Prologue
Asta Ekenberg stood at the edge of the track at Horizons Raceway, waiting out the last few minutes until it was time to strap herself on to Carmine’s mountainous back and race the Silverscale Grand Prix. The racecourse– with its mountains and scrambles, its canyons and watery trenches– was aglint with magic illusions, shimmering as if they were made of burning motes of fire. The other winged dragons and their riders were assembling behind the starting line, restless with anticipation. Stretching around and above them, the lofty stands of the Horizons Raceway were packed with thousands upon thousands of spectators. The crowd rumbled with a sound like a stoked furnace.
Asta rubbed her arms to ward off the brisk night air penetrating her race suit. Was it actually the spectators making that sound? It seemed just as likely that it was coming from her. Something was on fire inside of Asta, burning her from the inside out.
This was it, she told herself. Only one more decision to make.
Whoever won this race tonight would leave this tournament rich beyond their wildest dreams. Asta had two choices: confirm the worst suspicions of everyone who had ever doubted her– Dr. Isley, her parents, Felix– or prove them all wrong. The thought of what lay ahead glowed hot in her throat, her stomach. If this race didn’t get started soon, she would be the one breathing flames, not her dragon.
Asta tried to push the thought of Felix out of her mind, but it was impossiblenotto think about him. He was, after all, the reigning Silverscale champion, and his two-story-tall face was currently beaming over the raceway from the enormous screens that encircled the white spire in the middle of the course. The Needle, as anyone who knew anything about racing called it.
On the judges’ deck, just below the screens, Asta could see tiny dark-suited figures consulting with one another and adjusting the focus on their binoculars. One level down from the judges was the VIP deck, a privileged perch from which Felix’s parents, Peter and Sofia Seraphin, and the other owners and muckety-mucks could watch the biggest race of the year.
The giant screens were not for the benefit of the occupants of the Needle’s decks. They were for the masses in the stands, whose roaring voices were at this moment preventing Asta from forming a single cohesive thought. The live feed of the race on the Needle screens was a guarantee that the fans wouldn’t miss seeing a rider get crushed to death under their dragon in high definition. Racing fans loved to have their hearts broken.
But for their hearts to break, they had to fall in love first, which was why right now those gargantuan screens were lit up with the visage of Felix Seraphin, defending champion.
The camera pulled back to show Felix in his trim race suit, light glinting off his metal knee brace. Felix held his black-and-gold helmet against his hip with a relaxed arm. His smile was broad, easy and beguiling. His dark, fine hair looked windswept, its soft waves blown back from his temples. The camera moved slowly around him in an arc, and he followed it, burnt-hazel eyes twinkling. Here was the celebrated son of a racing dynasty, claiming what was rightfully his.
Asta bristled. The Seraphins had always thought of Silverscale as their territory, their race, meant to be won by someone in their family. As far as they were concerned, the other teams were only there to keep things interesting. The man on the screen exuded the confidence of a crown prince, but he had no idea what lay ahead for him. None of them did.
The half of the screen that wasn’t taken up with Felix making bedroom eyes at the camera showed slow-motion footage of him on his dragon, Essie, as they crossed the finish line at last year’s Grand Prix final. This was followed by a montage of highlights from their racing season– that incredible leap across the chasm at the Dracodromo de Los Valles; Essie bursting through a fire hedge with Felix tucked tight behind her black neck; the two of them coming out of a river trench, shedding water and steam like freaking gods.
Underneath all this, a caption with Felix and Essie’s name and ranking unspooled in a glimmering graphic. To the right was his family’s racing shield with a many-winged seraph in the top right quadrant, one set of wings stretched above its sublime head. Statant golden dragons stood in opposite corners. An eight-pointed star filled the bottom left quadrant. The shield was crested with a jeweled crown, as if declaring the Seraphins kings over every other racing house. The arrogance of that family truly knew no bounds.
‘Asta, it’s time.’ It was Gem, Asta’s cousin and self-appointed manager, holding out her plain gold-colored helmet, which, unlike Felix’s, was free of any family shield, crest, or ornament. Gem attempted a smile, and Asta laughed ruefully at his spoiled-milk expression.
‘You look like you’re going to puke, Gem.’
‘I might.’
Asta gestured to the helmet. ‘Need a bucket? It’s watertight.’
‘Gross.’ He pushed it into her hands. ‘Come on, it’s time.’
Asta rode light. She wore no high-tech sensors, carried no electric crop. There were no gyroscopic saddles for Carmine. The dragon himself hadn’t been painted with sponsor logos because Asta had no sponsors– a fact that was painfully evident in the bareness of her pit. She couldn’t afford the seemingly infinite array of cleats, shoulder spikes, and blinders that other teams always had in stock. Carmine wore a simple leather harness, saddle, and bridle, but no muzzle. He had one set of spikes, one set of leg guards, and a blinkered hood for the wind. Heck, Asta was still wearing the same jumpsuit her mother had sewn for her out of heavy farmer’s canvas when she was eighteen. It was a present when she got into training school– a peace offering.
She wished her parents were here, cheering her on from the stands, but that ship had sailed. She had disappointed them one too many times.
She wondered if Felix’s parents would cheer for her tonight. Probably not. Their first and only priority, after all, was Felix, their champion son. She had never been anything to them but a pesky little neighbor girl who had, for a few years, weaseled her way into their lives. Before she’d ruined everything. Like she always did.
Asta jumped down from the track into the pit. The pit smelled like the pits always smelled: like dragon piss, aerogrease, and leather. Charm peddlers were at work somewhere nearby, and the incense of their overpriced ministrations wafted through the air as they blessed the riders and dragons in other pits. There were no such activities in Asta’s pit. She could neither afford enchantments, nor did she believe in them. Charms were for people who wanted to win without working for it. This was one point she and her mentor, Hummer Bruce, saw eye to eye on.
‘You don’t win by having some asshole blow smoke on a dragon,’ he liked to say before a race. ‘You win by having nothing to lose.’
Asta stood in front of Carmine, whose rust-colored scales were speckled with highlights of brighter reds and blues. The steel shoulder spikes attached to his leather harness gleamed in the lights of the raceway. He was waiting for Asta to climb into the saddle and take up the reins, now hanging loose on his neck. She looked into his silver eyes, which always seemed to see right into her heart, and took her dragon’s jowls in her hands. He pushed against her chest, and she held his head like a cellist cradling their instrument in the quiet before the curtain lifts. Finding a loose scale on his neck, she pried it off and tossed it away to the pit floor, eliciting a contented sigh from the dragon. The jets of his breath made her thighs prickle with heat.
‘You ready, buddy?’ she asked, her voice soft so that only he could hear.
Carmine rumbled like an impatient earthquake and nipped at the sleeve of her race suit.
‘Okay, okay,’ she laughed, preparing to mount. ‘Point taken.’
She pulled her helmet on, tucking her blonde braid inside. The pads around her cheeks, skull, and neck felt tight and secure. She buckled the strap under her chin and ratcheted it tight. She lowered the visor, checking the seal with her fingers. Satisfied, she wriggled her hands into her gloves. Gem strapped the Number 99 armband, a tracking chip and trigger light embedded into it, to Asta’s right arm, then he boosted Asta into the leather saddle and stretched to fasten the tethers to her belt.
‘Good luck out there, guys,’ Gem said, reaching up to squeeze Asta’s leg just below the knee.
Asta prodded Carmine’s scaly side, slick with the greasy jelly that the pit crew had coated him in to reduce drag. The dragon hesitated with his haunches still in the pit, causing the crew to duck and curse at his enormous twitching tail. He turned his snaky neck back toward Asta until his eyes were level with hers. His neck frill flared, then settled.
