What I wouldn’t give for a full lesson in crafting healing teas. I like my school, but they keep us pinned in place according to the hierarchy of crafting. Copper doesn’t hold health benefits like bronze and silver, so potion class gets stripped from my curriculum. More than that though, the knowledge is a coveted secret one must prove themselves to obtain, to even be able to drink. In fact, it’s an age-old belief that drinking above your metal is bad for you. And I mean bad. Deformities, chronic illness, death. The list of fearmongering goes on. It almost makes sense why everyone thinksmetals shouldn’t mix in relationships, if our own bodies can’t even handle tea. Only twenty years ago marrying someone outside of your metal class was illegal. I don’t believe for a second drinking silver will hurt me though. Just another lie perpetrated by silver-crafters so they can hoard silver for themselves.
James looks down at the mug and then to me. “Want it?” he offers suddenly.
I gape at him. Silver teas are still illegal for me to drink without a medical prescription. If anyone found out he gave this to me, a copper? Well, crafters have been convicted for less. This must be another test, just like Hort’s scale yesterday. “Of course not.”
With a sigh, James tips back the mug and downs the medicine. “I’d simply be returning the favor, right?”
My blood goes cold. He can’t know. There’s no way. And yet I’m trying to piece together his reference and only come up with the worst-case scenario. That he does know. That I’ve already blown my family’s secret. “What did you just—?”
“Farren,” Dad calls. “Let’s get going.”
I jerk to attention. For now, I’ll ignore. Ignorance and avoidance can be some of the best concealment skills. “Yes, I’m ready.”
James steps forward as if to join us and Dad pauses, realizing his mistake.
“You may want to sit this one out, James. It’s Hendrix. He broke his wing half an hour ago and it sounds bad.” Dad pauses, shifts. “Your dad will be there as well.”
Hendrix is Hort’s littermate. They look like twins, bright orange, black undertones. Hendrix can’t match Hort’s sweetness, but still, seeing a dragon like yours in pain would be difficult.
“I would like to go, si—” James stops himself. “I’d like to go.”
They have a silent standoff before finally Dad nods. “Okay then. You and Farren can fight over who has to sit in the middle seat.”
CHAPTER EIGHTWHEN YOU TRY TO SAVE THE GIRL, BUT SHE SAVES HERSELF
JAMES
Ididn’t know what Dr. Walsh meant by middle seat. Now? Now, I’m quite acquainted with the situation at hand. Dr. Walsh drives a copper-infused truck with a trailer big enough for a Sprinter hitched to the back, leaving only two real seats in the front. Driver and passenger.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t put up a fight, that Farren won and then immediately lost when Dr. Walsh remembered my cast. None of that matters. What matters is Farren and I are currently pressed together shoulder to knee.
Torture. An hour of torture lays in front of me.
We bump along the gravel road, passing the old copper sign that reads WALSHSANCTUARY. Each time my left arm jostles against Farren’s right, we both lean away another inch. So, torture and my back is going to hurt.
I need distraction and, though beautiful and serene, the fields outside my window aren’t going to cut it. I gather my courage and speak. “What is a six-one-two?”
“Ah, yes.” Dr. Walsh smiles. “First lesson of the family business. We useshorthand for our patients in case we need to discuss injuries in front of anyone. First number is how bad we think the case sounds for the dragon on a scale of one to nine. Second is how bad the client thinks it is on a scale of one to nine. And the third, what metal class of dragon. Six iron, five tin, four copper, three bronze, and two silver.”
“Oh.” But there’s something that doesn’t add up. “Why are silvers two? Shouldn’t they be one?”
Farren tenses beside me.
“It’s wishful thinking, but I’d like to believe gold-plated dragons aren’t extinct,” Dr. Walsh says. And the way he says it, so hopeful, like humanity isn’t full of evil people who wiped out an entire species of dragon. It was called the golden slaughter and still noted as the worst mistake in human history. Around eight hundred years ago, dragon hunter became a decorated occupation, and they pillaged dragon nests, particularly the valuable and enormous golden Rimbacks. Little did they know two hundred years later, crafting would be discovered and the health benefits of certain metals identified, changing humanity forever. But by that point it was too late. Too many golden dragons had been slain, too many nests emptied, and hatchlings left to die without their parents’ shed scales for sustenance. Now we can only imagine what diseases and injuries gold tea could cure.
Dr. Walsh squeezes the steering wheel. “If gold-plated dragons really are all gone then I still like to keep that one spot open. To respect the tragedies of the past so we don’t forget what caused them.”
Mrs. Walsh was right. Dr. Walsh’s tone never wavers. He’s steadfast in his calm optimism. For the next hour, all I need to do is nod as Dr. Walsh talks about his business, a rundown of all his clients. Neighbors who have fostered herds. Riders with an added reptilian family member. Inner-city clients who train, breed, or race. Sometimes all three, like my father. Or the Moores who run the auction house. Farren hops in with a detail or fact every now and then like an assistant would and even she doesn’t sound like she hates me as she volunteers information. So, I sit there trying not to touch Farren and I learn.
Outside my window the grass fades and the metalwork begins. It’s subtleat first. Iron-rich rock walls guarding houses. Tin-carved gates and street signs adorning every corner.
Then we can spot the wall. Stone now enforced with metal; the fortification surrounds the old town center of Forsen. It was erected to keep out dragons, to guard against the creatures until our ancestors discovered and cultivated their crafting abilities. Then within years, humanity turned from hunted to hunter and over the next centuries we domesticated Sprinters and other species to use for transportation, entertainment, and medicine. The wall now stands as a relic, a placeholder that designates the wooden town center from the new “metal” homes and businesses splattered across the rest of the rolling valley. “Metal” because every house is still wood or stone, only plated with whatever metal classification the family belongs to. Because how dare one decorate their home without vain self-identification.
My father’s training facility sparkles on the outer edge of town, silver-coated structures consisting of a mansion atop a hill, the dragon stalls, and then the massive man-made lake used for races. It’s where I’ve trained every day since I was twelve. It’s where I fell two weeks ago, the water used for instances like mine, to mitigate a fall. I’ve lived on this vast property my whole life and yet compared to the real coastline and the freshness of the Walsh Sanctuary, everything appears shiny and artificial.
Columns of stone fifty feet high encircle the lake, seats carved into the rock and padded with bright cushions for audiences. The air smells stilted, no sea breeze to blow away the mugginess. A dragon roars in pain in the distance, a haunting, familiar sound.
I bump Farren, not even realizing I’ve flinched.
