CHAPTER ONEWHEN YOU SAVE THE BOY YOU HATE FROM CERTAIN DEATH
FARREN
It was never my intention to be in the business of saving lives, much less responsible for the well-being of dragon riders. I much prefer treating and rescuing dragons over spotting a racing tournament. But alas, here I am, embarking on another long, grueling day on the Murphy racing tracks.
Summer has announced its arrival with a sweltering afternoon. The heat hasn’t deterred an audience though. As I dart from the dressing rooms and to my father’s evaluation station to offer a helping hand, swells of people churn in the opposite direction toward their arena seats. The fifty-foot-high stone columns encircling the placid lake are filling up fast.
Forsen isn’t known for its fashion, but on a racing day that all changes. A few thousand spectators, about half of the population, journey to the town’s outskirts to make a day of the event. Trinkets of metal in the form of hair clips, belts, and thick necklaces adorn every attendee. Bright fabrics flutter around me, the crowd matching their favorite Sprinter’s scales.
Someone bumps me hard enough to jostle my glasses. “Sorry,” I apologize on reflex, but they’re long gone. I’m just glad it’s not one of my many classmates here for the last race of the season to fawn over—I mean cheer on—the few riders who can compete at the championship level. Unless a dragon is by my side to remind people I’m that odd rural dragon sanctuary girl, I’m pretty good at anonymity. Pretending I’m normal. Pretending I’m something I’m not.
Suddenly, the crowd parts and for a moment of delighted surprise I don’t question it, surging forward. Then I see why.
James Murphy and Colm Ditters head this way. At first glance, one might assume it’s Colm who’s most popular and controls the dragon races. He’s tall, blond, and boasts a pair of piercing blue eyes. But if you look closer, everything revolves around James, all eyes on him, flattery thrown like rose petals.
James is broad and stocky, aka perfectly built for dragon racing. Your standard slab of handsome according to other girls our year, but I don’t see how he’s attractive. He’s ugly on the inside and that’s what counts. Actually, more than counts, if you ask me.
I’m not one of his fans.
And right now, I’m faltering, wanting to melt into the throng of people making way for him like he’s a king. But they’ve already seen me, and Colm Ditters nods in greeting. “Hey, Farren, your ears burning? We were just talking about you.”
No doubt an unflattering comment. In fact, I’d rather not know. But curiosity toils deep in my chest. “That’s surprising.” I glance at James. “Murphy talking, that is.”
Colm laughs and nudges his friend like I’ve said the funniest thing. Typically, James only talks to me to critique my crafting, but that’s at school. At tournaments he ignores me completely, won’t even glance my way. However, deep brown eyes fix on me now, and even with an unreadable expression, his discontent at my joke is still somehow palpable.
“We’re making bets on which one of you will win the all-around scholarship for Revers. Want in?” Colm smirks and I know the next words are only going to be worse. “If you bet on James at least you could win some money for tuition.”
Damn, that stings. It’s also nonsensical. No one would bet on me. Everyone knows I’m a copper-crafter. He’s a silver-crafter. If everyone agrees on the victor there is no bet, and moreover, no pot to earn from.
James must notice the illogical suggestion too because he says, “Someone would have to think she’d win for that to work.” A second later he flinches like he’s startled himself. “I mean—”
“We all understand what you meant.” I push past them, but then stop, spinning back. “I don’t need your money.” A wild thing to say standing among the grand opulence of Murphy wealth. Heck, any way I turn lies another facet of their fortune. Dragon stalls to my left, training facilities to my right, then his mansion over my shoulder sitting tall atop the hill, enveloped in silver. And yet, I can’t walk away without telling him that.
James’s gaze sweeps over my brown riding leather and copper breastplate, a blatant but wordless reminder that I’m a Murphy employee today. An employee who wasn’t planning on turning down the end-of-day paycheck. My pride deflates. I’m such a fool.
Finished with his silent critique, James turns and reverts back to ignoring me. Colm’s laugh echoes as my only answer. “Way to piss off one of the spotters. Better not bail out around her post or she’ll let you drown.” He ribs James. “Seriously though, how do you not care that a Revers racing scout is here? You really want the all-around scholarship more than a spot on the riding team? Sometimes I don’t understand you.”
I slow to catch James’s answer, interest clawing at me.
“It’s a good opportunity,” he says, stoic as ever.
It’s the same answer he gave me two years ago when I interrogated him myself. When I stormed up to him at school and—oh this is embarrassing—almost cried. Right when I’d confirmed the rumor of his application, I knew my chances had plummeted—like my heart does now. To win the all-around scholarship we must be proficient in all four categories of dragon education: crafting, riding, training, and medicine. But society revolves around crafting ability above all else. It’s hard not to when dragon metal and crafters’ ability to manipulate it has seeped into every part of life—housing, medicines, and even our clothing.
Once I only disliked the dragon riders, James lumped in as their leader. Now, I hate him in particular. Someone would have to think she’d win. There is self-confidence, there is arrogance, and then there is whatever awful combination James Murphy exudes.
I cut through the dirt of the training fields and the hordes of people still filing in and find my father inspecting a bronze-metaled Sprinter. One thing about summer sunshine, it sure makes a dragon’s metal glow.
“What’s the matter?” Dad asks with one look at me.
I adjust the copper breastplate as if tightening the metal around my torso can contain and hide all my insecurities. “Nothing.”
“Want to help me with check-in evaluations? I could use my best assistant.” He grins.
“I’ve told you that joke is getting old.”
His grin widens. “Best and only don’t always mean the same thing—”
“But in your case, they do,” I finish for him. My father is so sappy. And I love him so much. For the next hour the world rotates back to its usual tilt. My father, the greatest dragon veterinarian in all of Forsen, and I, his only assistant, taking care of these magnificent animals together. Old hay musk, lizard breath, and all.
Of course, there is no escaping James Murphy forever. He arrives like the rest of the riders, a Sprinter named Hort by his side.
He looks at me like he always does, as if holding in an insult. I hold in my own choice words and greet James’s dragon instead. Hort swings his crocodile eyes toward me and taps his feet in excitement like a toddler. I smile at the contrast between rider and dragon. When a thousand-pound creature is friendlier, you know you have problems. Dad and I go through the typical procedures. Measuring him and then examining his wings, his joints, his teeth. I even pull on the buckles of the saddle to make sure the leather straps are secure, but not too tight.
“He looks good, James. Like a champion. We just need to check his metal,” Dad announces.
James whistles, one high note. “Hort. Shield.” It’s always majestic watching a dragon transform. Blink and you’ll miss it quick, silver metal jets out and coats every scale, a sheath of armored protection. The once orange-scaled beast now stands before us as a wall of impenetrable metal. Nothing can pierce dragon silver, except dragon silver. And in this form, nothing could stop the dragon except a silver-crafter.
Every dragon can fortify themselves in a type of metal though. It’s Hort’s perfect obedience that’s truly novel. These two facts have never added up. James being decent enough to train such a well-behaved dragon. And Hort actually liking James. That training didn’t come with a firm hand, but a loving one. Unusual for a Sprinter placed in the races, pushed to rely on their fear.
While my dad examines Hort’s wings, I pat his neck before sliding down his side to feel each of his joints again. I have to get down on all fours to check his claws and the underside of his feet. If a scale, especially a metal scale, is growing oddly it can cause excruciating pain. This means I’m on all fours right in front of James Murphy. Normally, riders backstep and allow me room to work. Not Murphy. Never Murphy. He’s a perpetual hoverer.
I refuse to look up, willing him away. “Excuse me.”
Instead of moving, James crouches beside me. Anyone else, and I’d assume it was concern for their dragon. But this is John Murphy’s son. So, I know what this is—questioning my competence.
After hearing what he and Colm think about me and the scholarship, maybe it’s more than my competence. Maybe he truly is classist. Society constantly reminds us of crafting hierarchy. If you’re half-decent you don’t judge people for that. An iron-crafter isn’t inherently lesser than a tin, or a tin lesser than a copper. But I find silver-crafters, at the top, never fail to look down on those they deem beneath them. Colm Ditters probably only makes the friendship cut because his family is on the brink of social climbing from bronze to silver.
I know for a fact James still looks down on all of us, and me in particular. An old friend of mine, Cara Moore, overheard James once telling Colm and other riders that I was a worthless know-it-all, a copper nobody, and if anyone thought I was attractive they’d might want to get their eyes checked. So yeah, classist and a conceited jerk.
“Can I help you?” I ask, still somewhat aghast he’s on the ground with me for no reason.
“Just watching.”
I inspect Hort’s last foot. Then because his words still burn from earlier, I whisper, “Don’t think you can beat me in medical just by watching.”
“I know.”
Oh, so he knows. Can he be any more infuriating?
It’s times like this I want to ask why again. Because “good opportunity” still doesn’t make sense to me. That’s obvious. A full scholarship to one of the only universities in Toulin that specializes in dragon-related jobs, who wouldn’t consider that a good opportunity? But why go for the all-around scholarship? Why take the one thing I need and want more than anything when his parents could pay the tuition three times over and not bat an eye? Plus, James could get recruited into the racing team and earn a free ride that way. Most likely that racing scout perches in one of the viewing towers now, eager to jot down his name. Who am I kidding, they don’t even need to write anything. They probably have his offer letter ready, and we still have one last year of school.
“Why—” I start.
“Something wrong?” A hard voice slams into us. I flinch. More surprising, so does James.
Mr. John Murphy, James’s father and owner of what feels like the whole town, stands before us. He’s not exactly tall, but damn does he cast a long shadow.
“No, Hort’s good to go,” I announce while I look over to Dad to make sure the head and the wings got his approval.
“Hort’s really growing.” A hidden meaning lies in Dad’s tone and I try to decipher it. Hort is growing, but he’s three and still within the measurement limits of racing Sprinters. Height eighteen and a half hands and wingspan forty hands according to the notes I just logged. Hort likes the attention. As we stare, he raises his head higher. Cute little show-off. Probably learned that from his owner. The show-off part, not the cute part, obviously. James tenses at my father’s words though.
“If there are no issues, get going then,” Mr. Murphy’s hard voice rumbles.
James reaches for Hort’s lead, but freezes and his eyes close.
My dad tilts his head. “Your arm hurting?”
I look down at James’s arms. Dad’s right, one is stiff. James clenches his fist as if in anger. Or maybe that’s pain. “Dr. Burke should be in the medical tent,” Dad continues. “It’s not only dragons who need a checkup every now and again.”
“I’m—”
“He’s fine,” Mr. Murphy informs us. Why does it sound like a threat though? Like drop it or else.
My dad is a lot of things. Friendly, passionate, a pushover, some might say. But he always gets the hint. “Glad to hear it. Good luck, James,” Dad adds warmly, as if he enjoys the races at all.
As soon as father and son are out of earshot, Dad tugs me toward him. “Farren, watch for James and Hort out there.”
“Should we not have passed Hort? Did you sense something?” I recall the way his scales felt. Bones and joints in good condition. He produced his armor of metal seamlessly.
“It’s a gut feeling. Just … watch out for them.”
* * *
Twelve Sprinters hover above the crystal blue lake, awaiting the releasing bell. At the start every dragon wears their natural scales, and a rainbow of color glistens in the sunshine. From my vantage point I can only see the dragons’ bellies though. A certain orange dragon on the far outer edge of the group draws my attention. I shake my head and fiddle with Daphine’s reins. As an official spotter I’m supposed to watch out for everyone, not just James Murphy.
Daphine turns her slim blue head as if she can read my thoughts. And the judgy look in her eyes tells me she’s unimpressed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I huff. “I’m doing my job.”
The bell peals, the audience above me roars, and a dozen dragons bolt forward. Wings expand and beat the air, then level out to glide around the first corner. It’s there the talent separate. James is always in the leading pack, but never the leader—until the last straightaway. Damn, I even know his strategy. Dad really got into my head and now he’s all I can focus on.
I force myself to watch the other dragons. Cara’s in the back fighting to avoid confrontation. A few riders dip under the main pack to try to gain an edge. Colm’s one of them, taking the next straightway hard and fast.
A part of me yearns to fly as well, to glide alongside those twelve other racers. But the races aren’t simple entertainment. I mean, yes, they are entertainment. The flapping banners and cheers of fans filling the sold-out arena evidence enough of that. But races are also another economic ploy to acquire dragon metal. Entice dragons to be terrified so they use their metal and thus shed more. Which means some riders encourage cruelty and violence.
Barreling toward the third curve where I’m stationed, two dragons fly too close to one another and their metal emerges. A silver tail whips and bashes into the dragon behind and that Sprinter falls back with a howl. I flinch. Hopefully, not a broken jaw. Thank god dragons don’t breathe fire like the myths depict or we’d be dealing with more than shattered bones.
They are all about to enter my curve of the track and I tense. The patrol, another type of spotter who flies beneath the race, hangs back to provide a safety net to the dragon in distress. I can tell every other spotter’s focus is pulled in that direction as well. Mine too, until my father’s words tug at me to look toward James again.
That’s why I notice the wobble. When Hort falters, I jerk to attention. Wing spasm? James can fix that though. He might fall out of the leading pack, but he can ease Hort’s flying pattern and—
Before I can finish the thought, Hort drops. Right in front of me.
It’s not every day you watch the boy you hate plummet through the air on his dragon. All my emotions knot and twist as James Murphy keeps spiraling. Gleaming silver metal grows over each of Hort’s scales indicating one thing—terror.
Onlookers shout and scream. All eyes are aimed at the tournament favorite falling out of the sky for no apparent reason.
My whole body tightens. Beneath me, Daphine grunts. “Come on,” I whisper. He’ll right himself. He’ll get back control. Half my job as a spotter is knowing when to act. I shouldn’t interfere until—
James and Hort flail past my eyeline and toward the lake below. He’s not going to make it. He isn’t going to bail off Hort either. He’s going down.
I yell. Don’t even know if it’s a command or an outburst of my shock. But Daphine heeds my intention, nonetheless. She throws herself from our spotter perch and into the air. As her wings tuck into a dive, her own copper metal sprouts and encases her scales in preparation for impact. Wind lashes, sunlight scorches, but that’s nothing compared to the fear pumping through me. Too late, it shrieks. Too late.
James crashes into the water. A thrashing torrent of beating wings.
And I crash right behind.
CHAPTER TWOWHEN DECIDING YOUR FUTURE
JAMES
I remember most everything about my fall except the fifteen minutes where apparently Farren Walsh hoisted me out of the water and gave me mouth-to-mouth. I replay that fact in my mind over and over. Farren Walsh. I had to drop right at her spotter station. And I can’t remember a thing. I bury my face into my pillow. I can’t catch a break. I wasn’t sure I’d survive. Now, having been saved, I don’t think I can endure the embarrassment.
My arm aches, pulling me back to my senses and the bigger problem at hand. The race was only yesterday, but everything has changed. It’s dusk and for once my house lies quiet.
The door creaks as my mom enters. For a moment we stare at one another like strangers. The shadows hide the blaze of her red hair and the swarm of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. “Were you sleeping?”
“No, just…” I can’t tell her how much I’m trying to will myself to remember a certain fifteen minutes. “Thinking.”
“I brought tea.”
“Oh.” That’s unexpected. I’ve been brewing my own silver teas since I was thirteen. Don’t assume anyone will craft it for you, Dad always says, typically right after Mom or I hand him a mug. “Thanks.”
She passes me the full warm cup, flakes of silver dragon metal infused into the liquid in order to heal my broken arm faster. I down the medicine in one go. I’ve been forced to chug the stuff so much today my mouth tastes metallic.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I adjust the sling. “I’m okay.”
Copyright © 2026 by Dana Swift Bysani
