Then a simple banking turn to the left."

"Duncan, Allie suggested we—"

"Wings out! Now!"

With a sigh, I focus on the command, watching the HUD translate my thought into neural impulses.

Eight B's wings snap open with that familiar violent jerk.

"Good. Now rise then bank left. Controlled. I want a thirty-degree angle."

I picture it clearly—smooth leftward turn, wings adjusting for the angle, and a controlled descent into the bank.

The interface sends it through.

Eight B lurches right instead.

"What the—LEFT!" I shout, trying to correct through the neural link.

Eight B spins harder right, his wings tucking in ways that make my stomach lurch. The magnetic system screams warnings as I start to slide.

"Level out and land!" Duncan bellows, as if I'm not trying to do just that.

Motherfucker!

Eight B lands hard. Too hard. I feel the impact shudder through every bone in my body.

"Off," Duncan snaps. "Now."

I fumble with the magnetic releases, my hands shaking so badly I can barely work the controls.

"That was worse than yesterday," Duncan says flatly.

"I know."

"Your coherence is dropping."

"I know." The words come out sharper than intended.

Eight B wheels away from me, his tail lashing. He's as pissed about this as I am.

"Elizabeth." Allie's voice cuts through the tension. She's standing at the gate, tablet clutched to her chest, glasses slightly askew. "Try what I suggested."

Duncan turns to her. "Cartwright—"

"No, listen. This isn't working. Elizabeth's trying harder, pushing more commands through the neural link, and it's making everything worse."

"She needs to establish dominance through the connection—"

"She needs to get off the dragon and stop trying to use technology as a crutch," Allie interrupts.

Duncan's eyebrows rise. I don't think anyone's ever interrupted him before.

Allie flushes but doesn't back down. "The neural interface is supposed to enhance communication. But they don't have communication to enhance. Conflicting signals that are making Eight B confused and Elizabeth terrified."

"So what do you suggest?" Duncan's voice is dry, but he's listening.

"I suggest Elizabeth takes off all the gear, sits in the sand, and just watches him for a while. She needs to learn his body language. His patterns." She shoves her glasses up her nose. "Riders spend years learning what makes dragons tick in hopes of being bonded to them. They know this stuff intuitively. Elizabeth doesn't. It's probably contributing to their communication issues."

Well shit, that makes sense.

Duncan looks at me, then at Eight B, who's pacing, wings still partially extended.

"You've got two weeks until the Games, and you want to spend time sitting in the sand making googly eyes at a dragon?"

I nod.

Duncan tosses up his hands. "Fine. Suit yourself. I'm done with you both."

Allie watches him go, then turns to me with a nervous smile. "I probably shouldn't have done that."

"Done what? Told him he's wrong?" I pull off the helmet, tossing it onto the sand beside the harness. "Pretty sure that's the best thing anyone's done all week."

"He's going to be angry."

"Duncan's always angry. It's his default state." I watch Eight B, who's still pacing along the far wall. His tail lashes once, twice, then goes still. "So where do we start?"

Allie settles onto the sand, cross-legged, tablet balanced on her knees. "We watch. Just observe how he moves, how he communicates with you."

I sit beside her, acutely aware of how ridiculous this must look.

Eight B stops pacing. His head swivels toward us, studying us with unnerving intensity.

"Don't make eye contact yet," Allie whispers. "Let him decide when he's ready to approach." Her voice is shaky as she says this.

"Allie, I know you're petrified. You don't have to be in here with me. You can coach me from the other side of the fence."

"Oh thank god." She hurriedly rises and makes her way out of the paddock, leaving me with Eight B.

Eight B huffs, beginning to root through the ground searching out smells. With a shrug, I turn my attention to the other training circles where riders are executing perfect maneuvers.

"You know, it's strange," I tell Eight B. "I hate being here and what we have to do, but in the rush of it all I forgot how truly impressive it is to see dragons up close."

His tail twitches, but he continues to ignore me.

I lean back on my hands, stretching my legs out. "I mean, look at you. You're this massive, perfectly engineered killing machine. Scales that can withstand fire, wings that can carry you hundreds of miles, claws that could rip through steel. It's a miracle—even if you are man-made in a lab somewhere."

Eight B doesn't turn around.

"I keep trying to figure out why you chose me though. Was it just bad luck? Did you think you were getting someone else? Cause I gotta tell you, dude. You and me are a terrible idea."

He stops rooting, his great head lifting slightly.

"I'm a shit rider, and I'm terrified. Not just of dying in the arena, though that's pretty high on the list. I'm terrified of failing my family, and letting my brother down." I kick off my shoes and socks to dig my feet into the warm sand. "Kai, that's my brother, he's incredible. You'd like him. He's gentle and smart and funny. He uses a communication tablet to speak, so lots of people write him off when they first meet him. But he's such a cool little kid." I unzip one of my pockets, pulling out the dragon's eye crystal. "He collects rocks. This is the one he gave me before I left."

Eight B's head swings my way, and I swear he's understanding every word I'm saying. I tuck the rock back into my pocket, rezipping it.

"I know I'm terrified, but I'm also grateful to you for choosing me. You've changed my family's life. Because of you, they can afford food and health care, and my Mum can stop pushing herself to breaking point." I close my eyes, tilting my head back to enjoy the sun.

When was the last time I just sat and enjoyed the feel of warmth on my skin?

Too long. Between my jobs, stress, the lack of green spaces in the Rookery, and my caring responsibilities, it's not as if I've had a holiday in the last decade, let alone a day off.

"Anyway," I continue, my voice softer now. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, thank you."

Eight B blows out a short snort.

I smile. "Yeah, I know it seems weird to thank you for dragging me into the gladiator killing games, but I do appreciate it."

He does a little prancing thing with his front legs, and begins to ramble over toward me.

"Which brings me to my next point," I say, letting him approach on his own terms. "We're both stuck in this mess. Neither of us asked for it. But we're in it together now, whether we like it or not."

He stops maybe ten feet away, his head tilting in that way that makes him look almost curious.

"I can't read your mind, and apparently the fancy technology meant to help us communicate is complete shit for us. Probably cause we're both stubborn assholes." His tail whips as if to say speak for yourself.

"Allie says, and I agree, that we need to figure out a different way to communicate." I gesture between us. "So how about we work together to figure out our own language. Somewhere we meet in the middle."

Eight B sits. Actually sits, haunches folding beneath him like a giant dog, wings tucking close to his sides. His tail curls around his feet.

"Is that a yes?"

His tail sweeps once across the sand—not aggressive, almost... playful?

I blow out a long breath. "Okay, I'll take that as affirmation. So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to watch you, study you, figure out what every twitch of your wings means, every position of your tail."

Eight B's gaze doesn't leave mine.

"But you've got to help me out here. I've got less than two weeks to learn what other riders spend years knowing. When I'm getting it wrong, you need to be patient. And when I'm getting it right, let me know. Can you do that?"

Eight B huffs out a breath, and I catch the scent of heat and sulfur. His wings unfold, stretching wide in the morning sun to catch the light on those mottled gray-blue scales that shimmer silver at the edges.

He nudges my hand, leaning into it, the weight of his head pressing gently against my palm.

"Okay," I whisper. "I hear you, big guy." I gesture at the circle around us. "Let's play."

Eight B tilts his head.

"What do you do for fun?"

Eight B huffs, the end of his tail curling once.

I glance around the Circle, spotting a spare training dummy. "You like that thing, right?"

I walk over and grab it. The dummy is heavier than I expected, made of reinforced materials designed to withstand dragon claws. I drag it back toward Eight B, dropping it in the sand between us.

"Show me what you do."

Eight B stares at the dummy. Then at me. Then back at the dummy.

"Come on," I encourage. "You know you want to."

His tail twitches. Once. Twice.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he lunges forward, batting the dummy with one massive paw. It goes flying across the Circle, tumbling through the sand.

I laugh. "Holy shit! Do it again!"

Eight B's wings lift slightly, that forty-five-degree ready position Allie mentioned. His tail swishes behind him with what I can only describe as excitement.

Allie might be onto something here.

He bounds after the dummy like an oversized cat, pouncing on it with both front paws. Then he scoops it up in his mouth and tosses it high into the air.

"You're ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous." I can't help but grin watching him.

Eight B catches the dummy in mid-air, shaking it like a dog with a toy before dropping it and nudging it toward me with his snout.

"You want me to throw it?"

His tail sweeps across the sand—that playful motion again.

"Alright. But if you eat me, I'm going to be very disappointed." I pick up the dummy and hurl it as far as I can—which isn't very far, considering it weighs about thirty pounds.

Eight B makes a rumbling sound of disappointment as he takes the single step to pick it up.

"Dude, I'm not a fifty foot dragon with abs of steel. You throw the damn thing."

He makes a sound that's a little like a whirring purr, and does just that, tossing the dummy across the field. Spreading his wings for balance as he half-runs, half-glides across the Circle to pounce on it with such enthusiasm that sand sprays everywhere.

"Elizabeth?" Allie calls from the fence. "What are you doing?"

"Playing," I shout back. "He likes to play."

Eight B trots back, dummy in his mouth, and drops it at my feet. He sits, tail swishing, looking at me expectantly.

"You want to throw it again?"

A huff that sounds suspiciously like obviously.

"Then go to it, bud. You don't have to ask for my permission."

He does this maybe ten more times. Each time, I watch how Eight B moves—the way his weight shifts before he pounces, the angle of his wings when he's excited, the loose, relaxed posture of his tail.

He's having fun.

And so am I. Which is a problem, because I'm not supposed to be having fun. I signed my death. I'm training for Games that will kill me. I should be furious, or terrified, or numb—anything but standing in the sand laughing at a dragon playing fetch like I've got all the time in the world.

Fuck it. If these are my last days, I might as well spend them laughing.

I throw the dummy again.

We create a game. He tries to bring the dummy back to drop it at my feet, but I start running off, trying to outpace him. He seems delighted, snorting and purring, little smoke curls and fire sparks flaring from his nostrils.

"Okay, okay," I say finally, breathless and laughing. "I need a break. You're going to wear me out before we even try to fly."

Eight B drops the dummy and settles onto the sand, wings folding neatly. His scales aren't rippling with tension and his posture is relaxed.

He's content.

I lay a hand on his neck. "You want to try riding?"

He bobs his head once, so I climb onboard and pick up the reins. It's the first time I've tried riding him without a helmet, and I feel oddly exposed.

"Let's take this slow, Eight B."

Unsure of how to communicate without the HUD, I rack my brain for a comparison. Horses is the closest thing I can think of.

"Alright, let's try this." I squeeze my thighs together, hoping he'll pick up on my vibe. He turns his head to blink at me. "That means move," I gesture for him to walk. "See? Move?"

I squeeze again, and this time he begins to walk. We complete one circuit of the Circle. Then another. Each time, it becomes a little easier to read his body language.

By the fourth circuit, we're moving together easily, changing direction with barely any pressure.

"Okay, let's try with the helmet."

Allie tosses it to me from a distance, and I settle it on my head, waiting for it to connect us. It begins the analysis and comes back with the stats.

Coherence is 64%.

Holy fucking shit. This might actually work.

"That was incredible," Allie says, bouncing on her heels. "Your coherence jumped twenty percent in one session. I've never seen improvement that fast."

"Thanks for your help," I tell her, rubbing Eight B’s neck. 

When I finally dismount, my legs are steady.

Well, this is delightful.

Eight B lowers his head, bumping gently against my shoulder. I rub his nose, laughing.

"Tomorrow we'll try flight." I tap Eight B on the nose. "Think you're ready for that, big guy?"

He huffs, a sound that might be agreement. Or maybe amusement at my expense. Either way, for the first time since I bonded with him, I feel like we're on the same page.

I get Eight B bedded down in his stall—a cavernous warehouse of a space, piled high with enrichment toys that probably cost more than my family's old apartment. He's already nosing at a massive puzzle ball, rumbling contentedly as I scratch behind his frill. For the first time all week, I leave the Circle without fresh bruises or a near-death experience. Progress.

I'm strolling back to the main building, humming under my breath, when a prickling hits the back of my neck. Like someone's dragging a fingernail down my spine.

I glance around, trying to pinpoint where it's coming from.

Ugh. Seriously?

Gabriel Vekk leans against the fence of Circle 1, arms crossed over his chest, all brooding intensity in that black flight suit that hugs every infuriating inch of him. His dark eyes track me like I'm prey he's deciding whether to devour. The scar on his jaw catches the light, and I hate how it adds to his attractive looks rather than diminishes them.

Bastard.

I have to pass the fucker to get inside. Fantastic.

"Interesting approach," he drawls as I draw level. "Playing fetch with a dragon like he's a puppy. How adorable."

I stop, mirroring his stance, arms crossed. "Naww, you watched my session. Should I be flattered? Do you have a crush or are you always this stalkerish with new recruits?"

His lips curve, but it's more like a predator baring teeth than a smile. He pushes off the fence, closing the distance until only a sliver of air separates us. Up close, he smells like beeswax and salt, but not unpleasantly so. "Most riders master walking in the first second of their dragon bonding."

"Most riders didn't bond a reject dragon a week ago after plummeting to their death. But we can't all be perfect." I lean in, close enough to see the flecks of black fire in his eyes. "Jealous, Vekk? Or just pissed I cockblocked your perfect run?"

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers a beat too long, then flicks back up. Heat flares low in my belly despite every ounce of hate screaming at me to knee him in the balls. "Of what, exactly? Your suicidal optimism? You think a game of fetch is going to save you in the arena?"

I rake my eyes down him deliberately, slow and mocking. "Wow. What a wonderful guy you are—for a state sanctioned murderer, I mean."

Something feral sparks in his eyes. He crowds me, but I hold my ground, gritting my teeth as he leans in, close enough for the heat of his breath to ghost my ear. "Careful, grunt. Keep running that mouth, and I might just have to shut it for you."

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. My skin prickles, fiery heat scalding under the surface. I don't back down—can't, with him this close. "Don't tempt me with a good time, Vekk."

His eyes drop again, lingering on the sweat-damp fabric clinging to my chest. "You're attractive." His voice drops to a growl, eyes locked on mine with raw, hateful promise. "But I don't slum with thieves." He flicks a speck of dirt off my chest. "Such a shame, too. This body is almost worth a second look."

"Fuck you."

I step around him before I do something stupid, like claw his fucking face off. My arm brushes his as I pass, and I refuse to acknowledge the heat that radiates from my skin at the glance.

He calls after me, voice cutting sharp. "Run along, Reeves. Practice your little tricks. When you crash and burn, I'll be the first to forget you ever existed."

I don't look back, but his words follow me, punching straight to the gut.

Because deep down, I know he's right. I'll be forgotten before my body even touches the ground.

And I hate him for it.

My bed has forty-seven settings.

I know this because I've tried all of them. Twice. Firm, soft, medium, something called "adaptive support" that shifts under my weight like water. There's a setting that warms the mattress. One that cools it. One that adjusts firmness based on my sleeping position, which means the bed is watching me sleep, and that’s a whole different kind of fucked up.

None of them work.

The problem isn't comfort. My mattress back home was a write-off — too short, too narrow, springs grinding through the foam on the left side, a dip in the middle where the padding surrendered years ago. I'd curl up on my side with my knees pulled in and my feet hanging off the edge and I'd be out in minutes.

It hurt in familiar ways. This one might be comfortable, but it’s foreign and that makes it feel unsafe. 

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It's smooth and gorgeous, the shadows dancing prettily across its elegant surface. 

I hate it.

My brain cycles. The training. Duncan's drills. The neural link's resistance scores. Eight B's body language — the wing positions Allie taught me, the tail movements I'm starting to clock without thinking. The way his amber eyes tracked me today while I worked through the flight commands. Like he was waiting for me to figure something out.

The crystal from Kai sits on the nightstand. Small, cloudy, worthless to anyone but me. I pick it up and hold it against my palm, silently counting the days since I heard his voice.

Eleven.

I put it down. Pick it up again. Put it down.

I miss you. 

Kai is an ache in my chest. Is he okay? Where are they now? Is he eating? 

Does he miss me? 

I huff, rolling onto my side and the bed adjusts itself, trying a new configuration I didn't ask for.

“Fuck.” 

I throw the covers off and shove my feet into my boots, giving up on sleep. 

The campus at night is a different animal. During the day there's enough noise and movement to distract from what this place is — a monument to money and murder. At night, the pretence drops, and all that’s left is an obscene level of wealth, and ambient sensor lights that slowly fade on as I approach. 

In the Rookery, the street lights were regularly busted out to hide nocturnal actions. Even building lights didn't work half the time, but nobody fixed them because they either had no money or preferred the shadows.

Kai hates the dark. 

I trail my fingers across the wall, wishing I had someway to dirty up the pristine perfection around me. A smudge, a mark, something to ruin the facade. 

A top a small table sits three items, a fancy vase, an old inkwell and pen, and an even older bronze globe. I lift the globe, weighing it in my hands. 

This would buy protein meals for a ten families for a year in the Rookery. 

My palm itches with the temptation to steal it. To find someway to get it home to Kai. 

They have their money. Your blood sealed his future.

I return it to its place. 

I don't actively decide to go to the stables. My feet take me there as I follow the corridors through the residential wing, past the dining hall with its gleaming counters and its fruit bowl that never empties, out through the side exit into the cool night air. 

My body knows where it's going even if my brain won't engage.

The air changes as I get close to the stables. Warmer. Denser. That particular smell of heated scale, sand, sulphur, and an almost metallic bite that I've started associating with dragons. 

I like it better than the lavender they pump through the Academy vents.

Eight B is awake. Or maybe he doesn't sleep. Do dragons sleep? He's on his belly in the circle, one wing spread across the sand like a grey-blue tarp, the other folded against his flank. His tail curves around his body in what Allie calls "resting alert", ready to swat at whatever pest might bother him.

His head lifts when I climb onto the stall door, swinging my legs over to sit on the high gap. His amber eyes find me in the dark, catching the low emergency lighting. They’re two glowing coins, steady, unblinking.

"Can't sleep," I tell him, settling onto the top rail. "The bed's too smart. It keeps trying to fix me. How about you?"

His tail sweeps once through the sand. Slow. He makes a pile of sand then switches it out with a quick flick. 

"Yeah. That about sums it up."

We sit in the quiet. His breathing is steady — long pulls in, slow pushes out. The subsonic vibration of it travels through the rail and into my legs. It vibrates up my body and finishes somewhere behind my ribs, I can feel my shoulders drop for the first time since lights-out.

It’s relaxing, kind of like you’re sitting on a giant purring cat. 

It’s pathetic, that I can relax better next to a fifty-foot reptile who can eat me than in a bed specifically designed to help you sleep.

We sit like that for a while, both of us watching each other. 

I'm about to drop down and head back when I hear it—the scrape of a footfall. 

My body goes still before my brain finishes processing. A Rookery reflex that’s been drilled into me. You don't move when something's wrong. You freeze, you listen, you map exits, and you figure out what's coming before it knows you're there.

I scan the stable, slowly, silently turning my head one way then the other, picking out shapes in the shadows.

It takes me a minute, but I finally see it, a slight form that’s moving from stall to stall, silently stopping at each dragon to peek in before moving on. 

I know that walk.

The person moves with an efficient, ground-eating stride. I know the way they shift their weight from ball-to-heel instead of heel-to-toe — silent on any surface, a technique you learn young or not at all. I know their shapes, their bulk, their outline.

"Tova?” 

The shape stops. One beat. Two.

Then she steps out of the shadow, and yeah. It’s Tova Yagos. 

What the fuck? 

She has the same black hair scraped back tight enough to make my scalp ache in sympathy. Her face is sharp, all cheekbones and jaw, with dark flint-like eyes that give you nothing. She's thinner than the last time I saw her. Not unhealthy thin. Rookery thin. The kind of lean that comes from never having enough and only eating enough to survive.

She's wearing League issued maintenance overalls. Grey. Nondescript. The Academy's version of mine from three weeks ago at the arena. 

My chest does something complicated at the sight of her. Not warmth — Tova doesn't inspire warmth. Recognition. Like seeing your handwriting on a wall you forgot you tagged. 

She’s familiar, and a reminder of just how far I am from everything I knew. 

"Reeves." Her voice is flat. Not hostile, not friendly. Tova doesn't waste energy on feelings. For her, it’s as warm as she gets. 

I swing my legs over, shifting to the other side of the door. "I didn't know you worked here."

She crosses her arms. “A lot’s changed since you left the Rookery."

Right. 

I look at the overalls. There’s a maintenance badge clipped to her chest — close enough to pass, too far to read. She has a smudge of grease on her jaw that says she's actually doing maintenance work, or doing a convincing impression of it.

"You running a con? Who’s the mark?"

The question sits between us. No judgment. No moral weight. In the Rookery, cons are ways to make money to survive. 

Tova doesn't answer.

I shrug. Whatever she's doing in dragon stables at stupid o’clock in someone else's overalls is between her and whoever's funding her. I didn't see her. She wasn't here. That's how it works.

A low whistle trills from somewhere above us. Not a bird. It’s musical, two notes, descending. A signal I haven't heard in over a year but recognise. 

"She's clear," Tova barks, but her eyes stay on me.

My chest tightens, and sure enough, a figure drops from the roof, falling to the stable floor. 

Bram fucking Wilder.

He lands without sound. He’s six feet of lean muscle and tousled blonde hair.  He's wearing the same grey overalls as Tova, except he's unzipped the top half and knotted the sleeves around his waist, showing off the tight black shirt he’s wearing underneath. His forearms are corded with lean muscle, tattoos and old scars that catch the low light.

I haven't seen Bram Wilder in fourteen months. My body remembers him before my brain catches up.

Not like that. Not exactly. 

Bram is — Bram. He takes up space. Always has. Even before Gris got his hooks into him. Before everything got complicated.

"Elizabeth bloody Reeves." He spreads his arms wide, still in a crouch. He’s wearing a cocky grin that could talk you out of your last credit while you thanked him for the privilege. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Bram," I greet, stiffening. “I could ask you the same.” 

I’m the mark. 

He stands, rolling his shoulders with the easy, practiced looseness of someone whose body is a tool he keeps sharp. "Tova and me heard about your change of fortune.” He raises a hand, punctuating his words with a flick. “'Rookery girl bonds with lizard, whole world loses its collective shit.’"

"He's not a lizard."

He tips his head. "He's got scales."

"He could eat you."

"Lots of things want to eat me. I'm fucking delicious." He strolls toward the stall like he owns it. He boosts up to settle beside me on the door, arms folded, head tilted back to look up at Eight B.

He smells like Rookery — like stale air, cheap tobacco and engine grease. Despite all that I catch a trace of the soap he uses, and something underneath that I've never been able to name. It’s a scent that reminds me of nights spent on rooftops counting stolen credits and pretending the future was something we'd get to have.

Stop it.

Eight B lets out a short, sharp snort, flicking his tail so sand sprays across Bram's boots.

"He doesn't like you," I note, shooting the dragon a grin. 

Bram shrugs but doesn’t move. His eyes don't leave the dragon. I can see the calculations running — he does it the same way I do, the same way every Rookery kid does. When you walk into a space within thirty seconds you know what's worth taking, what's bolted down, and how many credits the steal might give you.

"You two working together?" I ask, though I know the answer. Bram and Tova have been a unit since they were eleven. Two orphans in Gris Slaphic's stable, running jobs before they were old enough to understand what indentured meant. By the time they figured out the debt Gris claimed they owed would never be paid off — that the interest was designed to grow faster than any job could cover — they were in too deep to walk away.

Nobody walks away from Gris. He’s a vicious fucker. 

"Always." Bram glances at Tova. Something passes between them. Not romantic. Older than that. Harder. The kind of bond that forms when you're two kids sharing a blanket in a room with an unlocked door, listening for footsteps. "Tova got placement on the maintenance crew a few days ago. I'm —" he waves a hand "— freelancing."

"Breaking in, you mean?"

He tsks. "Such distrust, Saint."

I stiffen. He gave me the nickname the night I left the Sector 4 docks with a bloody lip and a bag of stolen inhalers for Kai. I fucking hate it. It was bad enough being the girl from the upper city, and having to learn all the shit the Rookery kids knew from birth. Adding in the nickname alienated me more. "Don't call me that.”

He ignores me. 

“He’s big."

"He’s a dragon. They tend to be." I glance back at Tova, who’s moved closer to the stall. "How's Gris?" 

Her jaw tightens. Bram's grin doesn't falter, but something behind his eyes goes flat.

"Gris is Gris," Bram says. "Expanding. Got his fingers in over half the Rookery now. Running new crews. Younger." He pauses. "Got a new arrangement with someone in the Sixth Corridor for — what's he calling it, Tova?"

"Entertainment services."

My stomach turns.

I know what Gris calls entertainment services. Everyone in the Rookery knows. You don't talk about it directly because talking about it means acknowledging that the people you grew up with — the kids who played in the same broken-down squares, who shared rations when the supply drops were light — are being sold by a man who calls it employment.

I'd been close. Closer than I'd ever told anyone. After winter last year, when the credits ran out and the medical debt had begun to swallow everything, Gris had found me. He always found people when they were at their lowest, when desperation sat like a cloud around them. The fucker could smell it. 

He’d sat across from me in a back room that smelled like smoke and damp carpet, and laid out terms like he was doing me a favour.

"You've got assets, Liz. Desirable ones. There are gentlemen willing to pay generously for an evening with a girl like you. Clean it up, call it escorting, hospitality, companionship — but we both know what it is. One night could clear a month of your brother’s treatment. Two nights a week and you'd be caught up inside a year."

I'd sat there and done the maths. That's the worst part. I didn't storm out. I didn't spit in his face. I sat there and I calculated. How many nights. How many months. Whether the numbers worked. Whether my body was worth more as a product than as a person.

“What’s in it for you?” I’d asked. 

“We’ll work something out.”

I’d known what the price would be. A percentage of profits and information. Blackmail on those who used my body. Photos, whispers, secrets. Whatever Gris wanted, Gris got. 

I'd said no, but the no was thin. One more missed payment, one more broken heater, one more debtor saying the balance was overdue and they'd need to discuss alternative arrangements — and the no would have become a yes. I'd have walked into that room and signed whatever Gris put in front of me.

The maintenance job at the arena saved me. Barely. Temporarily. But then Kai had gotten sick again and the bills had piled up. 

I’d thought one dragon scale could save me — save us. But I’d traded one dead-end life of bodily service for another.  

"He still asking after me?" I keep my voice light.

Bram looks at me for a beat too long. He knows. I never told him directly, but Bram knows the Rookery the way a fish knows water. He knows who Gris approaches, when and why.

I said no. I was tempted but I said no. 

"He was interested in your situation," Bram says carefully. "After you bonded. Thought there might be an angle."

"There's no angle. I'm League property now."

"That's what I told him." Bram's voice drops. "Doesn't mean he believed me."

A cold thing settles at the base of my spine.

“So you’re here for me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.” He doesn’t elaborate. 

Tova shifts her weight, unfolding her arms as she frowns. "We didn't come to talk about Gris."

I look between them. "What did you come for?"

"We're working," Tova says. "You might be able to sleep up in that fancy academy, but some of us have work to do."

I wouldn’t be here if I could sleep. 

"Charming as always, Tova,” I drawl dryly. 

"But," Bram cuts in, there's an edge under the charm now.  "Since we're all here. Since we're all having this lovely midnight chat." He turns to face me. The grin is gone. "You want to explain why you broke into a League cold storage facility alone?"

There it is.

"Bram —"

"You really thought you’d get away with stuffing dragon scales down your overalls like you were nicking bread rolls from a bakery?"

"It wasn't —"

"Who do you know who steals things for a living, Elizabeth?" He's not laughing anymore. He holds up a hand, ticking fingers. "Me. Who cases buildings? Tova. Who could've run that job clean — in, out, zero alarms, home by dawn?"

I grit my teeth. "It wasn't your problem."

"Bullshit."

The word snaps between us. Tova doesn't move. Eight B's tail shifts and he lumbers up to his feet, shaking himself as he picks up the change in the air.

"You needed a dragon scale for Kai's treatment," Bram says softly. He’s angry, I can see it in his flashing eyes, despite his soft tone. "That's not nothing, Liz. That's a job. A proper job. The kind you plan, you crew, you execute. Not the kind you do alone on a Tuesday night with a maintenance code and a fucking prayer."

"I had it handled."

He flicks my forehead with one finger. "You got caught. You got caught and bonded to a dragon and conscripted into the League. That's not 'handled.' That's a catastrophic failure."

"He's not wrong," Tova says, nodding. 

"Thanks for the fucking support," I mutter, turning to look at Eight B. 

“Why didn’t you call us?”

I grip the door under me. The metal bites into my palms. 

I didn't call because calling meant asking, and asking meant someone doing something for me, and I don't let people do things for me because that's not how this works. I provide. I sacrifice. I handle things alone because alone is the only place where the transaction is clean.

If I'd called Bram, he would've said yes. He would've shown up, run the job, done it properly, and I'd owe him. I couldn’t owe him. I can’t owe anyone. Owing someone requires paying back a debt you may never clear. 

But I don't say any of that. "It was my problem. Kai is my responsibility."

"Kai is a kid who needs medical treatment," Bram snaps back. "You're his sister, not his sole provider."

"Same fucking thing."

The way Bram looks at me, like he can see all the gears turning behind my face and he wants to reach in and jam a spanner into them, like he's frustrated and furious, pisses me off.

"Next time," he says, finally. "You call us. That's not a request."

"There won't be a next time. I'm bonded. I'm League. I'm—" I gesture at the stables, the circles, the whole gleaming apparatus of wealth and violence. "This."

"Right." Bram leans back against the fence. The charm's reassembling itself, piece by piece, the performance sliding back into place. "You’re dead."

A laugh snorts out. “Yeah. I am, aren’t I?”

Tova boosts up the gate, sliding in to sit on the other side of me. “Really got yourself in a pickle this time.”

I sigh. “Yeah, it’s fucked. But at least Kai is safe.”

We sit in silence as they watch Eight B. 

Eight B looks back with that steady amber gaze that gives nothing away.

"How much do dragon scales go for these days?" Bram asks. 

Tova goes stiff beside me.

I recognise the question for what it is—desperation. Bram and Tova are still in Gris's ledger. They’re carrying a debt that breeds faster than they can ever hope to pay. Every job, every risk, every night spent in someone else's overalls is a payment that barely touches the scale they need to get free. 

I hesitate. “Five thousand credits is what I was told. More, if it’s fresh.”

He nods slowly. 

You could help them. Give them hope. 

I hesitate. There’s only one way my future ends, but I could give them a way out of the clawing darkness their future holds. 

"Eight B sheds," I say, slowly. "Every few weeks. Scales come off around the joints first, smaller ones. Then the chest plates. The League is required to collect them."

Neither of them breathes.

"They’re sent to storage before being clipped and chipped." I pick at a hang nail. "The storage bay uses the same security protocol the whole campus runs on. Default codes. Lazy rotation. I could crack it in my sleep." I shrug. “Which means for a master thief it’d be a walk in the park.” 

"Elizabeth," Tova murmurs. "What are you saying?"

I look at her, shrugging. "I’m saying that the security here is as flimsy as a screen door. That’s all."

Tova's expression doesn't shift, but her hands change. They go from folded to flat on her thighs, fingers spread slightly. 

"We don't need charity," she bites out. 

"Charity?" I chuckle, shaking my head. “We’re just chatting, Tova. That’s all.” 

Her eyes narrow on me. "You're giving us info for free."

"Would you rather I charged?”

Her chin lifts a fraction. Not gratitude — Tova would bite through her tongue before showing gratitude. Acknowledgment. One professional to another. A debt recognised, even if the currency is unfamiliar.

"How much?" she asks.

I huff quietly, glancing back at Eight B. "When I’m gone, I need someone to keep an eye on Kai.”

They’re both silent for a beat. 

“My parents won’t be around forever. I need someone to—” my voice breaks and I fall silent, swallowing hard. “Look, do with it what you will but if you do happen to somehow get your hands on a scale, don't sell through Gris. He'll take seventy per cent and call it a service fee."

Bram whistles. "She's giving us the goods and a business plan." He bumps me with his shoulder. “Who says you’re dying, huh? The Rookery has you running at ten to one odds. I’d say they’re backing their own.”

I look over at him, meeting his sharp brown gaze. “We both know I can’t afford hope.” 

His gaze searches my face, his expression turning serious. “We can do that, Saint.” He holds out his palm flat for me to slap. 

I do so, sealing the deal. 

Kai will be looked after. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. 

Eight B rumbles. A low sound that vibrates through the fence and into my chest. His head turns toward Bram, those amber eyes narrowing. He's deciding something about the blonde man sitting on his gate and he hasn't reached a conclusion.

"He's staring at me," Bram mutters. 

"He does that."

"Is it a 'welcome to the neighbourhood' stare or an 'I'm measuring you for consumption' stare?"

I shrug. "Haven't figured that out yet."

"Comforting." But Bram doesn't move away. He holds the dragon's gaze with the same easy defiance he brings to everything. Like backing down from a fifty-foot apex predator would be somehow less dignified than being eaten by one.

I watch him watching Eight B and I hate how familiar it feels. The angle of his jaw. The way he sets his weight, shoulders loose. The scars on his forearms — old ones from Gris's enforcers, newer ones from jobs that went sideways. I know which is which because I was there for some of them.

The warehouse in Sector 4. The stabilisers blew and the floor collapsed and Bram carried me three blocks on a broken ankle while Tova ran interference with the patrol drones. I'd given him my share of the credits afterwards and told him we were even.

"We're never even, Saint." He'd said it then, half-laughing, blood on his teeth from where he'd bitten through his lip during the run. "That's the problem. You keep settling accounts nobody's opened."

I didn't understand what he meant then. I still don't. 

Bram pulls out a cigarette from somewhere — I don't ask where, the overalls don't have pockets — and tucks it behind his ear. Doesn't light it. He never smokes, but it’s a habit. An oral fixation. His tongue runs across his lower lip and I look away faster than I should, which means I looked away too fast, which means he noticed.

When I glance back, his mouth is doing that thing. That half-curve that isn't quite a smile, and the warmth of it is worse than the cold because I know what it means, and I know what it costs. 

I can't afford either.

"So," he says. Light. Easy. The mask back on. "You’re a bad ass dragon rider."

I roll my eyes. "Don't."

"What? I'm impressed. Genuinely. Our girl Liz, mounted on a —"

"Don't."

"— magnificent beast, soaring through the —"

"I will push you off."

"Worth it." His grin is real. It reaches his eyes, making the skin around them crinkle. I've always been weak for that grin and he knows it. I know he knows it. This is a game we've been playing since we were sixteen but neither of us has ever been stupid enough to change the rules.

Tova clears her throat. "We should move. Maintenance shift change in forty minutes."

Right. Back to reality. The reality where they're here on a job, in borrowed uniforms, running whatever angle Gris wants. Not visiting me. Not checking in. Working.

He flips, falling backward to land easily. With a yawn, he stretches, the black shirt riding up and I get a flash of stomach — flat, scarred, muscular, tan — and I look at Eight B because Eight B is safe and predictable and doesn't make my brain do unhelpful things.

Fucking hell, Liz. Can you be any more pathetic?

Eight B snorts again. Sand scatters.

"We'll be around," Bram says. "If you need us."

"I don't need —"

"If you need us," he repeats. "You know the signal."

The two-note whistle. Descending. I learned it when I was pressing myself flat against a drainpipe while patrol drones swept the alley below. Bram on the roof above me, Tova at the street corner, both of them making sure I got home safe.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I know it."

He holds my eyes for a beat. Then the grin snaps back, bright and sharp and perfectly calibrated. "Pleasure doing business, Reeves.” He glances over at Eight B who’s rumbled over to stand by my shoulder. “You too, lizard."

"He's not a —"

But Bram's already gone. Melted into the dark like he was never here. Tova follows a moment later, silent, efficient, professional. Two shadows folding back into the night they came from.

I sit on the fence for a long time after they leave.

Eight B's tail sweeps. Slow. Steady. His breathing hasn't changed. Long pull in. Slow push out. Whatever he thought of my visitors, he's keeping it to himself.

"Right. None of your business either."

I drop from the gate. My boots hit the ground and the impact jolts up through my knees, sharp and real. The walk back to the residential wing is quiet. 

Tova and Bram are here. In this place. Behind the glass and the gleaming corridors and the beds that ask you what you want, there are Rookery people doing Rookery things — stealing and scheming and surviving the way we've always survived. On the margins. In the gaps. Wearing someone else's uniform and hoping nobody asks for ID.

The bed is still wrong when I get back. I shuffle off onto the floor, and curl up on my side. 

Finally sleep takes me. 

I'm nose to snout with Eight B, staring into his big eyes. I’m very aware that he's a flying death machine who could incinerate me with a single snort, but this is a pivotal moment in our relationship and deserves this kind of closeness.

Please don’t sneeze.  

"Alright, big guy, today's the day. We’re going to prove that we can fly together. No more walking in circles like we're training for some dragon dressage competition.” 

Eight B huffs, warm air ruffling my hair. His tail does a lazy sweep that I've learned means he's relaxed.

"Here's what I'm thinking," I continue, running my hand along his jaw where the old scars texture his scales. "We start slow. Get airborne, stay airborne, land without breaking any of my bones. Master that, then we worry about the fancy stuff. Banking, diving, combat maneuvers—all that can wait until we nail the basics."

His scales ripple, that shimmer of gray-blue-silver catching the early morning light filtering into Circle 3. I rolled out of bed at the ass crack of dawn to get here before anyone else. I want to try this without the pressure of performing. 

And so no one sees us fail. 

Eight B leans into my touch. 

"I know you've done this with other riders. Riders who probably knew what the hell they were doing." My throat tightens. "But you chose me. So now we're stuck with each other."

He snorts, shaking his head. 

"Let's show them we're not a joke. Deal?"

Eight B pulls back, and for a moment I think I've lost him. Then his wings unfold in the forty-five-degree ready position that means he's engaged.

He bobs his head once. 

“Good boy.” I run my hand along his side as I reach for the saddle. “Try not to drop me.”

The harness feels familiar now as I strap it on, my fingers working through the buckles with newly developed muscle memory. The electromagnetic anchors hum to life, each one glowing briefly as it locks. I grab the helmet, pausing before I put it on.

"Remember, the helmet's backup. We're doing this our way."

The interface activates with that now familiar pull, the HUD flickering to life. Coherence starts at 61%—lower than yesterday's high, but still better than the disaster of a week ago.

I pick up the reins, and press one hand to his neck. He's warm beneath my palm, his muscles shifting as he adjusts to my weight. When I settle into the saddle, the magnetic anchors engage with satisfying thunks.

Through the neural link, I feel… something that I’d describe as curiosity.

"Wings," I murmur, touching his neck while I picture the command.

His shoulder muscles bunch first—warning me. Then his wings extend in a smooth, controlled motion.

Coherence jumps to 64%.

"Good. Now let's try something terrifying." I take a breath. "We're going to lift off, hover, and land. That's it."

I shift my weight forward slightly, pressing gently with my legs while thinking about upward motion through the link.

Eight B's muscles coil beneath me. His weight shifts to his haunches. Every physical cue screams I'm about to launch and this time I'm ready for it.

He pushes off.

My stomach drops as we rise—ten feet, fifteen, twenty, eighty, a hundred. The ground falls away and every instinct screams at me to grab the saddle horn and hold on for dear life.

I force myself to focus on Eight B's body language. His wings are beating in steady, powerful strokes. His breathing is controlled, his tail's extended for balance.

He's not panicking, so I won't either.

Calm your farm, Liz. He’s got this. 

"Level out." I combine my request with a slight backward shift in my weight.

Eight B's wings adjust, the beats becoming shallower. We stop climbing.

We're hovering. Actually freaking hovering. We’re maybe a hundred feet up, the Circle spread out below us like a sandbox.

Coherence is 67%.

"Holy shit," I breathe. "We're flying. We're actually—"

Eight B dips suddenly, and my coherence drops to 63% as panic spikes through the link.

"No, no, it's okay!" I force calm through my voice and body. "I was just excited. You're doing great, big guy! I’m the issue."

He steadies, and I feel his confusion ripple back. My emotions are affecting him. 

"Right. Calm. I can do calm." I take a slow breath, watching his wing positions, feeling the rhythm of his movements. "Let's try moving forward. Just a little."

I lean forward, thinking about horizontal motion, and Eight B responds. We glide forward twenty feet, his wings adjusting to the new trajectory.

"Yes! Good boy!" I can't help the grin splitting my face. "Now let's land before Duncan shows up and ruins this moment."

I picture a descent, shifting my weight back, and Eight B begins dropping in a controlled glide. The ground rushes up, but this time I'm watching his body language—the way his legs extend in preparation, the angle of his wings as he braces himself.

We hit the sand harder than I'd like, but I stay in the saddle. The magnetic system barely even registers the landing.

We did it! Holy mother of dragon tits, we did it!

I slide off Eight B's back, shaking with adrenaline. He lowers his head and I throw my arms around his snout, laughing like a maniac.

"You magnificent bastard. We flew. We actually flew!"

Eight B rumbles, a sound that vibrates through my chest. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was laughing with me.

"Again?" I ask.

His tail sweeps once in what I take to be agreement.

We fly three more times. Each attempt gets a little smoother, a little more controlled. By the fourth landing, I barely feel the impact.

Our coherence hovers between 65-68%—not perfect, but functional.

When Duncan finally strides through the gate, tablet in hand, I'm on Eight B's back in a hover about thirty feet in the air.

I give him a saucy little wave. 

He stops dead, staring.

"Don't look so shocked," I call down. "We've been practicing."

"So I see."

I guide Eight B into a slow forward glide, then bank left—his favorite direction. The turn isn't clean, but we don't plummet. "Aren’t we impressive?"

Duncan puts his hands on his hips, glaring. "No. Land. Now."

Eight B descends, and I feel his awareness shift. Duncan watching changes the dynamic, adding pressure. His wing beats grow erratic.

"Hey," I murmur. "It's just Duncan. He's seen us fail a hundred times. One more won't kill us."

We land rough, Eight B's claws gouging furrows in the sand.

Duncan shakes his head. "You're a fucking idiot."

"Excuse me?"

"An idiot." He crosses to us, jabbing a finger at Eight B. "He's a dragon, Elizabeth. A fifty-foot, fire-breathing, feral dragon who's killed riders. And you took him out for a Sunday morning jaunt with no handler, no safety crew, no one fucking watching."

I jut my chin out. "It worked, didn’t it?"

"It worked this time." He shakes his head. "What happens when he bucks you at two hundred feet and there's nobody on the ground with a sedation kit? What happens when he goes into an aggression display and you're alone up there with no backup? You hit the sand at speed, and I'm the one scraping what's left of you into a bag."

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that. You've had him for a freaking week. I’ve been around dragons for over twenty years. I know. You’re just the brat he’s chosen this week."

I grip the saddle horn, fighting the urge to snap back. He's not wrong. But he's not right either.

"Duncan, we've got days before the Games. Days. And every session with you watching, with the team watching, with the pressure of performing — he tenses up and we go backwards." I shift in the saddle, jabbing a finger at the sky. "This morning we flew four clean circuits. Coherence hit sixty-eight. That's the highest it's been. It happened because nobody was here making him nervous."

"Making him nervous. Or you?"

Fuck. 

I don't answer.

Duncan glares at me for a long beat. Then at Eight B, who's watching the exchange with his head tilted and his tail doing that lazy sweep.

"Next time, call me," Duncan says finally. "Now, go again. This time I want a circuit of the Circle at fifty feet, then land in the centre."

I nod, and Eight B launches before I've fully processed the command.

The circuit is messy. Our left turn is too sharp, nearly throwing me sideways until the magnetic system compensates. The forward glide wavers when I overcorrect, unbalancing Eight B. But we complete it, and when we land in the approximate center of the Circle, I'm still in the saddle.

"Coherence?" Duncan asks.

I check the HUD. "Sixty-six percent."

"Better." He taps something on his tablet. "You're cleared for team drills. Kiera wants the full team practicing formations later today."

My stomach drops. "Team drills? Already?"

“You think you have time to sit around twiddling your thumbs when the Games are so close?” His expression is unreadable. "As you so graciously reminded me, you’ve got days left, Reeves. Get to work."

He walks away, leaving me sitting on Eight B in the middle of the Circle.

Team drills.

With Chloe, who hates me. Ty, who barely acknowledges me. Jax, who thinks everything's a joke. And Kiera, who has to somehow make this disaster of a team functional in less than a week.

"Well, shit." 

Eight B huffs in what might be agreement.

After breakfast and a short briefing session, the team heads over to the practice arena. It’s massive compared to Circle 3—easily three times the size, but it’s a replica of the actual game arena. The rest of Team Azura is already there when I arrive, their dragons arranged in a loose formation near the entrance.

Kiera sits astride Tempest, a sleek silver dragon with blue undertones that shimmer like oil on water. Her posture is perfect, helmet on, every inch the professional rider.

Beside her, Ty's on Crank—a lean, dark blue female dragon that’s mean as hell. They both look bored as they wait for instructions. 

Jax is mounted on Farlan, a mottled brown-and-gold dragon that's trying to eat one of the target dummies. Jax isn't stopping him.

And Chloe sits on Aegis, her defender dragon—a massive dark green beast with scarred scales and cold eyes. She's staring at me like I'm a stain on her boot.

Hello to you too, fellow team mate. 

"Nice of you to join us," Kiera says, her voice cutting across the Circle. "We've got a week to get this team functional. That means we’ll be training non-stop day and night on formations, communication, and synchronized maneuvers." Her gaze fixes on me. "Think you can keep up?"

"I can only try," I guide Eight B to the formation.

"Low bar," Chloe mutters.

Kiera ignores her. "Today we’ll run basic formations. Line, wedge, and scatter. Elizabeth, you'll take up the rear in support position. Your job is simple—stay with the formation and don't get in the way. Can you do that?"

I nod, even though my stomach is churning.

"Good. Helmets on, everyone. Let's see what we're working with."

The neural link flares as I activate my helmet, and suddenly I'm not just connected to Eight B—I'm connected to the entire team through a tactical overlay. I can see their positions, their coherence ratings, and their dragon's vitals.

Tempest: 98% coherence
Crank: 92% coherence
Aegis: 88% coherence
Farlan: 87% coherence
Eight B: 66% coherence

We're the weakest link by a mile.

"Line formation," Kiera commands. "Tempest takes point. Crank, left flank. Farlan, right flank. Aegis, rear guard. Eight B, rear support."

The dragons launch in near-perfect synchronization.

Except Eight B, who hesitates for half a second before following.

That half-second puts us behind. By the time we're airborne, the rest of the team is already fifty feet ahead, moving in a tight horizontal line.

"Eight B, catch up!" I urge, leaning forward. He pushes and we close in on them, falling into line quickly. 

"Hold position," Kiera's voice crackles through the tactical channel. "Elizabeth, you're drifting."

I am. Eight B's trying to angle right to fall in next to Aegis, but it’s pulling us out of formation.

"No, straighten out," I mutter, trying to correct through the neural link while using my body weight.

Eight B overcorrects left.

Now we're veering toward Jax and Farlan.

"Watch it!" Jax barks, more amused than alarmed.

I pull harder, and finally Eight B straightens—but we've lost some ground, forcing us to once again push to catch up.

"Support position means you’re in the formation, Reeves," Kiera says, her tone clipped. "Not trailing behind like a lost puppy."

"Working on it," I grit out.

We fly for twenty more minutes, running through formation after formation. The patterns appear on my HUD, showing me what they’re asking for in a perfect world. 

This isn’t close to perfect. Each one is a bloody disaster.

In wedge formation, we drift too far back and break the point. In scatter, I nearly collide with Chloe because Eight B banks right when I tell him left. I don’t even know what happened during the defensive manoeuvre. We were supposed to hover in the center while the others orbit, but Eight B couldn’t hold a stable hover for more than thirty seconds before he started sinking.

By the time Kiera calls a break, I'm drenched in sweat and Eight B's breathing is labored.

"That was pathetic," Chloe says, landing Aegis nearby. She pulls off her helmet, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. "I cannot believe Duncan cleared you to fly."

"Chloe—" Kiera starts.

"No, she needs to hear it." Chloe slides off Aegis, stalking toward me. "You've been here a week. One week. And you think you're ready to compete in the Games? You can barely stay in formation. Your dragon doesn't listen to you. Your coherence is shit." She jabs a finger at me. "When the fighting starts, you're going to panic and do something stupid, and the rest of us are going to die covering for you."

I dismount, my legs wobbling as I hit the sand. "I'm doing my best."

"Your best isn't good enough."

"What do you want me to do? I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to bond with Eight B. I didn't ask to be thrown into the Games." I step closer, meeting her glare. "But here we are. So either help me get better, or get out of my way."

For a moment, I think she's going to hit me.

Instead, she shakes her head. “When the Games start, don’t expect me to help you.” She turns and walks away, her shoulders rigid.

"That went well," Jax says, appearing at my elbow. Farlan is behind him, once again chewing on a target dummy. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing brilliantly. Much better than the last person who bonded with Eight B."

"The last person is dead."

"Exactly! You've lasted a week. Progress!" He grins. "Come on. Let's grab some water before Kiera makes us do it again."

"Alright," Kiera announces once we've all caught our breath. "Formation drills were a disaster, but that's expected. Let’s run a game simulation, see if we can’t do better."

My stomach drops. "Already?"

"You don't get better by hovering in circles," Kiera tags a swig of her water. "You need to understand how the Game works." She gestures to the center of the practice arena where dozens of spherical drones are powering up, their surfaces gleaming in the morning sun. "These are proxy orbs. In the real Games, orbs are released throughout the arena. Your job is to collect them and return them to your hoard zone without getting killed."

"The drones have impact sensors," Ty says, speaking for the first time. "They'll fire compression blasts if you get too close without proper approach. Think of them as angry, fast moving targets that fight back. They’re to simulate your opponents in battle." He gives me a droll look. “You know, the ones that will actually kill you.” 

"Wonderful," I mutter. 

Kiera continues, "The real Games have six teams competing simultaneously. Today, it's just us running drills, so the drones are programmed to simulate enemy interference." She taps something on her wrist guard. "Each of you has a collection net integrated into your saddle system. Approach an orb, trigger the net, capture it, return to base. Simple."

"And the drones are going to try to kill us while we do this?" I ask.

"Yep." Jax grins. "Don’t you love it?”

“No. Not even a little bit.” 

"The drones will target riders who break formation, fly erratically, or approach orbs incorrectly," Kiera explains. "They're programmed to mimic enemy dragon fire, debris strikes, and collision hazards. If you get hit, your suit will register the impact and lock your controls for six seconds. In the real Games, that six seconds could mean death."

Chloe snorts. "She won't last thirty seconds."

"Then you'll have to cover for her," Kiera snaps. "Now mount up. We're running a ten-minute drill. The goal is to collect as many orbs as possible without getting hit. Support position means you assist other riders in collecting orbs and provide defensive cover. Elizabeth, watch and learn this round. Next round, you’ll participate."

"Watch and learn," I repeat. "I can do that."

"Learn? I doubt that," Chloe mutters, swinging back onto Aegis.

Love you too, bitch. 

The team launches, and begins the climb. We fly up, up, up until we’re far above the earth, higher than I’ve ever been. A quick glance at the HUD shows we’re hovering around 3000 feet. 

Holy fucking shit. 

The arena and all its components rise slowly around us, an incredible feat of engineering. I guide Eight B into a hover at the edge of the arena where we can observe without interfering. Through the tactical overlay, I watch their coherence ratings, their positions, and targeting data.

The drones activate with a high-pitched whine, then scatter across the arena like a swarm of angry hornets. Some glow blue—those are the point orbs. But two others pulse red—probably the ones that are meant to be held in the bonus zones. 

The course itself is a nightmare of obstacles designed to simulate real arena conditions. Massive stone pillars jut up from the ground at irregular intervals, some topped with platforms that could serve as perches or ambush points. A series of floating rings and walls—held aloft by some kind of magnetic suspension—create moving obstacles that shift position every thirty seconds, forcing riders to constantly adjust their approach angles.

Along the perimeter, mechanical debris launchers are positioned at various heights. Through the tactical overlay, I can see they're programmed to fire random projectiles—foam blocks designed to simulate rocks, dragon fire, or structural collapse. Getting hit by one in this arena won't kill you, but it'll knock you off course and potentially trigger a control lock.

The whole setup is deliberately chaotic and unpredictable, designed to punish any rider who doesn't maintain perfect spatial awareness.

Welcome to my nightmare. 

“Is this the layout for the Games?” I ask. 

Allie answers through my comm from the observation deck, where she’s standing with Duncan. "No. Every Game uses a different arena configuration. Desert, urban, alpine, aquatic — the League never repeats a layout. The simulation randomises obstacles every session to mimic that unpredictability. What you're seeing now won't be what you face in ten minutes."

“Oh, fantastic. So we can't even memorise the death trap.”

The clock counts down and a buzzer sounds, starting the game. Kiera moves first, Tempest diving toward a cluster of blue orbs near the center of the arena. Her approach is textbook perfect. At the last second, she triggers the collection net from her saddle. The net deploys, scooping up three orbs in one pass.

But the moment she collects them, two drones break from the swarm to streak toward her.

"Incoming!" Ty's voice crackles through the helmet’s comms. Crank banks hard, intercepting one drone with a powerful swat of her tail, sending it spinning. 

The second drone closes in on Kiera.

Chloe and Aegis drop from above, positioning themselves between Kiera and the threat. The drone fires a compression blast—I see the ripple in the air—but it hits Aegis's scales.

The dragon doesn't even flinch. Impressive. 

"Good coverage, Chloe," Kiera says, already banking toward the hoard zone marked by a glowing circle on the far side of the arena. She drops the orbs inside, and the tactical overlay updates.

+3 points.

Meanwhile, Jax and Farlan are playing a completely different game. Instead of methodically collecting orbs, Jax is darting between drones, letting them almost hit him before dodging at the last second.

"Jax, stop messing around!" Kiera barks.

"I'm not!" he calls back, laughing. 

It's chaos, but it's controlled chaos. Everyone knows their role. Everyone trusts each other to execute.

Until Chloe breaks formation.

I see it on the overlay before I see it happen—her position marker deviates from the pattern, moving toward a cluster of orbs near the arena's edge.

"Chloe, hold position," Kiera commands.

She ignores her. Aegis dives toward the orbs, collection net deploying.

Three drones converge on her position.

"Chloe, abort!" Kiera snaps. "You're out of defensive range!"

Chloe collects the orbs—five of them—but the drones are already firing. The first compression blast glances off Aegis's shoulder. The second hits Chloe's saddle.

Her tactical marker flashes red.

CONTROLS LOCKED - 6 SECONDS.

Aegis begins to tumble, spinning wildly toward the ground. Chloe grips the saddle, locked in place by the simulation. Six seconds feels like an eternity as they plummet.

The lock releases, and Chloe regains control, pulling Aegis up barely a hundred feet from impact. She's shaking—I can see it even from here.

"Back in formation," Kiera says, her voice tight. "Now."

The drill continues for another eight minutes. By the end, they've collected forty-two orbs and taken six hits total. Chloe took three of them.

When they land, Chloe's face is ashen, her hands trembling as she dismounts.

"That," Kiera says, addressing the entire team, "is what happens when you try to be a hero. In the real Games, Chloe would be dead."

She stares at the ground, ignoring Kiera.

"Elizabeth," Kiera says, turning to me. "You're up. Same drill. Ten minutes. Try not to crash out."

"Sure thing, Boss," I mutter, but I'm already guiding Eight B toward the starting position.

The tactical overlay updates, showing my role. 

"Ready?" Kiera asks.

"No.” 

"Too bad. Launch on my mark."

The team takes position around me—Kiera at point, Ty and Jax on flanks, Chloe behind me as rear guard. I'm in the center, protected on all sides.

"Go!"

We launch together, and this time Eight B doesn't hesitate. The formation holds as we climb, moving toward the first cluster of orbs.

Kiera points out the orb targets. "Elizabeth, defensive coverage. Watch for drones."

I scan the arena, searching for threats. Two drones approach from the left.

"Incoming, nine o'clock!"

"I see them," Ty responds, Crank already moving to intercept.

But a third drone appears from below—one I missed.

It's heading straight for Kiera while she's mid-collection.

"Kiera, below you!"

She can't abort. She's committed to the collection. Which means I have to do something.

Eight B feels my intention before I even finish the thought. He dives, dropping into the drone's path.

The compression blast hits him square in the chest.

My tactical marker flashes red. 

CONTROLS LOCKED - 6 SECONDS.

Eight B’s wings falter as we start to fall. The drone hits don’t just stop me from communicating with him, they stun the dragons. 

"Elizabeth!" Allie's voice crackles through the comm—she must be watching from the observation deck. "Your lock releases in 6 seconds! Get ready!"

We're falling fast, spiraling toward the arena floor far below. 

Through the neural link, I feel Eight B's panic. He doesn't understand why he’s frozen.

"It's okay," I whisper, even though I know he can't hear me. "Trust me. Six seconds."

Five. 

Four.

The ground rushes up.

Three.

I watch Eight B's body language. His wings are extended but flailing. His tail is whipping for balance he can't find.

Two.

I picture what I need him to do. Level out. Wings spread wide. Pull up.

One. 

The lock releases.

"PULL UP!" I scream, combining the command with every ounce of physical and mental direction I can muster.

Eight B's wings snap into position. His tail extends. His head pulls back.

We level out less than three hundred feet from impact.

My heart is hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.

"Nice save, Grunt,” Ty calls. 

"That was stupid," Chloe snaps. "You took a hit for Kiera when Ty already had the interception covered."

"Ty was focussed on the other two drones," Allie's voice cuts in. "Elizabeth's intervention was correct. Without it, Kiera would have taken a direct hit."

Chloe doesn't respond.

"Regroup," Kiera orders. "Elizabeth, that was good instinct but bad execution. Next time, communicate before you break formation. Tell me what you're doing so I can compensate."

"Noted," I pant, trying to catch my breath.

We run the training simulation again. And again. And again.

By the fifth run, I've learned when to call out threats, when to move into a defensive position, and when to stay the hell out of the way.

My coherence with Eight B holds steady at 68%, even under pressure.

By the time Kiera calls an end to the session, it's nearly dinner time. Every muscle in my body aches. Eight B is exhausted, his wings drooping as we land.

But we survived.

"Better," Kiera says as we dismount. "Not good. But better. We'll run it again tomorrow."

"Yay… I can't wait.”

I'm pulling off my helmet as a handler rounds the corner of the equipment shed. He’s young, maybe mid-twenties, carrying a feed tray and a maintenance kit. 

We begin walking toward the stables when the guy trips, and the feed tray clangs against a gate post.

Eight B's head snaps around, jerking the reins from my hands. 

“Eight—”

He crosses the distance in two strides, fifty feet of apex predator closing on prey. The sound that comes out of him vibrates through my molars.

The handler freezes. The feed tray hits the ground. Protein slabs scatter across the sand.

Eight B doesn't stop.

His tail whips first, catching the handler across the thighs and sending him sprawling. The man screams — a high, cracked sound — and tries to scramble backward. Eight B plants a massive claw on his chest, pinning him flat. The handler's body looks pathetically small beneath it, his face white, his hands clawing at scales he can't move.

"EIGHT B!" I'm running before I've finished shouting, boots slipping in the sand.

Eight B's chest flares orange. Heat distorts the air above the handler's face. I can see down his throat — the glow building, white-hot, the same fire that can melt steel plating.

The handler is sobbing. His hands have stopped clawing and gone limp. He's given up.

I throw myself between them, slamming both palms against Eight B's snout, forcing his jaws sideways. The heat washes over my arm — not fire, not yet, but close enough to blister the skin.

"STOP! Look at me. Eight B, look at me."

His amber eyes are wide and bright. Combat eyes. There's nothing playful in them, nothing calm. This is the animal the Academy riders fear.

"Hey. I'm right here,” I repeat, spreading my arms wide. “He's not a threat. You’re okay."

A growl vibrates through his chest and into my palms. His claw presses harder on the handler's ribcage. I hear something creak — bone or cartilage, I can't tell.

"Eight B." I drop my voice. "It's me. It's Liz. Let him go."

His nostrils flare, pulling in my scent.

One second. Two. Three.

The claw lifts. The handler gasps, rolling onto his side, clutching his ribs.

Eight B's wings fold from full extension to a halfway point — alert but not aggressive. His chest flare dims, the orange retreating down his throat. He steps back and his head swings to me, bumping against my shoulder hard enough to stagger me.

I grab his snout, holding on. My hands are shaking. 

The handler is on his feet, limping, one arm across his ribs. Blood slicks across his chin from where he bit through his lip. A wet stain spreads down one trouser leg.

"Go. Now," I bark. 

He runs without looking back. 

Allie and Duncan haven't moved from their position by the fence. Allie’s wide eyed, her face pale, Duncan’s face is expressionless, carved from granite. The rest of the team stands frozen near their dragons — Kiera's hand on her comm. Chloe's face is sheet-white. Even Jax has lost his grin.

I lift my arms, examining the burn. My forearm is pink and blistered, bleeding and weeping. Some of my suit has melted away from where the heat caught me.

Fuck. 

I can’t feel it. Or maybe I can, but it’s distant, like an alarm in another building. 

"Fine," I mutter, turning away. 

"You're bleeding."

"I'll live." I turn to Eight B, who's settled back onto his haunches. His tail is curled around his feet, his eyes half-lidded. 

“You’re a strange boy,” i mutter to him, lifting a hand to scratch his nose. He huffs, little puffs of smoke escaping his nostrils. 

Duncan interrupts our moment. “Get to the medic bay and get that arm looked at."

I turn toward him. "Duncan, I—"

“No arguing.” He points toward the main house. “Go. Now.” 

With a sigh, I hand him Eight B’s reins and start walking. 

“And Elizabeth?”

I half turn back. 

“Next time someone walks into his Circle unannounced, don't throw yourself between them. Call for sedation."

I stop. "You want me to let him kill someone?"

Duncan's expression doesn't change. "Better him than you."

Holy shit. 

The medic bay is unlike anything I’ve seen in the Rookery. For one it’s pristine, empty but for staff, and smells strongly of antiseptic. There’s no cracks, no old tech, no worn out doctors trying their best to save a crowded waiting room that never empties. 

A woman in League whites directs me to a chair, peels my sleeve back, and makes a small tutting sound at the burn.

"Dragon heat?" she asks, reaching for a tube of gel.

"Something like that."

She doesn't ask for details. I get the impression she's treated enough rider injuries that the origin stories stopped being interesting years ago. 

A bank of doors lines the far wall, each one numbered, with a small screen beside it glowing faintly green. They look like cold storage — the same kind of industrial refrigeration units I saw in the arena facility the night I stole the scales.

"What's in there?" I ask, nodding at the doors.

She glances at the doors. "Rider storage."

I frown. "Storage for what?"

"Bodies. The facility maintains capacity for up to twelve at a time. During the Games, we expand to the overflow wing." She nods toward a corridor branching off to the left. "But that's only been needed twice."

Kids walk past these doors. The Initiates, with their tiny uniforms and their hero worship, come to the medic bay for scraped knees and training bruises. They walk past a wall of refrigerated compartments designed to hold the corpses of the people they want to grow up to be.

"Is it always this—" I search for the word. "Morbid?"

The nurse gives me an odd look. "The Academy's operated for over a century. Death is part of the program."

Death is part of the program.

She says it like she's describing a module on the curriculum. Flight training, combat theory, body storage.

She finishes cleaning the burn, removing all trace elements of my suit. She flushes it, then applies gel to the burn, and slaps a bandage over the lot.

"Keep it dry for six hours. Regen gel will handle the rest."

“Six hours? That’s it?” 

“Of course. We only do the best at the Academy.” 

I flex my arm, testing the bandage. The gel is already working — the sting has faded to a dull warmth under the wrapping.

"Can I go?"

She waves a hand toward the door, turning to enter data into her tablet.

I slide off the chair and head for the exit, passing through the main treatment area. It's bigger than I expected — six beds with privacy screens, a surgical bay visible through a glass partition, monitoring equipment that makes the tech in Eight B's saddle look primitive.

The corridor back to the residential wing passes through a section of the Academy I haven't explored. It’s far older, and quieter, the polished floors giving way to worn stone.

A door stands open on my left. Heavy wood, carved with the Academy's crest, and through it I can see —

Books.

Not tablets. Not data terminals. Books. Actual physical books on actual shelves that stretch floor to ceiling. The room is two storeys high with a mezzanine running the perimeter. Ladders on brass rails lean against the upper shelves. Reading lamps cast warm circles of light on heavy wooden tables.

I stop in the doorway.

I've seen books before. We once went to a museum when we lived in the upper city. I think I was seven or eight. The museum had a display of about a hundred books behind a wall of glass. I remember being overwhelmed by the number, confused when the tour guide said people used to keep them in their houses. 

I’d asked Dad why we didn’t have such gorgeous objects any more. 

 "Paper comes from trees, Lizzie. Trees are worth more than gold now." 

The museum pales in comparison to this abundance. This collection has thousands upon thousands. The room is two storeys high with a mezzanine running the perimeter. Ladders on brass rails lean against the upper shelves. Reading lamps cast warm circles of light on heavy wooden tables. Every wall is books, books, books, floor to ceiling, their spines a patchwork of colours and textures and ages.

I'm inside before I've made a conscious decision to move.

The smell hits me and my knees almost buckle. Old paper. Worn leather.

My fingers find the nearest shelf and I trail them across the spines, feeling the grain of the leather, the bump of embossed lettering, the soft give of cloth covers. Some are rough. Some are silk-smooth. One has a cracked spine that lets me peek at the pages inside — actual pages, cream-coloured and thick, with printed text I could run my thumb across and feel the indent of the ink.

I pull a book from the shelf. It's heavier than I expected. The cover is dark red leather with gold lettering I can feel under my fingertips. I bring it to my nose and breathe in.

Oh.

Paper and age and something faintly sweet, linger on it. It’s as if the words are tempting you to open and indulge. 

I stand there like an idiot, smelling a book in my filthy training gear with a bandaged arm and sand in my hair. If anyone walks in, they'll think I've lost my mind.

I don't care. I press my nose deeper and breathe again.

I finally return the book to its shelf and keep moving, drawn deeper into the stacks. My fingers never leave the spines. I can't stop touching them.

There are sections I don't understand — titles in languages I can't read, scripts I've never seen. Others are familiar topics. History. Science. Literature. An entire wall dedicated to what looks like poetry, the volumes slim and delicate, their covers soft as skin.

I round a corner and find a section labelled DRAGON STUDIES. The books here are enormous — oversized volumes with reinforced spines, their covers stamped with anatomical diagrams and cross-sections. I pull one out and nearly drop it, it's that heavy. Inside, hand-drawn illustrations of dragon musculature spread across pages wide enough to use as a blanket. The detail is staggering. Every scale, every tendon, rendered in ink by someone who spent years studying the beasts.

I turn another page and find a diagram of the neural pathways — the organic precursors to the neuromesh we use now. Someone's made notes in the margin in faded pencil. I squint at the handwriting but can't make it out.

I close the book carefully, sliding it back into place. My fingers are trembling.

Not from the burn. From wanting. From being surrounded by knowledge I didn't know existed, in a room I didn't know I needed, holding things I can't afford and was never meant to touch.

Kai would love this.

The thought punches through me without warning. He'd run his hands along every spine. He'd pull books down and stack them in towers and sort them by color or size or whatever system his brain invented. He'd sit on the floor with a volume bigger than his lap and trace the illustrations with his finger, memorizing shapes.

Kai. 

My eyes sting. I blink it away.

I'm reaching for another spine — this one emerald green with silver embossing — when a voice makes me jump.

"Can I help you?"

The librarian stands at the end of the aisle. She's older than I expected — maybe sixties, with silver hair pinned in a loose knot and reading glasses perched on her nose. Her expression is pleasant but assessing, the way people look at you when they're deciding whether you're a guest or a trespasser.

Her gaze travels from my sand-caked boots to my singed sleeve and the bandage on my arm. I watch her clock the training gear, the Azura insignia barely visible under the grime.

"You're the new rider." It’s not a question.

"That obvious?"

She adjusts her glasses. "Most riders don't come here at all. They access everything through their tablets."

"I’d say most riders are idiots."

Her mouth twitches. "On that, we agree." She gestures at the book I was reaching for. "The green one is a first edition. Gloves are required for handling. But there are reading copies of most titles available on the lower shelves."

"Reading copies?"

"Reproductions. Still paper, but not irreplaceable." She tilts her head, studying me with renewed interest. "Are you looking for something specific?"

I’m about to say no, when I remember Dad’s words. The holodisk is hiding under my mattress, waiting to be read. Dad had said there was equipment here. Maybe she could help. 

"I was wondering about the data equipment," I say, keeping my voice casual. "I noticed the tech section near the back. Do you carry older formats? Pre-2100?"

"We did." She folds her arms, leaning against the shelf. "The Academy maintained a full archive of legacy data systems for research purposes. Holodisk readers, crystal drives, even some magnetic tape units from the early colonial period."

My pulse picks up. "And now?"

"Recycled. Three months ago. New directive from administration — all data access points to be standardised to current-gen League systems." She shakes her head, and I catch a flicker of the same irritation I'd feel if someone told me they'd thrown away irreplaceable tech for the sake of a uniform interface. "A century of backwards-compatible research capability, gone in an afternoon."

Timing. The universe's favourite joke.

"Everything?"

"Unfortunately. If you need to access legacy data, the official recommendation is to submit a conversion request to the Academy's IT department. They can get in contact with a contractor who can translate older formats to current systems."

That’s not an option. 

"Right." I nod slowly. "And the recycled equipment — where did it go?"

"Tech disposal processes it onsite. Salvageable materials get shipped elsewhere for resale. The rest is scrapped." She peers at me over her glasses. "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity." I shrug. "My dad was into old tech. He'd have loved this place."

It's not a lie. It's not the truth either.

She nods. "Well, you're welcome here any time. We're open until midnight. If you'd like access to the Dragon Studies section, I can set you up with handling gloves and a reading table."

"I'd like that. Thank you."

"Most of the riders who come here are Initiates doing coursework." She turns back toward her desk. "It's nice to see someone who comes for the books, not the grades."

I'm about to ask her for some gloves when my wrist unit chimes. The screen flashes.

MANDATORY BRIEFING
ALL RIDERS AND CREW MAIN HALL, 20 MINUTES. 
ATTENDANCE NON-NEGOTIABLE.
— ACADEMY ADMINISTRATION

I stare at the screen, then down at myself.

Sand-crusted training gear. Singed sleeve. Bandaged arm. My hair hasn't seen a brush since before dawn, and I'm fairly certain there's a dragon snot stain on my left shoulder.

There’s no time to change or shower. There’s barely time to walk there.

I catch my reflection in the glass of a display case as I pass. I look like someone dragged me behind a dragon for a mile then rolled me in dirt for good measure.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I sigh, reluctantly heading for the main hall.

Whatever this briefing is about, at least I'll make an impression.

The Main Hall is already full when I arrive.

Rows of chairs have been arranged in a semicircle facing a raised platform where two Academy staff stand beside a holoprojector. The room buzzes with conversation — riders in clean uniforms, support crew in pressed blacks, tacticians with their tablets. Everyone looks freshly showered, well-fed, and presentable.

Then there's me.

I slide into a seat near the back, hoping to disappear. No such luck. Heads turn. Eyes sweep from my sand-crusted boots to my singed sleeve to the bandage on my arm. Someone whispers. Someone else snorts.

Yeah, get a good look. The trash just rolled in.

Allie appears from nowhere, dropping into the seat beside me and winces.

"Sorry, I tried to find you but you’d already left the med bay."

I shrug. “It’s not like I fit in on a good day.” 

She hands me a hair tie, and I scrape my disaster into a knot on top of my head, which probably makes me look worse but at least gets it off my face.

Across the room, Team Azura is clustered together. Kiera gives me a nod that says glad you made it. Ty glances over once and looks away, which for Ty counts as a warm welcome. Jax mouths something I can't read but his grin suggests it's inappropriate. Chloe is in the row ahead of them, her hair smooth, her uniform pressed, her posture the kind of perfect that comes from years of finishing school. She doesn't look at me at all.

The other teams fill the remaining seats. Vekk Industries in their black and gold, sit at the front like they own the room. Shinhu in silver. Meridian in purple and teal. Apex in green. Crimson Dominion in blood red.

I spot Gabriel in the front row. Of course he's in the front row. 

He doesn't spare me a glance. 

"Good afternoon." The woman on the platform steps forward. She's mid-forties, blonde, and severe. Her suit is charcoal grey and cut with military precision. "I'm Director Hallam, Academy External Relations. This briefing is mandatory for all riders and essential crew ahead of this week's sponsor engagement events."

Sponsor engagement events? Is that what we're calling the last supper?

"Over the next three days, you’ll attend a formal sponsor showcase, a media engagement day, and a pre-Games reception. These events are critical to securing the financial backing your teams require to compete, and increasing anticipation for the Games." 

"Wait," I whisper to Allie. "We already have a team sponsor. Dr. Bauer funds Azura. Why do we need more?"

"Dr. Bauer funds the team. Dragons, facilities, base operations. But individual sponsors fund everything else — equipment upgrades, better medical tech, enhanced neural interfaces, family support packages." She pushes her glasses up. "The base contract keeps you alive. Individual sponsors make you competitive. Better gear, better odds."

"So the richer you are, the longer you survive."

"Essentially. Vekk riders have personal sponsorship portfolios worth more than Azura's entire operating budget. That's why Gabriel can afford combat-modified dragons and we're flying stock models."

Of course. Even the death sport has a pay-to-win option.

Hallam taps her tablet and the holoprojector blooms to life, displaying a grid of faces. "These are your confirmed attendees. You are expected to recognise and correctly address every individual on this list."

I stare at the grid. There are forty-six faces with names, titles, corporate affiliations, net worth brackets, dietary preferences, and known sensitivities all written neatly beneath.

Forty-six strangers I'm supposed to charm while pretending I'm not about to die for their entertainment. Yay… 

"We'll begin with forms of address." Hallam gestures to the second instructor, a thin man with a reedy voice who steps forward. "In formal settings, sponsors of Tier One status are addressed by their full title and surname. Tier Two sponsors may be addressed by their professional title. Tier Three—"

"What's a Tier One?" I whisper to Allie.

"Net worth above ten trillion credits," she whispers back. "They get the 'Lord' or 'Lady' prefix at formal events, even if they're not actual nobility. It's a League honorific."

We're giving trillionaires fake titles so they feel special. Wonderful.

"—should always be greeted with a handshake, but it should never be initiated by the rider. Allow the sponsor to extend first. Your grip should be firm but brief. Two seconds maximum. Eye contact must be maintained throughout." Hallam demonstrates with the thin man, who looks like he'd rather be eaten by a dragon than touched by another human.

I look around the room. The Academy kids — the ones who've been here since they were six — are nodding along, some taking notes. This is revision for them. They've been drilled on this stuff since they were born. 

I don't know any of it. I don't know which fork to use at a formal dinner. I don't know the difference between a Tier One and a Tier Three. I don't know when you're supposed to initiate a handshake with someone whose bank account has more digits than my comm number.

I thought I was going to learn something useful, like how not to die. Not how to pander to rich pricks who have nothing better to do. 

I shift in my seat, wondering if I can slip out without anyone noticing. 

Hallam continues. "When addressing sponsors in conversation, you will reference your team's corporate identity. You are not individuals at these events. You are representatives of your organisation's brand and values."

Brand and values. Right. Azura Ascendancy's brand is 'perpetual losers' and our values are 'please don't kill us'.

"Questions about your personal background should be deflected with grace. Redirect toward team strengths, training progress, and competitive outlook. Under no circumstances should you discuss—" She pulls up a list on the holoprojector.

PROHIBITED TOPICS
— Personal financial circumstances
— Criticism of the Games or League structure
— Details of training injuries or fatalities
— Negative assessments of team performance
— Political opinions regarding Sovereign governance
— Comparisons between teams that could be construed as disparaging

So basically anything that reminds them we’re human and likely to die. 

"What if they ask us direct questions?" a Meridian rider asks.

"Deflect with positivity," Hallam responds firmly. "For example, if asked about your odds of survival, you might say, 'I'm focused on giving my best performance and representing my team with honour.' Never speculate on mortality rates, injury statistics, or elimination probabilities."

"Even if they ask for numbers?" the Meridian rider presses.

"Especially then. Sponsors don't want reality. They want reassurance that their investment is sound." Hallam's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Your job is to make them feel confident, not informed."

Make them feel confident while they bet on which of us dies first.

The thin man takes over, launching into a segment on dining etiquette that makes my head swim. Three forks, two knives, a dessert spoon that lives above the plate, and a bread plate on the left that apparently half the population confuses with the right. An additional fifteen forks will be swapped out during the 18-course meal. Water glasses are stemless at formal events. Wine glasses are offered but riders are advised to limit consumption to one glass to maintain "professional composure."

"What's professional composure?" I mutter to Allie.

"Not falling over or insulting anyone."

"That might be beyond me."

A Shinhu rider raises her hand. "What about gift protocol? Last season, a sponsor tried to give my teammate a personal gift during the showcase. It made the news."

Hallam nods crisply, her blonde hair swaying. "All gifts must be declared and processed through your team's corporate liaison. Personal gifts from sponsors to individual riders are prohibited under League anti-corruption regulations." She pauses. "Though I should note that the definition of 'gift' has been... interpreted broadly.” She sobers. “Invitations to private dinners, offers of personal services, propositions of a romantic or sexual nature —should be declined firmly and reported to your team manager."

Propositions of a sexual nature? From sponsors? At an official League event? 

I think of Gris Slaphic's back room. The smoke and the damp carpet. The League might dress it up in fancier language and throw us into prettier rooms, but the transaction is the same. Powerful people wanting access to bodies they consider assets.

The briefing rolls on. We cover appropriate topics of small talk (weather, dragon breeds, Academy history — nothing controversial), posture (straight, open, never crossed arms), eye contact (maintained but not aggressive), and something called "strategic vulnerability."

"Strategic vulnerability," Hallam explains, "is the art of appearing accessible and genuine without actually revealing anything of substance. You share enough personal detail to create a sense of intimacy, but nothing that could be used against you or your team."

We call that survival in the Rookery.

"For example," she continues, "if a sponsor asks about your family, you might say, 'They're my motivation for everything I do.' That's personal. It's warm. And it tells them absolutely nothing."

A hand goes up from the Vekk section. One of Gabriel's teammates — a sharp-faced boy who looks about thirteen, though I know he’s older.

"What about riders who don't have the educational background to navigate these situations? Should we be... adjusting our expectations?"

His eyes flick pointedly to me. 

Okay, bastard. I see you. 

The room shifts. I feel the weight of every gaze, and the interest of those who don’t turn to look. Murmurs race through the chairs, dancing across the floor. 

I remain still, my arms crossed, slumped in my chair. 

Go on, take a look. 

Hallam opens her mouth to respond, but Gabriel speaks first.

"I think the more relevant question —" His voice cuts across the room, sharp as a whip crack. "— is why we're wasting training time on etiquette lessons for riders who won't survive their first Game."

The room goes silent. 

"Captain Vekk," Hallam starts, her tone careful. "All riders are expected to—"

“Charm sponsors. Yes. I heard." He tilts his head, still facing forward. "But charm requires a certain... baseline. To give you a crude quote, you can’t polish a turd."

Oh, fuck you.

“Mr. Vekk, I don’t think that’s appropriate. We’re not here to—”

“You really think an untrained grunt will last beyond the opening five minutes?” he interrupts Hallum once more. 

She falls silent. 

“That’s what I thought.” He stands. “Rather than waste time on this nonsense, my team and I will be returning to the practice field.”

"You're right," I call, stopping his storm out. "I might not have been to a fancy dinner party, but I’ve been to a knife fight, so I reckon I'll manage in your blood bath of a game."

Gabriel turns, our gazes lock and I can see the cold anger brimming in them. 

"A knife fight." His mouth thins. "Is that how you plan to handle sponsors? Stab anyone who asks about your chances?"

I shrug. "Only the ones who bore me. Better keep your speeches short."

A murmur ripples through the room. Hallam looks like she's swallowed a wasp.

"Miss Reeves—"

I sit up, not sparing her a glance. "I'm just engaging in strategic vulnerability, Director. Isn't that what you recommended?"

Gabriel shifts, crossing his arms as he stares me down. 

"Tell me, Reeves. If a Tier One sponsor asks you what makes Azura Ascendancy a worthy investment, what would you say?"

It's a test. The whole room knows it's a test. He's putting me on the spot in front of every rider and crew member in the Academy.

Two can play this game, arsehole.

"I probably won't survive the first Game. My odds are shit and we all know it." I shrug, letting the words land. "But it’s worth remembering Azura has something no other team does."

"Enlighten us."

"Someone the audience actually gives a shit about." I let that settle, watching his brow crease. "You fancy ass riders are great television, sure. But nobody in the lower brackets gives a flying fuck about watching a billionaire's kid win again. They'll be tuning in to watch me."

His gaze narrows on me.

“I’m not a liability, Vekk. I’m a fucking audience. And audiences are what sponsors pay for." I tilt my head to one side. “Or am I wrong?” 

There’s a stunned silence, then Jax laughs. He tries to cover it with a cough and fails spectacularly. 

A ripple of suppressed amusement moves through the room, and I note with satisfaction how much that pisses off Gabriel. 

Even Hallam's mouth twitches before she controls it.

"If we could continue," Hallam says, reclaiming the room. "We have dress code requirements to cover, and I suspect several of you will need to visit the Academy's formal wear department before the showcase."

She spares a glance at Gabriel. “Will you be joining us, Mr. Vekk?”

He doesn’t spare me a glance or her a word as he leaves. 

Allie leans over to whisper in my ear. “You won that round.”

“I’ll take it.” 

I know he’ll win the eventual war and leave my body on the arena floor. But at least I can get some jabs in before that happens. 

Hallam pulls up images of appropriate attire. The men's options are straightforward — dark suits, team colours as accents. The women's options are a minefield of hemlines, necklines, and heel heights accompanied by a list of regulations longer than the Games' rule book.

"Hemlines no higher than two inches above the knee. Necklines no lower than the collarbone. Heels between two and four inches — flat shoes are not permitted for female riders at formal events." Hallam pauses, glancing at a note on her tablet. "Hair should be styled. Makeup is mandatory. Jewellery should complement team branding."

Fuck.

I raise my hand. 

“Ms Reeves?”

"What about riders who don't own formal wear?" I ask, shrugging. “All I brought with me was a battered jacket and some boots.” 

There are snickers around the room. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn these rich pricks have entire wings of their mansions earmarked as dressing rooms. 

"The Academy's formal wear department will provide appropriate attire for any rider who requires it," Hallam says smoothly. "Fittings can be arranged tomorrow morning."

The briefing drags on for another forty minutes. We cover photo protocol (always angle toward the camera, never squint, smile with teeth for formal shots, no teeth for candid), social media guidelines (all posts pre-approved by team PR, no personal accounts active during Games season), and a detailed breakdown of the showcase's schedule that makes a military operation look amateur.

By the end, my brain is mush. I've absorbed maybe a third of it. The rest is a blur of fork placement and fake smiles.

"One final note," Hallam says, and the room quiets. "These events are not optional. Your attendance and conduct directly impact your team's sponsorship portfolio. A single misstep — an inappropriate comment, a wardrobe malfunction, a visible intoxication — can cost your team millions in funding." Her gaze sweeps the room. "The sponsors are watching. The media is watching. The League is watching. Conduct yourselves accordingly."

Translation, dance, monkey, dance.

The briefing ends and riders file out, most chatting easily about suits and stylists and which sponsors they're hoping to attract. A language I don't speak from a world I don't belong to.

Allie falls into step beside me. "You okay?"

"I'm fantastic. I just learned that my hemline has more regulations than my flight suit." I rub my face, wincing when I accidentally press a bruise on my chin. "This morning I was learning to fly. Now I'm being taught how to hold a wine glass. What a time to be alive."

We walk in silence for a moment.

"Allie?"

"Yeah?"

"Is makeup really mandatory?"

She grimaces. "Afraid so."

"Even for the riders who are about to die in a blood sport?"

"Especially for them. Pretty corpses make better television."

I snort. She claps a hand over her mouth, horrified at her own joke.

"That was dark," I tell her. "I'm impressed."

"Please don't tell anyone I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me." I nudge her with my elbow. "Come on. If I have to learn forty-six names and the difference between a bread plate and a side plate by tomorrow, I'm going to need your help. And possibly hard liquor."

She adjusts her glasses, fighting a smile. "I can help with the names. The contraband is Jax's department."

Behind us, the Main Hall empties of riders who've spent their whole lives preparing for rooms like these, learning the languages of power and money and performance.

I've got two days to learn what they've had a lifetime to master.

Fuck.

"Hold still," the stylist snaps, yanking my hair back so hard my eyes water. “Stop squirming.” 

Hallam had said makeup was mandatory. She didn't mention the side serving of abuse.

I'm sitting in what can only be described as a torture chamber disguised as a spa. It features gleaming chrome and flattering lighting, coupled with the overwhelming scent of lavender so strong it makes my head pound. Around me, other riders are being subjected to similar treatment. Manicures, facials, hair styling. All of it designed to make us look less like exhausted dragon riders and more like marketable commodities.

Because that's what today is about. The sponsor showcase.

"Your cuticles are a disaster," the manicurist says, holding up my hand with two fingers as if it's evidence in a murder trial. "When was the last time you moisturized?"

"Never," I say flatly. "Moisturizing wasn't high on my priority list when I was struggling to make enough money to eat."

She makes a disgusted sound and attacks my nails with something that feels like a cheese grater.

Across the room, I catch Chloe's eye. She's getting the full treatment—hair in rollers, face covered in some kind of green mask, feet soaking in a tub that's filled with something that probably worth more than a small country’s annual GDP. She looks blissful.

Yet another indication we have nothing in common. 

"Tilt your head back," the stylist commands.

I obey, and she sprays something in my hair that makes my scalp tingle. In the mirror’s reflection, I can see Allie sitting in the waiting area behind me, tablet in hand, looking uncomfortable in the plush leather chair. She's exempt from the primping—tacticians don't get paraded in front of sponsors.

Lucky her.

"There," the stylist says finally, spinning my chair so I can see the results. "Much better."

I stare at my reflection. My hair's been tamed into smooth waves, my nails are painted a neutral beige, my skin looks... different. Glowing, maybe? Or just shiny from whatever products they slathered on my face.

I look like someone else. Someone I don’t recognise. 

I hate it.

"Come on," Kiera says, appearing at my elbow. She's already been through the treatment—her hair's in an elegant updo, her makeup subtle but perfect. "The meet-and-greets start soon. Team owners want us assembled in the presentation hall."

"Can't wait," I mutter, standing. The dress they've put me in—some floaty thing in Azura's signature blue—feels wrong. It’s far too light and delicate, nothing like the reinforced flight suits I've gotten used to. I feel almost naked without my suit. 

“Shouldn’t we wait for Chloe?” I ask as we leave. 

“She’ll catch up.” 

I trail like a lost little duck as Kiera strides through the Academy’s marble halls toward the presentation wing. “Do you remember your talking points?” 

I roll my eyes. "I’m grateful for the opportunity to die. Honored to represent Azura in a death match. Confident in the team's abilities to hopefully not kill me."

She shoots me a warning look. 

"I’ll be good,” I promise, making a x over my heart. “But what if they ask about my coherence rating?"

"You say you're working closely with your handler to optimize performance."

"Ah, the ‘nothing’ answer. I like it.” 

Kiera stops walking, turning to face me. "Look Elizabeth, you’re acting like this is a joke, but these people are the ones paying for our dragons, our suits, your family."

I nod, appropriately sobered. “I understand.” 

“Do you? If even one of them pulls out, we’re going to be scrambling.” She makes a cutting gesture. “Our lives depend on their generosity. Azure Ascendancy hasn’t won. Ever. We’re the underdogs. The mince meat. People bet on how quickly our team will be annihilated. Your underdog story is our chance to bring in big money—the kind of cash that allows us to invest in tech that can make a difference in the arena.” She sucks in a breath, her polite mask slipping back into place. “I’m asking you to stick to the talking points and be charming.” 

I wince. “I’ll do my best.”

She sighs heavily and glances at her watch. “We’re late. Let’s move.” 

The presentation hall is massive—a cavernous space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the training grounds. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, casting prismatic light across the polished marble floors. Dozens of sponsors mill about in clusters, champagne flutes in hand. There’s more wealth in this room than I can comprehend.

They could do so much good, instead they choose to throw it at bloodsport. 

They're eyeing the assembled riders like we're horses at auction. Which, I suppose, we are.

Team Azura is arranged on a raised platform near the back—literally on display. The owner, Dr. Bauer, stands at the front in her sharp burgundy suit, already deep in conversation with a group of potential investors. Her silver hair is swept back in a style that screams both competence and ruthlessness.

"Riders, positions," she says without looking at us.

Nice to meet you too. 

We line up. Kiera at the center, Ty and Jax flanking her. Chloe makes her way through the crowd and steps up to the opposite end of the platform so she and I the bookends.

Around the hall, other teams are arranged on their own platforms. I spot the black and gold clad Vekk Industries near the front—prime real estate for the winners, naturally. Gabriel stands at the center of their formation, posture perfect, expression carefully neutral as sponsors swarm around him.

Even from here, I can feel the difference. They look like champions. We look like charity cases.

"Smile," Kiera mutters from the corner of her mouth. "And stop slouching."

I straighten and force my face into something that hopefully resembles a smile.

The sponsors approach in waves.

The first group is interested in Kiera—her stats, her strategy, her leadership experience. They barely glance at the rest of us.

"Captain Ahearn's decision-making in last year's exhibition Games was exemplary," one sponsor says. "Third-place finish with a team that has twenty percent less funding than the other teams. Impressive resourcefulness."

"Kiera is exceptional," Dr. Bauer agrees smoothly. "This year, with proper backing, we believe first place is well within reach."

"Ambitious." The sponsor makes a note. "What's changed since last year?"

"We've invested in upgraded neural interface technology and enhanced our tactical analysis capabilities. Our strategist"—she gestures vaguely toward where Allie's sitting in the observers' section—"has developed a proprietary simulation model that give us significant predictive advantages."

I zone out as they discuss technical specifications and probability matrices. My feet hurt in these stupid shoes. The underwear they gave me keeps riding up my ass crack. And I'm acutely aware of how many people are staring at our platform, whispering behind their champagne glasses.

That’s right, you rich pricks. Keep gawking. 

The second group wants to know about Ty's scouting capabilities. How fast is Crank? What's her aerial range? Can she maintain reconnaissance for extended periods?

Ty answers in monosyllables that somehow convey both confidence and disinterest. The sponsors eat it up.

"The strong, silent type," one woman says as she runs a hand down his arm suggestively. "I like it. Very marketable."

Marketable. As if he's a product. 

Jax gets questions about flexibility and adaptability. He turns on the charm, all smiles and self-deprecating jokes.

"I'm like a multi-purpose tool," he says with an easy grin. "Not the best at any one thing, but surprisingly useful in a pinch. Plus, I make everyone else look good by comparison."

The sponsors laugh. Two of them are already pulling out their tablets to make notes.

Chloe’s charming and gracious, flirting with the men and impressing the women with her elegance.

Then they reach me.

"This is the one?" a man in an expensive suit asks. He’s squinting at me as if I'm an exotic insect pinned to a board.

"Elizabeth Reeves," Dr. Bauer confirms, her smile never faltering even as she steps slightly in front of me. Protective or possessive, I can't tell. "An unexpected addition to our roster, but one we're confident will prove valuable."

"Her coherence rating is what—sixty-eight percent?" The man checks his tablet, his lips pursing. "That's twenty points below team average. Thirty below your captain." He looks up at me, and there's nothing in his expression. No warmth, no curiosity. Just cold calculation. "Those numbers don't inspire confidence."

My mouth goes dry. I want to defend myself by explaining the progress we've made, but Kiera's warning about talking points echoes in my head.

"She's an unusual experiment, wouldn’t you say?" Dr. Bauer chuckles, but there’s an edge to it. "She’s the first rider to bond to a dragon without any prior training. I’d say her improvement curve is quite remarkable. In fact, she's achieved gains that would typically take months in a matter of days. We're documenting unprecedented bonding adaptation."

"Remarkable or irrelevant?" He turns to me directly, and I feel exposed, vulnerable, pinned in place. "What makes you think you can compete against riders who've been training their entire lives?"

I open my mouth. Close it, knowing the answer I want to give will tank Azura's funding.

I don't think I can compete. I think I'm going to die. I think this is insane and you're all insane for treating it like entertainment.

But I can't say that.

"I'm grateful for the opportunity to represent Azura," I say, the words tasting like ash. "I'm confident in my team's abilities. Every day I'm learning more about Eight B and building our partnership. It's unconventional, but we're making progress."

"That's not what I asked." The man's expression doesn't change. He's not interested in my gratitude. "I asked what makes you—a nothing piece of dirt from the Rookery—think you're qualified to compete in the Sovereign Games."

"I—" My mind goes blank. What am I supposed to say to this piece of shit? I hear Keira in my mind telling me to be polite, but I can’t in the face of his open disdain. 

Fuck it. I’m done. 

"You want to know what qualifies me?" I hear myself say, anger burning the tips of my ears. "Eight B killed three of your 'qualified' riders this year alone. I’ve certainly gotten further than their pampered asses."

The silence around us is deafening. Beside me, I feel Kiera stiffen, muttering a curse. 

I shrug. “I’m not saying I’ll win, but I’ll be damned entertaining to watch.” 

The sponsor's eyebrows lift, and the ghost of a smile touches his lips.

“Has she had her interviews yet?” 

“No,” Dr. Bauer answers, glaring at me over his head. 

“Good.” He turns to her. “Send the contract to my lawyer. Make sure she references us in the interview.” 

She blinks. “Of course. Thank you, Phillip.”

He walks away, leaving our team staring after him. 

“Elizabeth?”

I glance at Kiera. 

“Remember earlier?”

“Yeah?”

She shakes her head. “Forget everything I said.” She gestures after Phillip. “Secure us three more just like him.”

“You mean by offending rich assholes?” I give her a jaunty salute. “My pleasure, boss.”  

The next hour is more of the same as the sponsors go through the formal viewing period. My feet are throbbing in time with my heart when Dr. Bauer finally releases us from our platform.

"Mingle," she commands. "Work the room. Be visible, be charming, and for the love of god, don't insult anyone unless they’ll respond well to it."

That last part is directed at me.

"No promises," I mutter, but I'm already moving toward the bar. I need water before I pass out from dehydration.

The hall transforms as riders disperse into the crowd. What was a formal presentation becomes something more chaotic—sponsors gravitating toward their favorites, riders competing for attention. The whole thing feels less like business and more like a feeding frenzy.

A glass is already waiting on the polished surface by the time I make it across the room.

"Rough night?"

I know that voice. Low, amused, carrying the ghost of a Rookery accent that doesn't belong in this room.

Bram is behind the bar. He's in service whites — pressed shirt, black waistcoat, hair slicked back from his face in a way that looks completely wrong on him. It’s like putting a suit on a wolf. A cigarette is still tucked behind his ear. Nobody's told him to remove it, or maybe they tried and he ignored them.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss.

"Pouring drinks." He slides the water closer, his mouth curving. "It's called a job, Saint."

I sigh, shaking my head as I kick off my heels. I bend to pick them up. “And can you hold onto these for me?” 

He blinks once but takes them, tucking them away behind the bar.

I gulp the water, watching him over the rim. He moves down the bar, taking orders and making cocktails. He’s efficient, unobtrusive but with a hint of charm that puts these rich pricks at ease. He’s the kind of person some will look through without seeing. 

But his eyes are working the room constantly, cataloguing faces, estimating the value of what his fingers might pinch before the night is over. I know, because I’m doing the same. The waiter costume is just that. A costume.

He returns, swapping out my empty glass for a full one. 

I lean against the bar, wrapping my hands around the delicate crystal. "You're not really catering staff, are you?"

"Tonight I am." His gaze flicks down to my cleavage. "Nice dress, by the way."

His eyes lingered half a second too long on the neckline before snapping back to meet mine. I flush, feeling a linger warmth heating my skin. 

"It's a costume. Same as yours."

His mouth twitches. “But yours is sexier.”

My fingers tighten around the glass but I look him up and town teasingly. “You’re not to bad yourself. If you’re lucky, you might score yourself a sugar mumma.” 

“They should be so lucky.” He flips a bottle upside down, calling attention to himself as he sets about making a new cocktail. 

I frown. “I thought you were supposed to be invisible.”

“And I was doing beautifully until you turned up half-naked and barefoot.”

“I’m not half-naked.”

“No,” he says, gaze flicking down again. “That’s the problem.”

Heat flashes up my neck. “Careful, Bram. Someone might hear you.”

His eyes slide past me, scanning the room. “Nah, they’re all too busy sticking their noses up each other's ass.”

I chuckle. “That’s lucky for you.”

“Very.” He reaches for a glass, pouring the yellow liquid concoction into it. 

"Miss Reeves?"

I turn to find a woman in her fifties approaching, she’s watching me with calculating eyes. Her dress is understated but clearly expensive, her jewelry minimal but well crafted. Everything about her screams old money.

"That's me," I say, taking another sip of water.

"Veronica Ashworth." She doesn't offer her hand. "I fund emerging technologies in the athletic sector."

"Nice to meet you."

She looks me over, her gaze lingering on my bare feet. "I’ll cut to the chase. Your stats are concerning. Your background is non-existent. But you’re getting attention. Tell me—is this attitude calculated or authentic?"

I prop my hip against the bar, looking her over. "Does it matter?"

"It might." She takes a delicate sip of champagne. "I'm considering several investment opportunities this season. Azura wasn't on my list."

"But it is now?"

"That depends on you.” She places an empty glass on the bar, signaling Bram for a refill. “I'm curious whether you're a legitimate underdog story or a disaster waiting to unfold."

"She's both," Gabriel says smoothly, appearing at Veronica's elbow. "Which makes her a spectacular liability."

His black suit is the same colour as midnight, and cut so fine it appears as if it were poured onto his body. Gold thread glints at the cuffs and collar, a subtle nod to the Vekk Industries insignia on his jacket pocket. If he were wearing a tie, it’s long gone, the charcoal silk shirt now open just enough to reveal the hollow at the base of his throat. 

​​His dark hair is styled with that effortless precision that probably takes an hour and a team of professionals to achieve. Except for a single rebellious strand curling at his temple, begging to be tucked back into place.

Everything about him screams wealth and control. It makes me want to rough him up a little. 

"Vekk." Veronica acknowledges him with a slight nod. "I heard you secured full funding from George and his partners. Congratulations are in order for that coup."

"We did." Gabriel's smile is polite and completely devoid of warmth. "It seems three championships inspired their confidence." His gaze slides to me, his smile waning. “Unlike some.”

I place my glass on the bar, crossing my arms over my chest. “You got something to say, Vekk? Go on, get it off your chest before it eats you up.” 

“You’re a thief. You happened to be somewhere you had no business being, touching things you had no right to touch. And when you got caught, a convenient dragon bonding saved you from consequences." He takes a sip of champagne. "Must be nice, having that kind of luck but it’s hardly the kind of thing one wishes to endorse."

"You want to talk about crimes?" I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You’re a killer who calls murder a sport."

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. "The Games are a competition, Miss Reeves. They are our way of life. Governments rise and fall by the way the League is played.” 

"Murder with rules is still murder, Vekk. You've just got better PR than most criminals on the street."

Behind the bar, Bram is polishing the same glass he picked up three minutes ago. His expression is professionally blank, but I catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. He's enjoying this.

Gabriel catches it too. His gaze flicks to Bram — a quick, dismissive sweep — then back to me.

"Making friends with the catering staff, Reeves?" His voice drops, silky and cold. "I suppose that is more your natural habitat."

"Children," Veronica interrupts, but she sounds amused. "This has been illuminating, but I do have other riders to evaluate."

"Of course." Gabriel's professional mask slides back into place. "Forgive me. I seem to have misplaced my manners.” He gives her a curt bow. “If you have any questions about Vekk Industries' performance, my team lead would be happy to provide detailed analytics."

"I'm sure she would." Veronica turns to me. "And you, Miss Reeves? What can you offer besides entertaining verbal sparring?"

“Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “But for some reason you guys find that endearing.” 

Veronica studies us both for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

"You're crude," she says finally, looking at me. "Unrefined. Your technique is abysmal, your odds of survival are laughable, and everything about you screams 'bad investment.'"

Tell me how you really feel, lady. Geeze. 

"But," she continues, a small smile touching her lips, "you'll appeal to the unwashed masses. The people who watch the Games from their couches, betting their rent money on the outcomes. They love an underdog. They love someone who tells pretty rich boys to fuck off." She glances at Gabriel. "No offense."

"None taken," he says flatly.

"The elites will fund Vekk Industries. They always do. But the general public?" Veronica taps a finger on her chin. "There’s a certain number that will back Gabriel because he’s the champion, or because they find him attractive But it's you they’ll tune in for. One of their own, a girl from the underclass seeking to turn the entire system on its head.” She shrugs delicately. “And where viewership goes, advertising revenue follows. So yes, Miss Reeves. Consider me interested."

I blink. "Seriously?"

"Don't make me regret it." She collects another champagne glass. "I'll have my lawyers contact Dr. Bauer about sponsorship terms. I expect you to mention Eism Technologies in your interviews.” She narrows her gaze. “Make it sound like we believed in you when nobody else did."

"Do you?"

"Not even remotely." Her smile sharpens. "But that's not the story we're selling, is it?"

She walks away, leaving Gabriel and me standing at the bar.

"Congratulations," he says after a moment. "You've successfully monetized incompetence."

"Whatever gets cash in my pocket, daddy.”

His expression is cold enough to freeze fire. "You think this is a game."

"No, I think this is a blood sport masquerading as entertainment, funded by people who get off on watching us kill each other." I grab my glass. "But if they're going to throw money at me for being a bitch about it, I'll take it. My family needs it."

"Your family."

"Yeah. My family. You know—the people you care about more than yourself? Oh wait, you probably don't have those. Just investors and image consultants."

Hi gaze narrows on me. "You don't know a thing about me."

"I know you're rich, privileged, and coasting on a name you didn't earn." I take a sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. "I know that when I'm in that arena, you're going to be one of the ones trying to kill me. Forgive me if I don't care about becoming besties."

Gabriel leans in, close enough that I can see the silver flecks in his eyes, smell his expensive cologne. 

"When we’re in the arena," he says quietly, "I’ll get you under me, and you’ll be begging for mercy."

Before I can muster up a retort, he walks away.

Behind the bar, Bram sets down the glass he's been polishing. "Charming bloke," he says mildly.

"You heard all that?"

"Hard not to." He pulls a fresh champagne flute from the rack. "For what it's worth, I think you won that round."

"It's not a competition."

"Everything's a competition, Saint." He pours champagne with a practised hand, sliding it toward a passing sponsor without looking. "Some people just hide the scoreboard better than others."

I’m about to reply when Jax flops against the bar beside me, shaking his head. “Phew, I saw you talking to Gabriel and I have to ask, was that foreplay or a death threat? I couldn’t tell from across the room."

"Definitely the later," I mutter, glaring after Gabriel.

"Well, on the bright side, it looks like you secured another major sponsor. Veronica’s making a beeline for Bauer. " He grins. "If Eism signs on, Kiera's going to kiss you."

"Great." I set down the water glass before I'm tempted to throw it against the nearest wall. "Can we be done with this circus now?"

"Not even close." Jax gestures toward the room, where more sponsors are eyeing us with renewed interest. "You're officially interesting. That means you're about to become very, very popular."

"I hate this."

"I know." He pats my shoulder sympathetically. "But hey—look on the bright side."

I cock an eyebrow in question. 

“This time next week we’ll probably be dead. Might as well enjoy the free alcohol."

“Fucking hell, Jax.” I punch him in the arm. “And I thought I was morbid.”

Jax leads me not into temptation, but delivers me straight to hell.

"Interviews are this way," he says cheerfully, steering me down a corridor I've never been in before. "Try not to bite anyone."

"No promises."

He deposits me outside a door marked MEDIA SUITE, gives me a thumbs up that communicates absolutely nothing useful, and disappears back toward the showcase floor.

I stare at the door.

Right.

Nikolai bustles out to collect me before I can make a run for it. It's the first time I've been alone with him since he had me sign the contract. It feels like a lifetime ago, and I'm hit by an overwhelming pang of homesickness.

I miss you, Kai.

Dressed in a bejewelled three-piece suit that borders just this side of trashy, he adjusts the lighting, tweaks my hair, dabs something on my face and steps back to assess his work.

"You'll do." He smiles widely, gesturing for me to do the same. "Do try to look pleasant, Lizzie. We're going for sympathetic underdog, not unhinged criminal."

"What if I'm both?"

"Fake the nicer, it's better for the viewership." He gestures to someone off-camera. "She's ready."

Various journalists cycle through in thirty-minute blocks. Each one has done their research. Each one knows exactly where to strike.

The first journalist is a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a warm smile — the type they send in first to make you comfortable before the sharks arrive.

"Elizabeth Reeves," she says, settling into the chair across from me. A camera operator positions themselves behind her, red light blinking. "Thank you for sitting down with us. How are you feeling?"

"Terrified," I say honestly. "But also... grateful? It's complicated."

She laughs, and it sounds shockingly genuine. "I imagine it is. You've had quite the journey. Not too long ago, you were working in the stables. Now you're days away from competing in the Sovereign Games. That's extraordinary."

"Extraordinary is one word for it."

Insane would be another.

She leans forward. "Tell me about the moment Eight B chose you. What was going through your mind?"

"Honestly? Terror. I thought I was about to die. I thought he was going to eat me."

"Some people are saying you're exactly what the Games need. A fresh perspective. Someone who represents the people watching from home rather than the technocratic oligarchies. What would you say to that?"

I catch Nikolai's eye over her shoulder. He makes a cutting gesture across his throat.

Oh, too close to the truth?

"I don't know." I shift in my seat. "Honestly, I'm out of my depth. Being a rider is rough. It's so much tougher than I ever realised. I think I'm so busy fighting for my life out there that I can't even contemplate how I might appear to those watching."

She smiles. "That's refreshingly honest. Now, I understand you've requested no questions about your family, but I wanted to know—"

"No questions about them, please."

"Of course, I'll respect that." She adjusts her notes smoothly, not missing a beat. "Do you think you can win?"

The question catches me off guard. I almost laugh.

"Win? Absolutely not." I gesture at myself. "I'm bruised from head to foot. Can my team win? Maybe. They're good, and Kiera and Allie know how to get the best out of us. But I'm the most inexperienced person in the League by far. If I make it through to the final game, it'll be a miracle."

"Do you think it's fair you've been forced into the Games, given how inexperienced you are?"

I shrug. "In our society, power is derived from the highest expression of competitive will. It's a key foundation of our Sportocracy. The Games demand the sacrifice and skill of all who enter them. No matter how inexperienced I am, I'm still a citizen, which means I have a civic duty to represent my team to the best of my ability. It's through their selection of me, and my participation in the Games at their behest, that I can prove they are either fit to rule, or lacking."

She frowns. "But you think you're likely going to die."

I nod. "But that doesn't mean my death is needless."

"Can you explain what you mean by that?"

It means my family is taken care of.

"The Games exist to prevent war, right? If I die in the arena, it's not a random tragedy — it's part of the system that keeps billions of people safe." I meet her gaze. "My death, when it comes, serves a purpose."

"Would you say you see yourself as a soldier, and the Games as your military service?"

I shrug. "Sure, if that's how you want to explain it."

"That's..." She pauses, seeming to choose her words carefully. "You're very pragmatic for someone so young."

I snort. "I don't feel young anymore, I assure you."

She taps her finger against her notes.

"Thank you, Elizabeth. I think that's all we need."

As she leaves, Nikolai approaches, tablet in hand.

"That last bit was perfect," he says quietly, waving the next journalist into the room. "Civic duty, sacrifice, team loyalty. That's exactly the narrative we want to push. Keep rolling out those lines."

I resist the urge to kick him. "Whatever you want, Nicky."

The interviews begin to blur together. I do everything from talking about my haircare process to eating foods from countries I've never heard of while cameras capture my reactions.

It's a circus of the absurd.

One journalist spends fifteen minutes asking me to rank the other riders by attractiveness "for fun." Another wants to know what my "signature colour" is and seems genuinely distressed when I say I don't know. A third tries to get me to demonstrate my "war face" for a photo op that will be captioned with some inspirational quote I never said.

"If you could be any animal other than a dragon, what would you be and why?"

"What's your pre-battle playlist?"

"Do you have any superstitions or rituals before competing?"

"If you had to kiss one of your teammates to save their life, who would it be?"

I answer them all with varying degrees of sincerity and sarcasm, watching Nikolai's reactions to gauge whether I'm hitting the right notes. Sometimes he nods approvingly. Sometimes he winces and makes notes on his tablet.

Not a single journalist asks about policy. About whether I support Azura Ascendancy's platform. About what kind of governance I think the League needs or whether I think the system itself is broken.

It's all spectacle. All entertainment. All designed to make me into a character people can root for or against, not a citizen participating in the political process.

We're nothing more than performers in a murder show, and the audience gets to vote with views.

"Last question," a journalist with too-white teeth says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "If you survive the Games, what's the first thing you're going to do?"

If. Always if.

"Sleep for a week," I say, because it's easier than saying mourn whoever doesn't make it.

He laughs like I've told a joke. I guess living is pretty funny.

By the time the final journalist leaves, it's early evening and my face hurts from fake smiling. My brain is mush, but adrenaline still hums through my veins looking for somewhere to ground.

Nikolai appears one last time, seemingly satisfied with his day's work.

"You're trending on three platforms already. The consensus seems to be that you're likeable, and they're hoping you'll make it until at least game four." He checks his watch. "We'll release the highlight reel tomorrow morning, timed with the lockdown announcement. Should generate maximum interest."

"Great," I say flatly. "Can I go now?"

He waves his hands. "Yes, yes. Run along. Just don't do anything stupid between now and the first game."

"Like what?" I gesture at the room around us. "I'm trapped here, remember?"

"Die. Don't die. You're a delicious commodity, and I want to milk your precious little face for all it's worth."

I stare at him with the sinking suspicion he's not joking. "I'm gonna go."

He makes a dismissive gesture, answering a call. "Natalie! Just the person I've been looking for. Do we have a lock on that cereal sponsor for Harold?"

In the empty interview room, surrounded by lights and cameras and the lingering smell of too many people's ambitions, I'm confronted by an uncomfortable truth — our society values spectacle over substance.

"Dance monkey, dance," I mutter.

I'm headed to find Allie when she finds me first, appearing at the end of the corridor with her tablet clutched to her chest and the expression of someone who has been looking for a while.

"There you are." She adjusts her glasses, looking relieved. "I was worried you'd been devoured by the media machine."

"It was a close call."

She falls into step beside me. "How are you holding up?"

"My face hurts, my brain is fried, and I just spent six hours answering questions about my favourite colour instead of anything that actually matters." I rub my temples. "But I'm alive, so that's something."

"Have you eaten?"

"I don't remember."

"That's a no." She steers me toward the dining hall. "Come on. Food first, then we can figure out how to survive the rest of this nightmare."

She takes a route I haven't used before, cutting behind the main function room through a narrow service corridor. The noise of the showcase drops away. My shoes dangle from one hand, heels clicking together with each step.

"This is a faster way," Allie says. "The dining hall's just around—"

We hear the exchange before we see it. A bark of stern words that I don't catch, but can hear the anger in the tone.

We round the corner as an older man's hand connects with Gabriel's face. The sound is flat and sharp in the narrow space. Gabriel's head whips sideways with the impact.

I stop walking.

Allie freezes beside me.

For one suspended second nobody moves. Then Gabriel lifts his head slightly, and his gaze finds mine across the corridor.

We stare at each other.

His expression gives nothing. Not shame, not anger, not a flicker of surprise at being witnessed. Just that same locked-down blankness. There's a red mark climbing his cheekbone, the outline of a palm stark against his skin.

Gabriel holds my gaze for one beat longer than necessary. Then he straightens and turns slowly back to the well dressed older man.

They glare at each other a beat before Gabriel adjusts his suit jacket, and rolls back his shoulders.

"It's always a pleasure, Father."

He bows slightly, almost mockingly, and walks away in the opposite direction. Unhurried. Perfectly composed. Like being bitch slapped is nothing.

The older man watches him go, ignoring us.

Allie's hand finds my elbow and steers me firmly the other way before I've finished processing what I just saw. We move quickly, silently, until the corridor opens out near the dining hall and the noise of the world rushes back in.

We both slow.

Allie pushes her glasses up her nose. "Well," she says.

"Yeah," I say. Frowning. "Who was that?"

"Samuel Vekk, Gabriel's father."

I wince. "Yikes."

We walk in silence for another moment.

"Should we talk about that?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not going to ask questions."

"Good call."

We walk through the dining hall doors and I file it away under not my problem. As shitty as it sounds, I've got enough of my own issues to deal with before taking on anyone else's.

The dining hall is nearly empty, most riders having already eaten. I spot Jax at a corner table, waving us over with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"There she is!" he announces as we approach. "The media darling herself. I heard you absolutely charmed them."

"I answered questions and tried not to swear," I say, collapsing into a chair.

"Good enough." He slides a plate toward me — he's already assembled food, bless him. "Eat. You look like you're about to pass out."

I don't argue, just start mechanically consuming whatever's on the plate. It could be cardboard for all I taste.

"So," Jax says after a moment, his tone deliberately casual. "Gabriel's throwing a party tonight. Apparently it's tradition — the night before the Academy goes into full lockdown, everyone gets together and pretends like we're not about to try to kill each other."

I look up. "A party?"

"More like a gathering. Sponsors won't be there, at least. Just riders and trainees." He shrugs. "It's supposed to be fun. Bonding or whatever."

"Fun," I repeat flatly. "With people who are about to try to kill me."

"Not everyone wants to do that. Only like, fifty percent of them. Maybe a few more."

"How fucking reassuring." I glance at Allie, who's quietly pushing food around her plate. "You want to go?"

"Actually," she says, not meeting my eyes, "I was thinking I might go swimming instead. The pool will be empty while everyone's at Gabriel's thing."

That sounds like heaven.

"Yes," I say immediately. "God, yes. That sounds perfect. Can I come?"

Jax glances between us. "You're going to skip the social event of the decade to float in an empty pool?"

"Fuck yes."

"Women. I'll never understand you." He sighs, rising to a stand. "I'll make your excuses. Try not to drown."

"No promises."