Page 35 of Tailwind

The other Mirendi dragon swooped beside us. Number thirty-four, Gordi, watched me with glowing red eye slots as he jerked the reins. His dragon shoved us towards the barrier.

Gottyk careened out of the way as I ducked out of instinct. Light exploded. My visor blacked out. My suit shook so violently that I felt it in my bones.

I let go of the reins, tucked my head down and clung on to the desperate hope that Gottyk would be okay.

CHAPTER TEN

DNF – did not finish. Finishing in last place would have been better than not finishing at all. All because the Boll brothers insisted on being thick-headed riders who didn’t know how to do a clean overtake.

My poor dragon was limping as I walked him back to Mirendi Tower. As the rush of impact had approached he’d done his best to level out, landing feet first despite the mess we were in. It had still been too fast, even for him.

So I’d dismounted and walked beside him. The other dragons still flew on the streets parallel to us, Volitant crew had let us out of bounds and pointed us in the right direction. With each step I felt the aches and pains deepen. The guilt of letting Gottyk get hurt gnawed at me the most. The closer I got to the tower the more I seethed.

The Kiestral PR manager, Martan, met us as we arrived. He was remarkably calm. I’d seen Thorne launch the clipboard out of his slender hands a few times and that wasn’t even on days he’d been in a bad mood.

‘Thorne—’

‘Don’t bother.’ I spoke through my helmet, thankful for the voice-changer Josie had installed. ‘Just get out of my way so I can get this worthless dragon back to the aviary.’

It hurt to play the role. I could pretend to be a bastard to just about anybody, but doing it to Gottyk … my stomach twisted. All I wanted was to fuss over him and check his injuries.

Martan’s knuckles whitened around his clipboard and he pushed up his wire-framed glasses on his nose, despite them not slipping down.

‘What?’ My patience was running thin even without evoking Thorne.

His eyes focused on my helmet, searching for eyes he couldn’t see through the lit eyeholes. ‘It’s your week to do the post-race press.’

I closed my eyes, forcing my shoulders down and away from tensing. A deep breath. Of course, Bach had done it last race so now it was Thorne’s turn. My turn.

‘Fine.’ I handed Gottyk’s reins over to the orange-clad Kiestral staff spilling out of the doors. ‘In and out, no messing around.’

Martan schooled a smile. ‘Of course. This way.’

He was smart to not waste any time. The cheers from the crowd signalled the end of the race. The other riders would be filtering into the press room soon and I wanted to be out before the rest descended. Luckily for me it wasn’t unheard of for riders to keep their gear on after a poor race. Breezing past journalists who asked questions about their failures was a given.

We entered Mirendi Tower, its interior much sharper than when I’d passed through without my helmet, the giant blocks of cream stone carved with draconic reliefs around the windows and doors honed by my visor. The rest was far more minimal: the pale polished marble echoed the sound of my booted feet and the taps of Martan’s much lighter footfall. Like Volitant itself, it decorated itself with legacy, but was a business to its core.

My bad mood fuelled my cynicism.

He led me through the building, past the central lift, to a large carpeted room with wide windows facing out into the streets away from the circuit. The journalists and casters were lined around the three non-windowed sides of the room. They all stared as I entered. I was the first to arrive.

I stalked behind Martan. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, my visor lens focusing on them. Maybe I was too good at pretending to be Thorne. He gestured for me to join the first journalist in the line.

My heart skipped a beat. It was George Cooke, long-time Volitant Chroma pundit and famous throughout the southern continent. He’d been working in and alongside the sport for decades, a ‘staple of dragon racing’. He’d coined that term himself, a rebrand of ‘the old guard’ of racing. Old men who didn’t like change, northerners or women.

Naturally, he and Thorne were the best of friends.

‘Thorne, after a disappointing first half of the season you seemed to take on a new lease of life last week, only for it to come literally crashing down today. Any thoughts?’

Cooke’s unnaturally white smile broadened, while the creases around his eyes persisted through whatever procedures he’d had to slow them down.

His caster held up their orb at head height, the light of an arcanite shifting inside as it cast my likeness to the thousands of receivers all over the continent. Martan hovered behind my shoulder, moving out of the way. He held his own device, audio only, for record-keeping.

‘Another year, another shit dragon.’ The pain blossoming in my side gave a believable edge to my words. Thorne liked to blame everyone but himself. Poor results were never due to him, but rather everyone around him. Deviating from that way of thinking would make headlines: veteran rider Huwin Thorne accepts his own part in a shitty race.

‘So, what’s holding you back from moving teams? Ballenir have started to prove themselves. Would you ever want to race for a home team?’

The honest answer was Thorne wasn’t good enough anymore. Ballenir had a hometown hero in Theo, a young rider with years of potential ahead of him and charismatic enough to bring in fans and sponsors. Omar was their more experienced rider and had been performing better than Thorne for years. Ballenir would be fools to kick either of them for the washed-up rider.