Page 10 of The Infirmary for Dragon Burns and Midair Mishaps

“Smells like you’ve been busy,” I called as we landed just outside the nesting shed. It had been constructed on the edge of town, at the base of the mountains, to house the domesticated dragons that belonged to the wranglers. Currently, Min and I were the only wranglers posted to Ember Ridge. Most days, the rest of the nesting shed was unoccupied, but occasionally, the odd rider passed through, housing their dragon for the evening.

“Hiya, you two!” Dalton called, dropping his pitchfork into a pile of fresh straw. The sweetness consumed me as I passed into the building. “I just finished laying the new bedding.”

Min grumbled and nabbed a mouthful of straw, rushing for her nest. She huffed the way she always did when Dalton had disturbed her precariously placed twigs. Not to mention the bits of fluff she stole from the pigeons that roosted in the rafters. She turned in a wide circle, scraping her nest back into place with her claws, just the way she liked it.

She returned for another mouthful of straw, and I gave her a pat before she rushed off, accidentally knocking loose one of her old scales. Dragons lost their scales across their lifetime, constantly shedding old or injured ones, making room for studier scales to replace them in order to maintain their fireproof armor. I tossed the scale into a pile of straw that Dalton would remove later.

“Is she ever gonna stop growling at me?” Dalton asked with a half-smile. He was tall and lanky, with a freckled nose and sandy hair that always sat slightly askew, like it had been blown back by a dragon sneeze.

“Don’t take it personally,” I said, removing my leather chestplate and hanging it on the hook by Min’s nest. “She’s a little on edge. We just had a run-in with Cyrus.”

“Ah.” Dalton clicked his tongue, shoving back the sleeves of his tunic. It was threadbare in places and patchy in others from long hours maintaining the nesting shed. “What’s the old grump complaining about now?”

“Same as always.” I divested myself of the elbow covers and knee pads, and lastly, hung up the saddlebag that contained the leather gloves Eden had given me such a hard time about. “He doesn’t want Min anywhere near his lake.”

Dalton flicked a fringe of hair out of his eyes. “And what’s he going to say when it’s not Min but the wild dragons taking a dip in his lake? He must know it’s migration season.”

“He’ll probably complain that we’re not doing enough to keep them out,” I said.

“There’s an idea,” Dalton said, smirking. “Let the wild dragons do as they please, and Cyrus and his cattle can battle it out with them.”

“I wish,” I said. I couldn’t stand the guy, but I knew leaving him to fend for himself like that wouldn’t get me any closer to a deal.

“Speaking of the migration,” Dalton said, “I heard you had some trouble out on the mountain pass this morning.”

I huffed in defeat, blowing a lock of hair out of my eyes. “I swear, every year the tourists get more foolish. Why does everyone need an up close and personal encounter with a wild dragon?”

Dalton grinned. “Something to talk about down at the pub, I suppose.”

I shook my head. Despite the posted warning signs and the briefings I gave in the town square, people were drawn to the spectacle of hundreds of dragons passing overhead. They moved in mixed herds, soaring above in varying colors, painting rainbows across the sky. It was truly a beautiful sight, but the dragons were no less cranky—sometimes downright dangerous—especially when being bothered after a long flight. Which meant I spent every migration dragging at least a dozen idiots to the infirmary.

“So, who was it?” Dalton asked. “Some kid?”

I nodded. “Some councilor’s son got it in his head to try to pet a Raze.”

Dalton’s eyes lit up, part-horror, part-awe. “You’re not serious.”

“The fool was lucky the dragon fire got him first.” Razes were deceptively small, their narrow heads shaped like a triangular point. And every single scale on their body was designed to cut. Touching one was no better than putting your hand into a barrel of knives. And their teeth were basically rows of daggers sharpened by the most experienced blacksmith.

Dalton sighed heavily. “Wish I’d seen that.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep at your training, and one day you’ll be dragging the idiots to the infirmary.”

He flopped down onto a stool. “Yeah, one day when I’m old and gray.”

“You’re eighteen,” I reminded him, glancing over to where Min was spinning in circles, preparing to settle in for a nap. “There are plenty of Razes with bad attitudes out there for you to wrangle. Trust me.”

Dalton huffed in frustration. “Says you. By the time you were my age, you’d already excelled through training.”

And now a decade later, I’d learned that wrangling wasn’t all fun and games. It was bloody and dangerous and, sometimes, deadly. But the kid yearned for the adventure of wrangling, and I didn’t want to dampen his spirits further. He’d started his wrangler training almost two years ago at the small off-shoot school where wranglers were instructed apart from the other riders at the academy.

Most dragon riders were trained to defend Cai’amar from all manner of threats. But wranglers were a special subgroup of riders, trained to de-escalate dragon conflict. Unfortunately, his progress had been halted when he’d failed to bond with his assigned dragon, a bright red Scorch. Despite their fiery appearances, Scorches were usually a gentle breed that loved spending their days lazing in the sun and burning off spurts of energy by racing, which made them perfect for young dragon riders.

That misstep had set him back almost a year as he was forced to begin the training process all over again, starting with the most mundane of chores—upkeeping the nesting shed. I felt for the kid. Really, I did.

When it came to the bonding process, I’d lucked out with Min. She’d found me.

She’d chosen me.