Page 2 of Tailwind

Despite being a keeper, not a rider, I still felt pride for my part in the iconic team. It wasn’t just about the dragons and riders; Volitant was a team sport and Kiestral had a long and storied history.

After detaching the saddle straps from the belt around my waist, I slid from Gottyk’s back. A few of the other Kiestral team staff lingered in the landing zone, prepping the crates of augments that would be used to monitor the race the next day. The brushed bronze seemed dull without its usual glow.

I pulled off my helmet, severing the connection it had to my flight-suit arcanite. It was unremarkable in every way, a boring round dome without any adornments.

My hair was plastered to my forehead from the botched cooling system, taking it from dark brown to black with sweat. I shoved it back out of my face and pulled the rest out of the collar to brush at my shoulders and cool down my neck.

Rushing, I shrugged off the flight suit – the same bright orange with a white stripe from my left shoulder to my foot. Real riders got the suit of armour to go on top too. Another reminder of what I couldn’t have.

Not that I was bitter.

As a keeper, it was my job to see to the needs of the dragons. To feed them, clean them and raise them. To make sure that they continued to be perfect racing specimens, capable of winning races in Volitant, the most revered racing series across the continents.

That was all. That was where it stopped for me. I knew keepers were valuable, but I hadn’t wanted this to be my career.

So I led Gottyk through the tunnels back to the aviary. It all looked the same – smooth cream stone walls and ceiling that blended together in one arc. Recessed lights spilled orange across the polished floor while strips of white lit them from above.

The only way I could ever tell where I was going was thanks to the giant paintings of the team’s history. The famous dragons of the past – all Kiestral orange – from the snub-nosed dragons of the Heavyweight Era to the whiptails that had dominated a whole decade of racing.

Those and, of course, the riders who had raced them to victory. My shoulders tensed as we rounded the corner to the entrance of Gottyk’s aviary. Huwin Thorne’s portrait hung next to the wide double doors, swiftly undoing the work of a relaxing hour of flying. The portrait was more than flattering – he retained the power of his youth while showing, somehow, the wisdom of age. All relative, of course – thirty-seven was only old by racing standards.

I shouldered open the doors for Gottyk and braced myself. The lingering smell of dragonbreath greeted us, like a giant match had been lit and blown out just before we arrived. The warmth of the underfloor heating filled the room, making it feel cosy despite its cavernous size. No one else was there.

I flexed my shoulders as Gottyk left my side and immediately rolled in the copper pellets heaped on the right side of the room, penned in by a low wall that marked out his sleeping stall.

‘Let me take your kit off first, buddy.’ I followed him after swiping the timer from the workbench, years of practice helping me find balance on the tiny cylinders of metal that lined the floor. ‘Or I’ll be spending all tomorrow morning shaking your bedding out of your saddle.’

He straightened up, holding the pose I’d taught him as a hatchling. One hand hovered over the first buckle as I started the timer with the other.

I unclasped the straps and hauled off the saddle. I pulled away the reins and bridle. I brushed him down with his favourite wire brush. I polished his talons. I cleaned around his double-lidded eyes. I hauled the kit back to the hooks on the wall. I swept the loose copper pellets back into his stall. I stopped the timer.

‘Five tenths of a second faster than yesterday!’ I whooped, undoing the sweeping I’d just done.

Gottyk lay down, sinking deeper into the warm metal mess. His pointed snout was buried inches deep, his eyes and pronged white horns the only remaining visible features of his head. He looked much less like a racing dragon with his feet tucked under him and his tail flicking lazily at his bedding.

I may not have wanted to be a keeper, but it wasn’t because I hated the work. Being around Gottyk, taking care of him – that wasn’t the problem. That glorious orange beast with big brown eyes and a soft heart was never the problem.

‘Lena Paldon, late again.’ It was Huwin Thorne, Gottyk’s real rider.

He was the problem.

I glanced over my shoulder. I didn’t like giving Thorne attention, but a predator I could see couldn’t ambush me. He stood in the doorway to his rider room, an offshoot of Gottyk’s aviary.

If the portrait out in the corridor was Huwin Thorne, then this was his shadow. He still had the same lithe athletic frame, but his limbs hung loose now. His light brown hair was still thick and pushed back in the style of his heyday, but it wasn’t enough to pull attention away from his gaunt face. The bags under his eyes were dark, worsened by his pale skin losing the healthy glow it once had.

Thorne’s scowl lines had also grown deeper beyond his years, his attitude clearly deteriorating along with his looks. A thirty-seven-year-old rider shouldn’t have looked this far past his prime. Whatever he’d done away from the circuit during his four-year retirement had him looking ten years older and whatever had drawn him back to the sport had made it my problem.

I left Gottyk to rest, opting to abandon the sanctuary of his stall, skirting around Thorne to draw his attention away. He was hard enough on the sweet dragon when he raced, it didn’t need to extend into downtime too.

‘You really are a sorry excuse for a keeper, aren’t you?’ He prowled over, looking more like his old self when he was stalking prey. Incredible to watch when he raced, chilling to experience in person. ‘I don’t know why they bother letting you work here. When I first saw you I thought I knew.’

His shoulder clanged against the lockers where I was collecting my belongings. The canvas of my bag went taut under my grip as he leaned in.

‘But no amount of curves can make up for a bad attitude in a woman.’ My nose wrinkled as his breath hit me. ‘Especially when they’re hidden away under a baggy jumpsuit.’

His gaze raked down my body. I locked in on the weave of the canvas fabric in my hands, suppressing the shiver itching along my spine. The moment I reacted and gave into his taunts it would only get worse. That’s how I’d ended up with so much attention to begin with.

So I kept my head down. My gut churned. He wasn’t even bigger than me. Thorne was from an era of racing when size equalled speed. Both of us were barely five feet tall and with the way I trained and the way he didn’t it would be even odds. I’d thought about it plenty of times.