The Dragon Games

Victor of Ashes

EIGHT YEARS LATER

Eevn though the heat was scalding and unforgiving in the summer months, the burrow loved summer above all other seasons. It meant the qualifying tournament for the Blood Moon Festival would begin. On the first moonshine of the summer, a fleet of carriages rolled into the burrow, carrying knights, merchants, artisans, bakers, and musicians. They'd clear out the town square, and in front of the entrance, build a sculpture of four iron dragons twisting around to form a massive archway. Apparently, other districts also had a sign reading, WHO WANTS TO BE A DRAGON RIDER? but they didn't bother with majority illiterate burrow population. At the stroke of high noon, crowds of people, young and old alike, flooded that archway, wearing makeshift costumes of dragons and famous riders. Regan and Trixie were one of the few normally dressed. They wore plain cotton dresses and bonnets that hid their neck and hair.

"Ladies!" a knight waved as they neared, shouting to be heard over the crowd. "How old are we?"

There was no entry fee to compete, only an age requirement of sixteen to eighteen years old. Of the thousands of competitors, only two would be crowned victor and receive an invitation to the capital.

"Sixteen," Regan said.

"Eighteen," Trixie said.

The knight lifted two woven baskets. One held a heap of red bracelets, and the other held a heap of purple bracelets. "What are you competing in? Dueling or soul stones?"

"Good heavens!" Trixie said, clutching her bosom. "Do we look like fighters to you? Me and this sweet, innocent darling?"

Her eyes dimming, Regan hooked her arm through Trixie's and quickened their pace.

"Your friend's not a fan of bloodshed?" the knight called after them.

"Bloodshed?" Trixie crowed over her shoulder, her eyes bright with laughter. "She couldn't hurt a fly!"

Food stands and musicians lined the entrance of the tournament. For the next week, the people of the burrow would eat like kings, going from stale bread and mystery stew to every kind of delicacy imaginable. Cakes, pies, lamb, steak. And if the competitors' screams of agony ever soured the taste, the court's band struck up another lively tune, drowning them out.

"What should we watch?" Trixie asked as they went from vendor to vendor, stocking up on as much food they could carry, and then some. Their behavior was pretty tame, compared to most. For many people, the qualifying tournament was the only time all year they could fill their belly. Many children had never had access to such sweet, flavorful food, so they spent the first hour of the tournament hurling it back. A trip to the bushes was practically a rite of passage for the children of the burrow. "The blood or the burning?"

"Eh," Regan replied. "You pick."

The girls fell silent, frowning. Most people loved the qualifying tournament. They waited all year for it on pins and needles and spent the weeks leading up to it building elaborate costumes from whatever scraps they could find. But there were always some stragglers like Regan and Trixie who only came for the food, so knights guarded the exits until all rounds for the day had finished.

Trixie lifted a hand to shadow her eyes, squinting against the sun as she surveyed their surroundings. There were two dents in the distance, one purple and the other red. "The burning is closer."

"Burning it is," Regan said.

They entered the tent and made their way through the packed stands to find a seat. The ground level was taken up by podiums lined into neat rows. A small stone was fixed to each podium by an iron chain. Competitors lined in front of each podium, but they were careful no to touch the stones. A knight stood at either end of each row, watching the competitors like hawks. While the competitors are sweating buckets, too daunted to even look at each other, the stands are chatting up a storm. Friends and families are cheering on their sons and daughters, poachers are taking beats on which will last the longest.