The Dragon Games

Soul Stone

A young man crouched over his hand, his body racked with sobs as doctors raced to the scene. My hand flew flew up, but Cassian caught my wrist before I call divine to my fingers.

"It's the first test," Cassian said, nodding at the rowboats carrying pledges across the lake. The entry to each was blocked by a knight using an iron gauntlet to hold a small, colorful gem. "They're called–"

"Soul stones," I said automatically. 

Soul stones lock in the bond between dragon and rider. Without one, the bond severs if they are apart for more than a few days. I learned that lesson the hard way. Sammy had trusted me with Rauuk's true name, and while I put off saying it in hopes of his return, Drax snuck into Rauuk's den and locked eyes with the dragon.

If only Rauuk's criteria for worthiness included not being a complete piece of –

Cassian raised a brow at me, surprised.

"I know things," I said.

"Right, well, before pledges officially enter the competition, they must hold a soul stone. Only those with sufficient amounts of divine will make it through a full sixty seconds. Seems harsh, but dragons only accept divine riders. Stomp a dream now, save a life later."

My face stiffened as I recalled Rauuk instantly rejecting Chick, bucking my old friend into its waiting jaws.

"Don't be nervous."

"I'm fine."

"Well don't be casual, either. I already paid Duke Tudor's debt to Crenshaw by giving you this opportunity. Now it's up to you to make the most of it. You won't receive any more help from me."

"Got it," I said.

"So fight hard, because there are only two kinds of people at Skydescent. Useful or dead."

"Got it–" I broke off, processing what he said. Well damn, Cassian. If I didn't get the message before, I did now.

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

I nodded, hungry for advice on the danger to come.

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

My lips thinned. "Squad Tudor?"

He clapped my back and wished me good luck. I was about to join the line closest to me when I spotted a familiar face a few rowboats away. It was Sandor Smalls, the victor from the burrow. 

I barely paid attention to the fanfare surrounding the qualifying tournament, but even I knew he was the clear favorite from the start, the first person in years that the public believed had any chance in the Blood Moon Festival. If I had to ally with anyone, I wanted it to be him, one of my own.

I got in Sandor's line, watching as one by one, pledges held the soul stone. All passed without incident, taking a seat on the rowboat with out breaking a sweat. That is until the two pledges right before me – Sandor and a girl. Judging by her second-hand shoes and wiry frame, she was another admit from the qualifying tournament.

Sandor wrapped his fingers around the soul stone in a death grip. For a few moments, nothing happened. But at ten seconds, Sandor began grimacing. The pledges already sitting in the boat elbowed each other, picking up on his strained expression. 

 At twenty seconds, Sandor's eyes watered, and the boat pledges leaned forward in anticipation and began to chant dirty thirty, dirty thirty, dirty thirty. I looked around, my brows pushing together. 

Dirty thirty? The hell did that mean?

"Knock it off," a girl in the front row of the boat snapped. When the other pledges only laughed and chanted louder, she stood up to find another boat.

"Sit down," the knight barked.

"THIRTY!" the pledges shouted.

At thirty seconds, a jagged cry ripped from Sandor's chest, and the girl was forgotten in an instant. As Sandor tightened his grip on the stone, smoke rose from his fingers, and char stunk the air. The boat pledges chanted louder. 

"Dirty thirty! Dirty thirty! Dirty thirty!" 

Belatedly, I realised they all had something in common. Clean skin, well-fed bodies, and newly tailored clothes. The winners were from Court, and the losers were from the qualifying tournaments.

But despite the taunting, Sandor held tight. 

"Hell yes, Sandor," I whispered, my eyes pinned on his trembling form. 

I couldn't cheer loudly for him without drawing unwanted attention, but I prayed he would pass the test and then bond with the strongest dragon in the arena just to spite them all. And it seemed like he really would pass, when one second away from sixty, the stone burned clean through his hand, bones and all.

He stumbled forward and hit the ground. A coin-sized hole sat in the middle of his palm, the surrounding flesh black and charred. I went stiff as a board, my face emptying of color as a doctor escorted him away. The boat pledges went back to their conversation, already bored.

The girl after Sandor didn't get a chance to fight. As soon as she touched the soul stone, gut instinct took over, and she jerked her hand back before she even realised what she was doing. 

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

"You know the rules, pledge," the knight said. "Take your leave."

"I was startled! PLEASE! It won't happen again!"

The conversation from the boat lulled, their faces wrinkling in disgust as they watched the argument. A group of knights had to drag the girl out, and from the way she kicked and screamed, you would have thought she was the one with a hole burned through her hand.

The knight cleared his throat. I turned away from the hysterical girl and took a step forward. I was worried the knight might recognise me, but when I reached for the stone, he didn't try to attack me or curse my name, so he must not have. Once I had a solid grip, the knight began counting.

I would have gripped the stone even as it burned a hole through my flesh — better than gripping the rope of my noose — but all I felt was a vague sense of boredom and the smooth texture of the stone as I waited for the sixty seconds to pass. 

The pledges did not bother chanting dirty thirty for my turn. They just carried on their chit-chat, business as usual. Afterward, I pressed my fingers against my cheek. 

Ice cold.