EIGHT YEARS LATER
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.
Suddenly, the blare of trumpets cuts across the noise, and a knight strode into the tent, followed by a squire boy carrying a white flag. A hush spread across the stands. While dueling lasted all seven days, soul stones finished in a matter of seconds. Spectators spent more time looking for a seat than watching the competition. If you weren't paying attention, you'd miss it.
The knight faced the crowd and said, "The young and daring dream of becoming dragon riders."
The same speech was given every year. Regan could recite it word-for-word. In fact, a few people spoke with the knight, mouthing the words before he said them.
"But dragons are highly selective when it comes to picking a rider," the knight said. "They value strength, valor, honor, but above all, the Divine. To ascertain which one among you has the most Divine, competitors will touch a soul stone. If the competitor has sufficient amounts of Divine, the soul stone will feel like any other stone. If not... well... there are buckets of cool water on standby."
As the stands chuckled, the knight turned around to address the competitors. "Remember to hold your soul stone above your head. If you let go? Disqualified. If your grip slips? Disqualified. If a knight cannot see the soul stone in your grip? Disqualified. Once you are out, sit down behind your podium. Anyone who is still holding the soul stone after a full minute will be named victor."
"Who has ever lasted a full minute?" Trixie complained. "Why do they even bother including that bit?"
"And if no one reaches the full minute, victory goes to the last competition left standing." The knight thrust his hand out, and his squire boy gave him the flag. "Ready, competitors?" the knight boomed.
"Ay!" they shouted.
"Begin!" The knight swung his flag down, and the competitors grabbed their soul stones. Immediately, half the competitors dropped the soul stone, jerking their hands back before they even realized what they had done. They stared at their hands, shocked. A couple even reached for the soul stone, as if they wanted another try. The knights had to shout and clang their swords together to get them to sit down. As the seconds ticked by, a few more competitors took a seat. They shook out their hands and blew on their skin, but none looked particularly distressed. That changed at the halfway mark. The burrow had dubbed it the 'dirty thirty' because that's when the reek of burnt flesh taints the air, and competitors start dropping like flies.
And drop like flies they did. At exactly the thirty second mark, a handful of girls burst into screams. One boy fainted from the pain. Another pissed his pants. Several mothers in the stands began screaming at the child to give up – just let go, dammit! Though horrified, the stands couldn't look away. While the people surrounding them gagged and watched through the cracks in their fingers, Regan and Trixie munched on their food with unbothered, slightly bored looks on their faces.
Trixie stole a glance at Regan, a devilish smile playing over her lips. "You ought to compete next year."
Regan made a face. "Because I'd make such a stellar knight?"
"Because even if the soul stone burns you, there wouldn't be much to —"
Scowling, Regan threw an elbow into Trixie's stomach. Trixie dodged, howling with laughter.
At forty-five seconds, only two competitors remained standing. One boy and one girl at opposite ends of the ground floor. They locked eyes, staring each other down. Their arms trembled as they held the soul stone over their heads. Sweat trailed down their flushed faces. Smoke rose from the fingers. Suddenly, the boy's face spasmed in pain. His knees wobbled violently, and the stands gasped.
But just as the boy was about to let go, the girl's hand burst into flames. Her face dropped in horror. A scream ripped from her lungs, the contest forgotten in an instant. She dropped the soul stone and sprinted for the water buckets, still holding her hand above her head like a torch. The boy gasped in relief. He opened his palm, revealing a charred and burnt mess. There were slim to no odds that he would keep hand.
The knight strode through the row of podiums to grab the boy's wrist. "At fifty-three seconds, I declare you victor!"
The knight thrust the boy's arm into the air, and the crowd jumped to their feet, roaring. They thrust their fists in the air, chanting his name over and over. "Vic-tor San-dor! Vic-tor San-dor! Vic-tor San-dor!"
The boy thrust his free arm into the air, roarling alongside the crowd as if he had already entered the Blood Moon Festival and won himself a dragon. The turkey leg drooped from Regan's hand. Suddenly, it had lost its flavor.
In the past five decades, two of the burrow's victors have gone on to compete in the Blood Moon Festival. The high court told the burrow that if you win the qualifying tournament, you go to the capital, enter the blood moon festival, and become a dragon rider, growing rich and famous beyond their wildest dreams. And maybe that's what happened in other districts, but not in the burrow.
When the burrow's victors are taken to the capital, the mighty overlords pretend to give them a chance, but the game's over as soon as they see the victors' home address. The qualifying rounds exist to make the burrow think they have a shot at bettering our circumstances, so they stayed calm and obedient. Like cattle up for slaughter. And even if any of the burrow's victors were allowed to compete in the Blood Moon Festival, they'd die in seconds. To have any shot at surviving, competitors had to start training ages ago.
"The boy lost his hand for nothing," Regan said. "Actually, for worse than nothing. When he's thrown out of the capital, just like every victor that came before him, what kind of job is he supposed to get when he comes home? No one wants a miner with only one hand."
"Ay," Tixie said, nodding empathetically. "Everyone would be much better off if they accepted our lot in life."
"Well – I didn't say that. The boy's crime wasn't wanting a better life. It was the foppish way he went about it. If the system is broken, you don't win the game by following the rules."
"Who's to say that you can ever win the game? Not everyone is meant to have a better life. And when they try for more, the only thing they accomplish is getting bruised up in the process."
"You'd like to think that," Regan replied without thinking. "If change is impossible, it gives you an excuse not to try." A moment too late, she realized she had overstepped, that it was pretty damn obvious she was no longer talking about soul stones. And by the look on Trixie's face, Trixie had realized it too.
All traces of humor disappeared from Trixie's face. She narrowed her eyes, staring at Regan head-on. Then Trixie's eyes dipped to Regan's throat, as if she could see the pendant hidden behind Regan's bonnet. "Change is a dangerous gamble."
"Gambling can bring fortune," Regan pushed.
"Perhaps," Trixie snapped. "Or leave you neck-slit in a gutter."
They didn't talk much after that.