The Dragon Games

Bidding

As the pledges funneled through the castle halls, passing the freestanding armor of famous dragon riders, distant shouts bled through the stone walls, growing louder and louder. When they entered the mess hall, the shouts were deafening. Four tables pressed against the fifty-feet tall stone walls. Each was packed with roaring grads and rookies, jumping on the seats, beating their fists in the air. In the center of the chaos, two pledges were going at it, their swords clashing together in bright bursts of sparks. The rest of the pledges stood in line to select a weapon, watching the fight with tense shoulders and locked jaws. Some took off their jackets and stretched, shadowing sparring moves.

"The rules are simple!" A knight marched up and down the line, cutting their conversations short. "You get one match, best of two rounds, win by one! Based on your performance, the squads will decide whether or not to offer bids, then you decide which bid to accept!"

A sea of heads swiveled toward the four tables at the front of the mess hall, Regan following a beat late. Each table's banner pictured a different house, with their logo written beneath it: Balthasar conquer, Windsor outwit, Steward defend, and Tudor endure. Regan frowned at that. It was as if Tudor picked its slogan imagining failure as a pretestined conclusion.

"Remember, pledges, avoid the big M's! Murder and maiming are highly discouraged!"

Only discouraged? Perhaps Regan would feel at home, after all.

The knight abruptly turned on his heel, skewering them with a fierce glare. "And above all, what happens if no squad offers you a bid?"

Regan's stomach jolted. That was an option? If she picked Tudor, and they didn't pick her, would that mean she was done? Parlay revoked, just like that?

"I will go home at once, no if, ands, or buts!" The pledges chorused, hundreds of voices melding into one. In one sweeping move, the pledge knocked his opponent's weapon across the hall and bashed his sword against his head. The boy crumbled, splayed in the fetal position, and the victor thrusts his fists in the air and shouted, "No mercy!"

Only two banners raised for the victor. Squad Tudor and Squad Steward.

The victor made puppy eyes at the Balthasars, as if they would change their mind if he looked pathetic enough. They did not, so he slunk to the Steward table. Judging by the jewelry snuck onto the grads' and rookies' uniforms – necklaces, broaches, and earrings; basically, enough sparkly crap to fund Regan's living a thousand times over – the whole mess hall was unanimously rich, but Balthasar was on another level, the giants among giants, the seat everyone wanted but few were allowed.

Someone nudged her shoulder, and Regan realized she was at the front of the weapons line. To her dismay, rows of alien equipment lay on the table. Forget naming them, she couldn't tell which part was for holding and which did the killing. She wasn't some weapons virgin – she was a Raider for crying out loud – but Raiders specialized in attacking humans, not dragons.

"Any suggestions?" Regan asked the knight.

"Any suggestions? What is with you, pledge? Was this not covered and tested in your–" The knight set down the weapon he was cleaning and looked at Regan. His lips parted, his eyes widening on Regan's neck. Her collar had slipped, flashing a glimpse of her tattoo.

The knight's mouth pressed into a thin line, strangling the blood out of his lips. "Out of respect for the others, cover yourself up."

"Alright," Regan said, quickly refastening her buttons before he alerted the whole line of her identity.

"If you want to make a spectacle of yourself, that's your business, but you won't do it with my equipment, making me complicit with your message."

"Alright," Regan repeated, sharper this time. "Collar's up."