The Dragon Games

The Divine Test

A young man crouched over his hand, his body racked with sobs as doctors raced to the scene. Regan raised her brows at Cassian. "No unwarranted violence, huh?"

"Unwarranted," Cassian said, nodding at the rowboats. The entry to each was blocked by a knight using an iron gauntlet to hold a small, colorful gem. "They're called–"

"Soul stones," Regan said automatically.

Cassian raised a brow at her.

Regan flushed, catching herself a moment too late. "I know things," she blundered.

"Right, well, before pledges officially enter the competition, they must hold a soul stone for thirty seconds. Only those with enough Divine will not burn their hands. Seems harsh, but dragons only accept Divine riders. Burn a hand now, save a life later."

He didn't need to tell Regan. She'd never be able to snack on carrots again without thinking of Auntie's botched dragon riding attempt.

"And before you go, one last thing." Cassian caught her shoulders, the intensity in his stare locking her in place. "If you forget everything else I tell you, remember this."

She nodded, eagerly anticipating some advice for the trials to come.

"You're flying in squad Tudor," Cassian said. "The one with the red banner. House Tudor. Tu-dor. Tudor. Which squad will you pick?"

Regan's lips thinned. "Squad Tudor?"

He clapped her on the back and strode for the only unguarded boat, reserved for grads and rookies. Regan got in line, watching as one by one, pledges held the soul stone. Most passed without incident, taking a seat on the rowboat with uninjured, yet warm hands – until the two pledges right before Regan. The first boy held tight, even as smoke rose from his hand and char stunk the air. The pledges, wanting to encourage the boy, began counting down with the knight, and it seemed like he really might do it, when five seconds to thirty, the stone burned cleaned through his hand. The chanting abruptly cut off, dying out with akward winces. The second boy didn't get a chance to fight. As soon as he touched the soul stone, gut instinct took over, and he jerked his hand back before he even knew what he was doing.

"Wait," the boy sputtered. "I didn't – let me go again!"

A group of knights had to drag him out, and from the way he kicked and screamed, you would have thought he was the one that got a hole burned through his hand, bones and all.

The knight cleared his throat. Regan turned away from the screaming pledge and took a step forward. She was worried the knight might recognize her, but as she reached for the stone, he gave her a warm smile, so he definitely did not. Once she had a solid grip, he counted down. She would have gripped the stone as it burned a hole through her flesh, but she didn't feel any burning sensation as she waited for the thirty seconds to pass. Only a vague sense of boredom. Afterward, she pressed her fingers against her cheek. Ice cold.

Regan squeezed into the last available seat on the rowboat, thigh to thigh, wedged against the back wall. The other pledges were too caught up in their own conversations to pay her any notice.

"What bids are you hoping for?" a curly haired boy in the front row asked.

The boy next to him snorted. He was the sort she would rob blind on the street – a pearl dangling from one ear, care free posture, shiny blond hair that had never missed a day's wash. "If I get anything but Balthasar, what's the point?"

"Windsor's not bad."

"But it's not Balthasar, is it?"

The boy flashed a shit-eating grin. "You could get Tudor."