The Dragon Games

Ticket

rule #1: all competitors must come from honor 

Mr. X shot to his feet when I returned to his office rocking a bloody nose and torn up shoulder. I swiped my hand, and an invisible force shoved him back into his chair. Then I swiped my hand three more times, and with each window blind that snapped shut, blocking out the afternoon sun and sealing us from the outside world, Mr. X grew that much paler. 

When the room was dark as night, I folded my arms across my chest. Mr. X watched me carefully, not daring to move or speak.

"Well," I said dully, breaking the silence. "I'm not dead. Unfortunately for you."

Mr. X swallowed hard, a bead of sweat running down his face.

Yesterday, he agreed that putting on a good show, not seriously injuring anyone, and fighting five opponents at once was unreasonable, if not insane. And to his credit, he stayed true to his word. Mr. X didn't ambush me with five opponents in the fighting cage. He ambushed me with eight opponents. 

While the crowd went berserk, I made like hell for the exit – only for a serving wench to deadbolt me in. But I guess that's what I get for trusting a man who hides behind a fake name.

"You were never in any real danger," Mr. X blundered. "Their swords were blunt – you think I'd let my most popular fighter die?"

That was a load of bull, and we both knew it. Not only had I almost died, my favorite shirt was ruined, all grossed up with nose blood. "Double."

"What?"

"Fair's fair, Mr. X. I fought double the opponents, now you owe me double the payout."

"That hardly seems –"

I stepped closer, so he could see the black pooling into my eyes, eating up the whites. The ends of my hair curved upward, pricking with static electricity.

He cleared his throat. "Gold or silver?"

Once I tucked Mr.X's gold into my cloak, I headed for the city, navigating through the dense afternoon rush until I reached the row of shops bordering the slums and wealthier districts. Paper lanterns strung along the lampposts led the way, arranged in the shape of roaring dragons — one of the many decorations for this year's qualifying tournament, which had just begun today. 

You can't walk more than a block without seeing an obnoxiously large 'WHO WANTS TO BE A DRAGON RIDER?' banner or 'FLY FOR YOUR KING!'

Technically, everyone has two chances in their lifetime to win a place in the Blood Moon Festival – even low borns like me. One, pass the divine readiness assessment. Officials test every nine-year-old in the kingdom, and if they have high enough levels of divine, a carriage whisks them away to train at Court. 

But most cities go decades without a passing score, so the second chance is far more likely. At eighteen years old, win the qualifying tournament. One such hopeful knelt below the banner, clasping his hands above his head.

"Give me strength for today's tribulations," he prayed. "Let me be the victor. Let me enter the Blood Moon Festival and bring the burrow honor." 

I raised my eyebrows as I walked by, swallowing the urge to swipe my bloody hand across the banner and write fat chance instead. The boy can pray as much as he likes, but no two words are more opposed than 'burrow' and 'honor.'

I reached the apothecary a little after noon and leaned against a lamppost, sharpening one of my knives until the shopkeeper noticed me. When we locked eyes, he paused, his brows knitting together. Grinning, I pocketed the knife and jiggled a bag of coins fifty times as heavy as the gold Mr. X gave me – the grand sum of a lifetime's worth of misdeeds. 

Instantly, the shopkeeper went rigid, realising I was one of those customers. Then he sprung into action, hurrying all of his normal customers out. Only when his store was completely empty, I was invited in.

"Were you not informed to come after closing?" he grumbled as he led me through his store. An assortment of potions and elixirs crammed his shelves, their smells strong enough to make my head throb and eyes water.

"Sorry," I said, handing him my bag. "But you know how dangerous it is, going out after dark these days."

The shopkeeper stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to give me a once over. His sharp eyes clocked the details that most people missed — the faint scar below my chin, the unnatural darkness of my eyes, the bulge of a dagger against my hip. Lastly, he honed in on my cloak's collar, as if he could see what was hidden inside.

"Yes," he deadpanned. "I'm sure that terrifies you." He set my bag on a scale and then scowled at me. "This is two thousand. Enough for one ticket, not two."

"Ay. I'll pay half the fee now, and half when my friend and I reach land."

He stared me down as if the weight of his glare would force me to backtrack. When I didn't stir, he heaved a sigh. "Gods, you're paranoid." 

He fished a chain out of his shirt and used the key dangling from his necklace to unlock a small cabinet hidden behind his desk. After some rummaging, he retrieved two tickets. 

"If you're one copper short of four thousand, you're fish food. That's no joke. They won't care that you're a girl. They won't care that you're young. If you short them, they'll slit your throat and toss you to the waves."

"Sounds good to me," I said, tucking the tickets into my cloak. 

I could tell my careless tone unnerved the shopkeeper, but he knew better than to ask questions, having dealt with my sort on the daily. Tickets for the fastest ship in the kingdom – a ship famous for making people disappear – don't exactly attract the most savoury individuals. He gave a tight nod and accepted my gold quietly, putting Chick and I one step closer to getting the hell away from the raiders. 

But first, we had quota. 

Bloodydamn quota...