The Dragon Games

Divine

Suddenly, Miss Agnes turned to the stairs. The orphans ducked out of view, clapping their hands over their mouths. "Elice! Iris! Marcus!" Miss Agnes shouted. "Come down here!"

Three children sheepishly emerged from their hiding places. The official held the kitchen door open for them but didn't spare a glance their way. She stared out the window, tapping her foot, no doubt counting the seconds until she could test one of the nicer districts – a district where the children had a chance of passing the DRA. The Divine was like money. Hard to acquire unless you're born with it, and you don't live in the burrow if you had it.

Someone pinched Regan's shoulder. Regan turned around to find Angelo glaring down at her. He was the oldest orphan at fifteen, and his parents had left him a small inheritance, just enough to buy a pair of spectacles. Having your own possession was a novelty in the orphanage. The rest of them had nothing to call their own, not even the clothes on their backs, which had seen three or for previous owners before ever touching their skin.

"Why are you starin' for?" Angelo said with a sneer. He had failed his DRA six years ago and still made it everyone else's problem.

"I'm not," Regan muttered, loosening her grip from the railing.

"You don't actually think you have a chance next year, do you?"

"'Course not."

"The Divine is valuable. Your parents wouldn't have thrown you away if you had any."

"They didn't throw me away," Regan said.

"Then what happened to them? Why are you here, Regan Black?" Angelo put special emphasis on her name. He knew how the caretakers had chosen it: Regan was the street she was discovered on as a babe, and Black was the default given to all orphans, bastards, and unclaimed children. But just because she was unclaimed didn't mean she was unwanted. There were a hundred other reasons someone could lose their child.

"They didn't throw me away," Regan snapped, with an edge to her voice now.

Angelo only smirked, as if her anger proved his point.

That night, as the other orphans crawled into bed, Regan and Iris curled on their sides, facing each other. "What was it like?" Regan whispered. "Was it scary?"

Iris shook her head. "The official pulled out a book – The Complete History of Scaldril – and ripped the first page out. Then she told us to lift the paper above our heads without touching it. So Marcus started huffing and puffing. 'It moved without me touching it,' he said, 'put me in the Blood Moon Festival.' Then we all had to stand against the wall in silence while the lady glared daggers at us."

"And the whole time," Marcus muttered from the bed over. "All I did was wonder which duke she murdered to be assigned the slum rats of Skid Row."

"How were you supposed to make the book move?" Regan said.

Iris binked. "Huh?"

"I mean—" Regan stumbled over her words, flushing. She should have worked the question into the conversation better, made it look like the thought had just occurred to her. In reality, it had been eating away at her all day. "Did she give you any instructions on how to do it? I'm not asking for any particular reason. I'm just curious, is all."

Iris' lips curved. "You're dying to try it, aren't you?"

"No!"

Iris shot her a knowing glance.

"Maybe," Regan relented.

"The lady said some stuff about a third hand. To reach for the paper with our real hands, but then use our third hand to reach from a well deep inside our gut."