Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Circuit was supposed to be clean once Moordryd Paynn left. That was what the other Down City street crews consoled themselves with as they hurried along with their lives in scraps of sunlight.

“There’s been an attack?”

“Yes,” said grim-faced Connor Penn.

Penn Stables, which had sent four representatives to the Academy, shuffled into a corner in response to the call coming in. One of the older sections of the library, the books were lined up in order, titles which had fallen out of fashion with the current teaching staff, no longer on students’ reading lists. It could have been undisturbed for decades. But there were spots of gum clinging to cobwebs hidden where cleaners’ equipment couldn’t reach.

“What happened?” asked Kitt, leaning against the pillar hiding them from the tables of students studying in the common area. “Did the Shadow Booster attack?”

“No,” said Connor. “Khata struck the Dragon Flares. Pyrrah did not take it well, and she has followed by announcing war against the Inner Order. Dragon City Security doesn’t get involved in gang politics. To resolve this incident, we need the Dragon Booster.”

“But the Dragon Booster is, well.” Parmon paused. “Here. Studying.”

Artha leaned close to the screen. “Why did Khata go after the Dragon Flares, dad?”

The lines in Connor’s face grew more serious. “He says they stole the Horn of Libris.”

“The Horn of Libris is gone?” The four whispered.

It didn’t matter who said it first. They all remembered sneaking into this same library once, with the help of a man who could become invisible. There was no possible way that any of the Down City Crews had the technology to get them in and out past Dragon City Security. Only one individual had the skills and the motive.

All of them were thinking of Rivett.

“If the Inner Order and the Dragon Flares have declared war, how are the rest doing?” Artha asked, voice low. “Have they taken sides?”

“Artha, you can’t—” Kitt hissed.

“No, you definitely cannot—” Parm hushed.

“Not yet,” answered Connor, “but there is a Council meeting scheduled for tonight. I expect, with how the previous meetings have ended, that the rest of the crews will be pressured if not coerced to choose in a few hours.”

Artha nodded.

“You know we can no longer cover for you, if you sneak out,” said Parm. “You, you’re Gold, Sentrus was terrifying when you were found out during the entrance exam. A—And you saw what she did when I tried to study one of the lithographs! She took everything—my computer, my welding gear, my collection of...”

“What he’s saying is, you can’t be the Dragon Booster if you get caught out after curfew,” said Kitt. “Why, you won’t even be at the Academy!”

“Guys,” said Artha, “we won’t have an Academy left if a war breaks out between the street crews. Dad’s right, they need me. They need the Dragon Booster.”

Kitt folded her arms. Parm opened his mouth. Artha swallowed a sigh with an intake of breath, and was about to talk again when a small voice piped up:

“There is one person who can pretend Artha’s still around when he isn’t.”

Three heads turned to Lance, who had been engrossed in his video game, since it was his turn to be lookout. As Penn Stables’s representatives, they all wore the five-pointed Star on their uniform, near a coloured epaulette. Red, green, blue and gold, the Academy split them into different Houses so they could learn the fundamentals of ancient arts with others matching their primary Draconium.

Lance hit the pause button on his console and put it down. “Artha’s on rotation between the Five Primary Houses ‘cause he’s Gold, right? He just got out of mine, but we do know people in his new House.”

To solve the problem of there being only a single Gold individual, the Academy had leaned into the attribute of Gold Draconium possessing a combination of properties from all of the other colours.

Kitt froze. Parm paled. Artha felt something rising into his throat from his stomach.

Lance rose up on his toes and bapped the black ribbon velcro’d on Artha’s shoulder.

“Let’s ask Moordryd and the Dragon Eyes!”

It was just his luck that a war was about to break out among the illegal street crews while he was studying to become a Real Hero of Legend and rooming with a rival who tried to steal his dragon more times than he could count on two hands. 

He knew this because he just tried to count.

“We’re NOT friends, Lance.” Artha poked his little brother in the middle of his red head to emphasise his point.

The House of Sight, direct descendants of the Black Draconian Empire, liked their décor dark and smooth and bumpy like a draco-spider. Elaborate multi-panel tapestries with gritty depictions of the Wastelands began to appear on the walls as they neared the wing, wicked statues of dragons holding purple lamps dotted wherever one ended and the next artwork began. Three thousand years ago the Wastelands had been that, said the Head of House, gesturing grandly from beneath their cloak when Artha was first shown in.

Expansive empires, ancient temples with sweeping spires, long stone bridges spanning across the landscape to nowhere.

Artha thought he figured out the inspiration for Word Paynn’s gothic Citadel.

“Look, Lance,” Artha tried to reason, “Remember when we fought the ancient warrior? Paynn helped us for two minutes before tossing out a black mind grenade. Have you ever tried asking him for anything? I’d rather feed myself to a Hydrag.”

“Yeah, I have,” said Lance, ignoring the last part. “Is your room this way?”

“That way.” Artha sighed. “Nobody tells Moordryd Paynn what to do, Lance. And most of all, nobody asks Moordryd Paynn for a favour.”

“Oh, a favour?” Moordryd slunk out of the gap between a statue and the next tapestry, broad-shouldered in his Academy uniform—all black and adorned with scale-shaped splashes of gray. His bone-white hair, long to his shoulders, had a little curl falling off a sharp widow’s peak, and upon seeing them, his harsh pale brow twisted in sick fascination.

Speak of the wraith and it doth appear.

“Scales,” breathed Lance, who was closest, “you grew taller!”

The sinister smile splitting Moordryd’s face apart wouldn’t have looked out of place on his dragon Decepshun. “Sure did, mini brat.” He strode over to Artha, ignoring Artha’s narrowed eyes, and asked, “So, when do I get to watch a bunch of Hydrags eating stable chow?”

“No Hydrags, Artha’s gotta go out this evening!” Lance piped up. “We were hoping you could cover?”

“Me?” Moordryd turned around. “Cover for stable brat’s midnight rendezvous?”

“See, Lance, I told you—”

There was a reason Connor Penn was unafraid to let his youngest child so close to adult breeds. Artha made the mistake of glancing at his little brother and seeing puppy eyes with the power to subdue dragons.

Moordryd made a good effort before he covered his face and crumpled.

Lance’s freckles laughed at Artha. His victory smile pushed his eyes into crescents. “You were saying?”

“Thanks for not making me Hydrag chowder?”

Artha’s grimace disappeared as Moordryd shook off the last of Lance’s Infinite Puppy Eyes Paralysis with enough force of will to impress Phistus. Too casually, he turned his back away from Lance, and quirked his eyebrow. “This midnight rendezvous... just another party of yours, huh?” His fingers curled near his collar. Lance would have seen Moordryd adjusting his hair. In Artha’s eyes, Moordryd was gesturing about the Amulet. 

Slowly, Artha nodded. “...Yeah.”

Moordryd released a sardonic huff. “I got it. Well go ahead, stable brat. I’ll get Cain to cover for your disappearance tonight. But...”

Artha and Lance exchanged looks.

“But what?” said Artha.

“But don’t forget the jousting exam tomorrow.” Moordryd’s smirk couldn’t have become any bigger had he been a dragon. “I’d hate it if you’d let me win...”

Moordryd Paynn was the kind of person who never did things by halves. When he played clean, he made sure nobody did anything dirty. When he cheated, he made sure people knew that he was the reason someone was currently eating asphalt. Honesty was honesty, no matter how twisted, and Artha reluctantly respected Moordryd for that, believing in the good which Beau saw in Moordryd’s heart...

...until the day Artha realised his compassion originated from his hero complex.

That was the day he made a mistake.

Connor would say, sometimes, that Artha was like his late mother Fira. Artha had her spark, her light, and her sense of justice. In other words, she was the reason he had a hero complex, and unfortunately for Artha, he loved his mother too much to suddenly turn around and go back to loathing Moordryd Paynn.

Artha found himself thinking of this as he picked his way through the junk piled on Moordryd’s side of the dorms, shuffling as stealthily as a dragon with broken wraith gear. (Which was to say, not very.) He paid for his moment of distraction when something crunched underfoot.

Artha froze. Very carefully he turned is eyes to Moordryd and waited.

Some long seconds passed. Moordryd was still. The lights around his cot stayed off.

Just as Artha dared to think he’d made a successful escape, Moordryd said, “Going out?”

“I have to,” said Artha. “The balance of the city is at stake. Today might be the day it spills over. I have the power to prevent that and make sure there’s no Dragon-Human war.”

“The Horn of Libris, was it?” Moordryd knew! Artha gaped. “A thief who’s hidden it this long isn’t a thief that’s going to let himself be found.”

“I’ll find him,” said Artha. “Now that you’re not manipulating the Council, the Down City Crews agreed to a truce.”

“If you get back at sunrise again, you can kiss your rankings goodbye.”

“Why should it matter to you? My scores aren’t counted as part of the House of Sight’s.”

Moordryd sighed, the sound so faint that Artha thought he imagined it. 

“They pitied you when they let you into the Academy, you know that?” said Moordryd. He shucked off his blanket and reached past his pillow to a small cavern in the wall. “I pitied you in that Drag-Ball match.”

Artha hid candy bars in his bedside storage. He expected the purple and yellow markings of a black mind grenade pulled out of Moordryd’s.

“Here,” said Moordryd, steel-gray eyes glaring at Artha like he was something unpleasant. When Artha failed to move, Moordryd scowled. Artha shuffled forward before the blond lost his patience and decided it was better activated.

An action that gave away what Artha was hiding.

“I knew your form was off in today’s race,” said Moordryd.

Artha straightened, like fixing his posture would also help his limp. “It was an accident.”

“Some accident like a dragon rampage?”

“Sucks to be famous.”

“Sucks to be you.”

Artha’s grin was too obnoxious for ass o’clock. Moordryd closed his eyes with a groan. 

“I’ll say this once, stable brat,” said Moordryd. “Don’t make the Academy easy for me. If it is, I’ll never surpass myself... or my father.”

The words would cling to Artha as the Dragon Booster rode through neon streets, dauntless in the insomnia of Down City night.

“—and Dragon Booster saves the day yet again. Now to the weather...”

“Wow,” said Kitt, gazing up at the television. “He’s been busy.”

“Too busy,” said Parm, tapping away on his handheld computer. “Artha’s standings have dropped a dozen places this month. Given the quantity and complexity of the situations he’s been spotted, adding on the variables from the season, considering the travel times, and Beau’s total mag drop—”

Kitt rolled her eyes. A person got used to waiting for the local nerd to finish.

“—dividing that coefficient by the average energy expenditure, I estimate that Artha and Beau have been averaging a total of seven hours a day freerunning.”

“Seven hours?!” yelled Kitt.

“Yes... well. That’s if I consider the numbers based on historical data, but of course many factors might have—”

“Seven hours,” whispered Kitt again. “That’s insane. He has to stop.”

A certain black dragon and her rider sauntered into the conversation. “And now Penn Stables has noticed.”

“Moordryd Paynn!” exclaimed Parm.

Kitt stared at Moordryd. Her eyes narrowed as an inkling made itself evident in her brain. “Hold on, if Artha’s managing to be out so much, then you have to not only be aware of it, you’re covering for him too! This is just another plan of yours to keep Artha out of the way! Isn’t that right?”

“Would I tell you if it was?” asked Moordryd.

...Obviously not.

Moordryd smiled widely as Kitt’s face turned a shade of red. Flanking him, Cain began to chuckle atop of Coershun, causing her face to redden further until she was the same colour as her dragon.

(Privately, Moordryd knew where she coming from. Cain’s chuckles had that maddening effect on people, including him.)

Parm huffed. “Or maybe, Paynn and Artha have become friends.”

Moordryd’s good mood packed up.

But Cain was the one who took offence. “Friends?” hissed Cain. “Moordryd, becoming friends with stable brat? Why would Moordryd ever become friends with him, or you?”

“We’re leaving, Cain,” ordered Moordryd, turning Decepshun around from his saddle.

“Should’a left five minutes ago,” agreed Cain. Coershun followed.

You were laughing at them five minutes ago, idiot, thought Moordryd, with all the affection he inherited from his father. Aloud, he said, “Don’t waste your breath on these ants.”

“Ants? Excuse me?” Kitt’s voice shrilled through the filters in his helmet. “Are you forgetting who beat you in the derby? Shadow Booster isn’t in your corner any more, Paynn! We’re at the Academy!”

“Come to think of it...” pondered Parman, “Shadow Booster hasn’t appeared at all in Dragon City, ever since we started studying...”

Coershun hadn’t fully cleared the turn yet, so it was easy for Cain to swing her around and sweep her tail at the brats. Cain leered down from his perch. “Maybe he got tired of you stable brats and your nosy—”

“Cain, I said—”

Ever since that one Drag-Ball match, everyone knew that Moordryd Paynn had mellowed by some amount, though nobody knew what had caused it, nor did they dare bring it up anywhere within a drachometre.

“Hey, Paynn!” yelled Kitt through cupped hands. “How much has Artha been going out?”

“Oh, so the Penn brats want to be enlightened?” said Moordryd.

“Excuse me for ever assuming you could answer a basic question,” said Kitt.

For a moment, the slightly less of a cheating scumbag genuinely looked like he was considering how to respond.

Kitt’s hope persisted until Moordryd smirked. “You’re excused.”

He cackled all the way around the corner and then some, her furious yelling following him all the way:

“Argh! What a Paynn!”

Or maybe, Paynn and Artha have become friends.

The comment stalked Moordryd all day, scraping his scales. It haunted him throughout class and afternoon practice and then Moordryd had had enough.

“We’re not friends,” said Moordryd, slamming open a door in the stables.

Artha and Beau both looked up from a map of the Academy’s racetrack, in the middle of discussing strategy.

“Uhh, yeah? We’re not,” agreed Artha.

“Excellent,” responded Moordryd. Business complete, he walked off.

He had just finished brushing down Decepshun, about to check on her claws, when Artha’s head popped into the entrance of her stall.

“Where’d you get that idea?” asked Artha.

Moordryd could have answered any one of a dozen comebacks. Instead, with more impatience than maturity, Moordryd left the question ignored.

He heard more than saw the head of Artha’s dragon shoving itself into a miniscule gap between Artha and the doorframe. Artha yelped as he toppled, colliding with a feed bucket, and Moordryd squinted at the Dragon of Legend’s blue and red disguise until Artha hauled himself back on two feet.

“Uh, Moordryd? Hello?”

Blue and red. Of all the colours to choose from? Blue and red...

“Helllooooo? Dragon City to Moordryd? Don’t be a Paynn—”

“I am a Paynn,” snapped Moordryd.

“Yeah,” Artha agreed, his eyes alight with sarcasm and his mouth in the shape of a laugh, like they were sharing a joke or something. “You sure are.”

Somehow the pun wasn’t as funny as it used to be, now that it came from his rival’s mouth. Moordryd rolled his eyes in a performance that would have made both his father and his dragon proud—even if one couldn’t talk and the other would sooner eat his own draconium fingers than ever admit such a thing while conscious. He finished inspecting Decepshun’s coat and petted the side of her head when he went to get his tool-case. As he trimmed her claws, he tuned out the chaos of Artha messing with his dragon, letting the rhythm of the work keep him from being distracted by unrelated antics in the stables. Decepshun had raced well for him that week, and racing well meant quality time for her. She was spoiled, but that was how he liked it, and she knew.

She sniffed at his jacket. Moordryd smiled and snuck her a treat. He rubbed her snout to pleased rumbles. By the time Moordryd brushed off the dust on his Academy-issued trousers, the sky had gone dark. Many of the other students had come and left. Someone offered him a roll of bread.

It took a moment for Moordryd to find where his scowl went.

Artha Penn raised his eyebrows. “You hungry?”

There were a minimum of two things that Artha Penn wanted on the record, since he and Moordryd Paynn were most certainly Temporary Allies, not Friends.

Firstly, he grew up taking care of dragons at Penn Stables. ‘Responsibility’ was a concept drilled into him years before his baby brother knew how to walk. He knew very well that stable work was sweaty, and unglamorous, topped off by the occasional dragon dung, and today, he wasn’t keen to stick around when Beau didn’t need the maintenance. In the span of time that Moordryd gave his dragon a spa, Artha had made several trips in and out, caught up with Parm in the Green dorms, run over to Red so he could return something to Kitt, checked on Lance in Blue, and dropped by the central building in time for dinner.

The second thing was that he hadn’t brought the food for Moordryd.

But Moordryd had looked hungry, so Artha waited until the blond finished eating before he mentioned that fact.

“What?” exclaimed Moordryd.

Well... he glared at Artha a bit. Unknown to both Artha and Moordryd but evident to anybody with a pair of eyes, Artha had gotten used to Moordryd’s glares throughout the weeks of living in the House of Sight.

This glare? It wasn’t serious. Artha barely noticed.

“Well, y’see, I was gonna come eat it with Beau—” began Artha, leaning back against what he thought was the side of the stall. 

He fell straight through the doorway.

Moordryd’s laugh bounced between the walls. Artha’s felt himself grow hot in embarrassment.

Magna Draconis, what a prick. Cheating, lying, laughing at people’s mistakes... All he needed was to kick a pup to become a bigger villain.

“Fine,” muttered Artha. “Whatever... You gonna stay any longer, or should I get something else for you from the kitchens?”

“The kitchen?”

Artha had forgotten that Moordryd was clever and sharp in ways his friends were not. “The kitchen is where they cook—”

“But the dining hall is where they serve, Penn.”

“Look, is someone going to let me finish?” 

Moordryd set his jaw and his mouth snapped shut. “Fine.”

Artha’s brief triumph over his rival didn’t show on his face. Nothing much did. An uneasy quiet settled in the stables, devoid of other people at this late hour except for the two of them. He didn’t have to answer Moordryd, nor did he have to help Moordryd, and he could almost hear a voice in his head asking him why he was entertaining it in the first place.

One of his hands reached up for the black ribbon on his epaulette. He knew why he was here. He owed Moordryd for not exposing him for all the times he’d snuck out of the Academy after curfew.

It looked like Moordryd was thinking through something when he packed his things. Artha didn’t interrupt.

Moordryd said, “Show me where the kitchens are, dragon boo-boo.”

“Way to be nice,” said Artha.

“I don’t need nice.”

“You sure? The dining hall’s virtually closed now. ‘Nice’ might be what gets you a meal tonight.”

“Always have to play the hero, huh?”

Inside the shadows, waiting in case the confrontation would turn violent, Beau watched the two humans leaving the stables, bickering together. He chuckled as he sauntered back to his stall. A stream of Mag energy was sent to the panel, tuned to be close to Artha’s. The light on the door turned green and Beau let himself in.

No human would be able to tell.

Cain’s caginess came to a head one evening after dinner. Called by his former lieutenant, Moordryd went with Cain past doors and hallways, down steps, and around a bend.

Cain said, “You’re spending a lot of time with him, Moordryd.”

A tasteless comment, just like Academy food on weekdays. Moordryd, expecting this long-overdue private conversation, thought it was at least a relief that the location wasn’t dreadful. The corridor they’d stopped in was one which circled around the Academy’s outer ring, with small windows to the outside world, a preview every dozen feet to the industrial supports holding up Dragon City. The view was hardly worth the walk, clouds and foggy darkness, but if he squinted, he might have imagined rough shapes and edges breaking through the nothingness; Squire’s End.

“There’s nothing between us,” Moordryd told his friend—his only friend.

Cain shook his head. “You’re lying, Moordryd. I mean, I don’t want to share, but it’s not like I could ever stop you if you did—”

A dragon’s warning snarl came out of Moordryd’s gullet. Hadn’t he just finished making sure he and Artha Penn harboured zero notions of friendship?

Cain, who knew Moordryd better than anyone else knew Moordryd, must have understood that Moordryd’s stance on that subject was final. They were Not Friends.

A novel’s worth of conflict played out on Cain’s face.

Finally, Cain changed the subject. “I’ve been hearing about the Dragon Booster being all active again.” He leaned towards Moordryd in the way he did whenever he had an idea. “Say, do you think it’s time for the Shadow Booster to come back? Remind people about how powerful he is—”

“No!” Moordryd swallowed. “No, Cain.” Gathering all his limited patience, Moordryd grimaced from the mental exertion needed to line up the pieces for Cain’s little brain. “I told you about—about the voice which taught me how to use the ancient Mag techniques before I got to the Academy?”

“The one that s-spoke to you, t-through your amulet?”

“Yes. The one that spoke to me and told me to sacrifice you so I could win a race.” Moordryd eyed Cain’s sudden bout of nerves and waited for him to stop shivering. Politely. Or about as polite as he could get as a Paynn. “I’m not... I’m not going to use that thing’s power until I master the ancient techniques taught to us here—by the House of Sight.”

Cain fell silent.

“Moordryd,” said Cain, very slowly.

Cain’s talkativeness was obnoxious at best, but Moordryd decided it was worse when Cain was quiet.

“You know... how you’re spending a lot of time with, uhh.” Cain gulped. “With him, lately?”

Moordryd raised an eyebrow. Cain squeaked.

“Not that, that’s a problem, well, maybe, kind of...”

“Spit it out,” Moordryd growled.

Cain gulped.

“It’s not me, Moordryd. I heard it from dad. A— ‘A Paynn’s company is the most valuable resource on the planet,’ that stuff.”

There passed a beat.

“... Your father knows.”

“Penn Stables?” Word Paynn snapped, almost as soon as the comm-link opened. “Connor’s brat, from Penn Stables?”

His coat fluttered in his rage. Any more snapping and he would have been an orange drag-box dragon.

Moordryd regretted that comparison as soon as it came to mind. Word, while terrible at being a father, made up for it with his ability to read Moordryd when it was inconvenient.

Being noticed in Artha Penn’s company certainly counted as inconvenient.

“Connor’s brat!” Word shrieked again, as if it meant anything.

Moordryd decided the conversation couldn’t get any worse and asked, “What about Connor Penn is such a big deal, anyway?”

“Connor Penn is an old enemy of mine, Moordryd. If you are even one inch of my son, you would understand the likes of him cannot be trusted. They would sooner mock you the minute something does not align with their ways of doing than accept any alternate possibilities which you might offer to them.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Moordryd, who just wanted the call to be over so he could return to becoming the best racer at Dragon Academy. “I understand very well, father.”

The sentiment appeased Word for but a moment. Word stilled, taking a shallow breath. Enough for the tiny pinch in his brow to smooth over. Nowhere near enough for the disappointed scowl to disappear.

Word steepled his long fingers together and looked directly into the camera.

“It is time you knew how I left the Dragon Priesthood,” he said.

Moordryd’s interest piqued, Word told him. He heard from his father about being an acolyte alongside Connor—unusual in itself, as the Rules stated that only one child was to be brought in at one time, but the Dragon Priests had found two with potential, and voted that it would be unfair for one to be chosen above the other. Together, Word and Connor studied together, trained together, learned the ancient ways, almost... friends.

All until Word was betrayed by Connor.

“How could he understand?” said Word. “‘Torture’, he called it. I was simply applying the ancient techniques with our modern machines, trying to bring back the Dragon of Legend! And yet he was so enamoured with the ancient codes that he did not care that we lived and slept in temples crumbling around our ears. One of the elders passed away, taking with her an oral history that could have been digitised. Should have been! He was content, Moordryd. Content to stay mired in a world which needed saving.”

Word paused. “I thought he did not understand. Until he bred the Dragon of Legend himself.”

In the distance, the walls trembled with a roar. The Academy’s curfew bell. Moordryd barely noticed, transfixed by his father’s words. Storytelling had always been a skill where Word Paynn excelled. The skill he’d learned from the Dragon Priesthood helped him create his empire in technology and inventions and machines and mesmerised Moordryd ever since childhood; some of Moordryd’s most cherished memories were of Zulay wheedling his father into reading Moordryd a bedtime story.

“He is dangerous, Moordryd,” said Word. “He’s fooled everyone with his friendship. His wife. His son. And... myself. To think I believed him when he told me he didn’t intend for me to be banished from the Priesthood! And the fool believes that twelve years studying the ancient ways can give him the authority to speak on behalf of a legacy three thousand years in construction.

“You must not trust them.”

With a sneer, Moordryd forced himself to ignore the anger that rose whenever his father lectured him, biting out, “It’s not like I chose to be around the Penn brat. He was tossed into my dorms. Besides, you’re the one who told me to keep my enemies closer than my friends.”

Word’s momentum drew to a stop. “You know... that I have been trying to protect you.”

Moordryd suppressed an eye-roll. “Yes, father.”

“So? Have I not protected you? Raised you? And what do you do now, prance around with Artha Penn behind my back?”

Moordryd’s lips curled. Prancing? He was not prancing. He was a Paynn.

Word moved closer to the screen until Moordryd could not look away. “You are soft, my son. Be careful you do not care.”

In the false dusk that permeated the space between Work Town and Mid City, a dense sea of clouds was pierced by an ethereal scream. As one of the last to play the Horn of Libris, Moordryd recognised well that sound. Even now, his fingers tightened, reflex against an urge to cover his ears.

A thundering crash heralded the trembling of everything in existence. Then a screeching, booming roar, a noise which sheared centuries of human development down into basic instincts of fight or flight.

The Horn had summoned its namesake. The giant dragon Libris blew through one of the Academy’s lower decks, a barrage of bone and dust, people and dragons flying powerlessly in the face of millennia-old power.

Moordryd, looking down at the chaos through a window with the zoom function on his bi-noc’s, would have missed the slim, long-legged man in the cloak if he had not been used to Dragon Eyes sneaking up in his periphery.

“Fancy seeing you here, Paynn,” said the stranger in the hallway to the House of Sight.

Moordryd recognised the man who wore a dark riding suit adorned with a dragon skull on its chest. But following Libris’s appearance, Moordryd needed a moment to call upon his memory of the stranger.

Then he recalled it.

“You,” said Moordryd, eyes narrowed, “I remember you. You gave me that gear that failed at the last minute!” Grey and skeletal, the Grey Power Assist Gear had given him and Decepshun the most wondrous rush mere moments before becoming his single most mortifying failure of draconium energy management. “You owe me a race!” And several nights’ sleep, he thought, shuddering mentally from the ghost of nightmares repressed.

“Word of advice,” the Mechanist held up his hand, a sly smile stretching up on one side of his face, “Don’t count your dragons before they’ve hatched. Why, if you’d given me what I’d asked, we could have been friends.” He tilted his head and eyed the corridor. “We could still be friends.”

As Rivett walked to the wall, Moordryd stored his bi-noc’s.

“All this history,” Rivett continued. “These tapestries must have been commissioned five hundred years ago when the Academy was rebuilt. The Black Draconium Empire truly had the most magnificent culture when it came to honouring the past in the present. What a glorious House. A real... culture of stories. We never had any of this artwork in the Gray Empire’s dorms.”

Moordryd’s hand hovered over where he kept his whip. His fingers went cold when he discovered the pocket was empty.

Rivett turned back to Moordryd, who hurriedly dropped his arms. The Mechanist walked over to the window, turning one wiry shoulder to look over the square. “Well, we might not agree on the gear. But either way, I think you owe me a favour.”

“A favour? To you?”

“Who else, after helping you cure your father?”

Rivett glanced over his side, his creepy smile scraping Moordryd’s scales.

“You’re not a hero, Paynn,” said Rivett. “You know why I gave you the gear. Grey draconium takes what exists and amplifies it. So, I hear you ask, why haven’t the Mechanists ruled the world if we can ally ourselves with whoever has the most power? Simple. We make a choice to give power to those who need it most. Those who’ve known what it’s like to have lost everything at once. People like yourself.”

“You...” Moordryd began.

“Yes, yes, I know about Mummy and Daddy. I know how she was accidentally killed testing his equipment, and how he nearly killed himself trying to sabotage your rival. For you. And you set up Artha Penn and the others so they would be caught trying to steal knowledge from the Academy, to eliminate him as a competitor and have Daddy’s eternal gratitude for saving his life. A very drac plan, by the way. Very unlike you.

“To be honest, I was hoping to come across Penn today... but you’ll make a decent substitute.”

“What, I’m too... powerless?” Moordryd snarled through bared teeth. “Anything the stable brat can do, I can do.”

It felt like Rivett had been expecting Moordryd’s response. Rivett said, without pause, “Then get me the Keys.”

“The Keys?” Moordryd repeated.

Rivett peeled himself away from the window and began pacing down the long, dark hallway. “The Grey dragons have been corrupted. Cursed. Altered. They are not what they once were, thousands of years ago. I wish to give them back their power. But I can’t get the Keys myself. I must have the help of someone who has learned the ancient teachings of the House of Sight.”

Power, heard Moordryd. Aloud, he remarked, “Say I was to help...”

“Yes, Paynn. All the power of the Grey dragons could be yours to command.” The Mechanist held out one hand.

Before Moordryd could think it through, let alone accept Rivett’s offer, a figure stepped into the hallway, saying, “Sorry, but you’re not going anywhere.”

Moordryd turned around and saw, wearing a riding helmet atop a white and grey racing jacket…

Artha Penn.

The day was going well for Artha, all things considered. It had been an eternity since he had a weekend without remedial homework, and he celebrated by going to the other dorms to visit his family and his friends. Parm had been excited, telling Artha about how he’d managed to solve a crapton of complex nerd problems to shrink a bi-noc’s heat vision components. Long story short, Parm had ended up with a device small enough to fit into the heads-up system of a racing helmet, which would allow racers to see through Black Shadow Gear, which meant cheating by wraith dragons would be virtually impossible once it was rolled out on a wider scale, though it was still something which needed further testing before he was confident to file it as a proper patent. Artha handed over his helmet—what else were friends for?—and resumed his save file on a video game everyone else had already finished playing twice.

Artha visited Kitt, and she chatted his ear off about their baton race tomorrow.

The day was normal. Nice. Artha was on his way to visit Lance, resolutely not thinking about how his baby brother might be learning ancient techniques designed for students beyond his current age.

Then history’s most ancient pain-in-the-ass returned to town.

The massive, Elite Grey bone dragon Libris appeared outside the Academy just as Artha was crossing a footbridge above the stables. Artha didn’t think twice. He turned around a corner with the intention of transforming…

And walked right into Captain Faire and a gallery of Dragon City Security officers.

The well-meaning leader of the guard arranged a guided escort for Artha until he was deemed positively safe at the House of Sight.

Practically an expert at sneaking around the dorms by now, Artha was on his way out.

“Artha Penn! My good friend!” Rivett sounded delighted. “I thought I would see you.”

“Funny about how that works,” said Artha. “Libris shows up? I thought I’d see you too.”

Maybe luck was going his way for once, the same way Captain Faire’s escort had agreed to hand him off to the Academy’s top cadet and current leader of the Dragon Wind Crew, Chute. He’d updated her with what the Dragon Booster gathered, she’d told him about the situation and the Academy’s defenses, and he’d developed enough experience to feel like—if she said he could leave her to restrain a rampaging Grey bone dragon with Kitt’s help and Parm’s expertise—

Everything would turn out alright.

In the bone white corridor, monochromatic Rivett and dark-uniformed Moordryd turned their full attention to Artha. Artha handled this situation the way he handled any situation under the spotlight: he played it as cool as a Nautilus-class dragon.

“Looks like we know who the new owner of the stolen Horn of Libris is, huh?” said Artha.

Never one to be upstaged, Rivett flicked open his empty hands, then reached under his cape to pull out a silver instrument.

Rivett waved the Horn, beckoning. “I beg to differ on who stole the Horn first, Artha Penn. I am hungry for vengeance.”

“You mean you can’t stomach your hurt pride?” said Artha.

“The Grey dragons deserve far more than what they have left.”

“And I’m here to make you leave these schemes behind, once and for all.”

Moordryd took a step forwards. Rivett blinked once, curious, taking in the proximity of the two before him. His eyes narrowed in instant recognition of danger presented by two opponents who were no longer mortal enemies.

Rivett started tapping against the Grey draconium controller strapped to his wrist.

“Moordryd!” Artha threw the item he’d collected from their dorms. “Catch!”

The Black Mag Cable flew through the air. Moordryd closed the gap and caught it, giving Artha an unimpressed look after recognising it was the one hidden in his bedside stash.

Artha stepped in and shrugged. His step had closed off Rivett’s escape route. Rivett stiffened.

Artha pressed the button on a moulded grip.

The last thing Artha and Moordryd saw before Rivett vanished was a suspicious twist of the Mechanist’s lips.

“That’s not your jakk-stick,” came the comment from an invisible Rivett.

Instead of words, Artha answered with action. The tip of his telescopic staff finished extending to full length, turned in a half-twist, locked into position. Pressing a second button, the bird-shaped head lit up as it scanned for the Shadow Gear that hid Rivett from view. It hummed once the internal receivers caught Rivett’s cloaking frequencies like the antenna of a radio. Hidden transmitters attuned then released a counter-wavelength, jamming the Mechanist into the visible spectrum.

Rivett was caught with his sleeves pushed up. His controller was glowing white. He hopped away in a single leap, pressing buttons furiously, sweating when the humming from the jakk-stick grew louder, like a generator. His cloak caught briefly on the horns of a dragon statue. His figure began to flicker in and out of existence like a bad television signal.

Before studying in the House of Sight, Artha would have needed someone else to tell him what was happening: that Rivett was trying to use his Grey Draconium to enhance his Black Shadow Gear. Unfortunately for Rivett, Artha’s jakk-stick was pure Light Green Disruption-Class Deactivation Gear, crafted by a Keeper and gifted to the Dragon Booster.

The two Academy students saw the Mechanist moving towards the window.

“He’s going to get more power from Libris!” yelled Artha.

“I don’t think so,” Moordryd doled.

In a flick of his wrist, the Black Mag Cable unfolded, shooting towards the targeted draconium source. The five metal plates of its Black Draconium claw snapped open, and all Rivett saw was the mouth of a viper for a single split-second. The Black Mag Cable wound around the Mechanist, who had run into Moordryd’s path unknowingly, and Moordryd laughed. Stolen energy pulsed down the cable and into Moordryd’s store.

“Keep him down!” someone yelled. Suddenly there were people. Robed figures in long, segmented cloaks and demonic dragons’ hoods fanned out inside the corridor. These were the Agents, the figures which enforced the Academy’s rules and dealt justice as ruled by the Academy’s time-honoured traditions. Artha tried to count and counted seven. Four of them were followed by low, serpentine Hounds, hissing and growling.

Artha swallowed.

One of the masked Agents stepped forwards.

“You’ve learned nothing here, Rivett,” said the Agent; a distorted, female voice. Artha recognised the filtering system in the mask as being similar to Mortis’s. But he also felt that voice itself was somehow familiar.

Rivett must have recognised the Agent, too. “Ha!” he barked, “Didn’t think you still worked for them, Chute!”

“Not since you dropped out,” the Agent answered—and only Artha saw her flick one of her arms in a greeting gesture, confirming her identity to him. “I’m here to give my friends a hand. Let’s go, Penn!”

“Right!” returned Artha.

He followed her guidance, continued coordinating with Moordryd with the aim of minimising Rivett’s options against the Agents. What could cancel could also enhance. Artha didn’t know at the time that his Gold draconium was amplifying the effects of his Disruption Gear, using it to add power to his gear and Moordryd’s. His Gold Draconium Resonance, and the neutral combination of Black and Light Green, was theory that Artha would learn later in a different House.

Rivett was restrained by the Agents and their Hounds. As he was being removed, he gasped, “What… Penn and Paynn… working together?”

Artha tutted. “Uh-uh-uh, didn’t you say? Some things aren’t black or white—they’re shades of grey.”

Moordryd groaned and slapped his palm over his face.

It was against Academy rules for students to keep gear in their dorms; Moordryd had put his Black Mag Cable away.

When an Agent broke away from the group, stopping in front of Artha, Moordryd took the opening provided to him and hightailed it.

The Agent removed her helmet.

Chute grinned. “Good work back there,” she said. “How’d you find him?”

“Parm’s latest invention,” replied Artha, removing his helmet. “His latest project was to design a wearable, hands-free heat view filter.”

“Which would make visual cloaking something of the past,” remarked Chute. “He’s going to make a name for himself.”

Before Artha could mention that recruiters from two of Dragon City’s racing super-companies had already asked to meet his friend, his comm-link buzzed. He activated it, and Parm’s face filled the screen.

“Artha, it’s been… it’s been a success!” Parm turned the camera around until Artha could see what he was seeing. The massive grey bone dragon Libris was restrained under cables glowing every colour of draconium, a cosmic rainbow of effect like nothing Artha had ever imagined. “This is—well. It appears the Academy, when it was rebuilt, had added to it an ancient safeguard against Grey dragons, because the Dragon Priests distrusted the selfish motivations of the Mechanists! It did take some time to charge, but oh my! Once it activated, the draconium output is incredible! Practically, essentially, it’s mathematically the equivalent of twelve Beau’s all at once—”

Parman noticed Artha wasn’t alone and snapped shut his mouth.

“Great,” said Artha. “That’s great. Let’s talk later.”

“Okay. Bye, Artha!”

“I’ve been wondering,” said Chute. Artha froze—until he realised she was indicating the jakk-stick. “That’s Keeper’s gear. Isn’t it? I’d love to know how you got your hands on that.”

“Oh, well.” Artha grinned. “I know some people.”

The last masked Agent in the corridor, who had been conducting a final inspection of some sort, finally left. Artha looked back to Chute and raised his eyebrows.

Chute grinned back, popping her helmet back onto her head. “How ‘bout we agree not to ask each other any questions until the next storm that blows by?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“The Keys have been secured once again,” said Connor, hours after leaving the Academy, one of his rare appearances as an official garbed in Priesthood gear.

In his dorm room, uniformed from the waist down, Artha stretched his arms before releasing his undershirt from his belt. Maximum comfort. Perfect.

“What are the Keys, dad?” Artha asked.

“They’re powerful, ancient artefacts, invented by the Black Draconium Empire, thousands and thousands of years ago. I’m afraid I cannot share the details on a call, and it’s still too early for you to know. Once you have graduated, I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Artha, currently too tired to consider cramming more information into his brain. “Weird.”

“What is?”

“If they’re so powerful, I would have heard of them.” Artha leaned forwards, mindful of his jacket hanging next to him, and started removing one of his boots. “And why the Black Empire? Some colours of draconium are more common as secondary or tertiary influences in humans, right?”

“You’ve been studying,” remarked Connor. “Absolutely. The properties of draconium colours are indeed relevant. I’m sure you’ve come to realise through your experiences that Grey Draconium acts like no other colour. To simplify Dragon City history, Grey dragons were sealed away due to their power being so different.”

Artha ran his free hand through his hair. “That’s…”

“Something you should begin to be aware of as part of your duties, should you continue to be the Dragon Booster,” finished Connor. “And I think you’ll learn that you’ll find friends in the strangest places during life.”

“Grey-t.”

Artha heard footsteps and hurriedly hung up. Moordryd emerged, long hair damp, wearing his undershirt, jacket slung over one arm loosely.

Artha’s rival took in the bags and folded sheets and stacks of clothes. Then, before Artha could react, Moordryd had already swept forwards and kicked a candy bar from Artha’s newly emptied bedside storage. Artha dove after the candy bar and spilled the rest of his clothes.

Moordryd snerked. “You’re leaving?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Artha grit out, forced into conversation. “Last day in the House of Sight.”

Moordryd cocked his hip. “Where’s your next stop?”

Artha jabbed a finger at his jacket. His newest ribbon was purple. “The House of Many.”

“Pack-class philosophy, hm?”

Duh.

Artha, about to say something truly witty and astonishingly ingenious in retort—

Suddenly stopped.

“Wait,” said Artha. “Do you...”

“What?”

“Do you, Moordryd Paynn, do you care?”

Moordryd opened his mouth, obviously to say some bullshit. Then he closed it.

Then, a thoughtful flash crossed Moordryd’s gaze.

“So what if I did?” said Moordryd, with the faintest smirk.

“You can’t be serious,” Artha responded.

“What’s this? I thought you liked attention, Dragon Booster. Hero of the People!” Moordryd held out his free hand, making a grand gesture.

Try as he might, Artha couldn’t deny his arms tingled with gooseflesh. He strove to ignore the flutter in his chest, focused on Moordryd’s utter shit, willing away the effect Moordryd’s recognition had on his hero complex. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say it like a joke?” 

“Drop it, Paynn.”

“Who knew the hero of the world… the saviour of the people himself… can’t handle a little admiration?”

Artha stood up, took Moordryd’s jacket off his arm, and shoved it at him.

The Academy.

One of the largest structures in all of Draconis, it occupied a great, vertical footprint. The building, which began from the lowest layer of ancient Old Town, spanned all of twenty kilometres up through low-income Down City, industrial Work Town, overpopulated Mid City, and beyond, to a place which greeted the sun. The topmost floors of the Academy reached through these layers to Dragon City’s highest level, Sun City. Those who competed to join the Academy were promised a place in Sun City when they graduated; a future where they could find peace, racing as an elite.

Having sunshine on their skin had been novel until the Penns discovered their propensity to painful sunburns. Safe beneath a narrow awning, Lance jostled Parm and beamed once Parm’s attention shifted to him from his vidscreens.

“Can I get some dracles, Parm?” Lance asked. Parm raised his eyebrows. Lance added more winning to his winning grin. “Pretty pleaaaase?”

Parm sighed. “Oh, all right, here you go—”

“Don’t let him trick you out of your money, Parm,” Kitt commented as she joined them. “I saw him buying an iced dragon earlier. He’s got change.”

“... oh,” said Parm. “Well. Oh.”

Lance pouted.

Parm gave him a suspicious squint, and turned to Kitt. “Wonderful race you finished.” He pulled up a scatterplot chart and pressed a button. This overlaid a digitally generated gradient heat map. “Exceptional mag control. You have the highest performance over the entire course.”

“Next time you can beat him out of a finals spot,” Lance piped up.

“Yeah,” said Kitt. “Next time I’ll be the one in the finals, not Moordryd Paynn.”

Moordryd and Decepshun were clear on the screens around the gallery. The camera captured the eighteen-year-old all pride and poise, waltzing through a pit lane in new racing gear.

“Where’s Artha?” asked Kitt.

“Mr. Ineligible went to the Square,” said Lance.

Kitt gave the screens one last look, then said, “Let’s go. I’m tired of seeing that guy and his smug, stupid face.”

They waited for Parmon to put on his hat and glasses, then ducked through the exit which connected to an outer landing. What greeted them was a huge room like a ballroom. Instead of food, islands of round tables were adorned by displays filled with photos, stats, testimonials, and numbers. Instead of dancers, the diamond-tiled floor was filled with students, guests, scouts, and sponsors. Sunlight streamed through tall eaves. Flames flickered in the hands of dragon busts representing each of the twelve Academy Houses.

Kitt walked through first, and the second best racer graduating from Dragon Academy attracted plenty of attention. Lance and Parm snuck past while they were distracted.

“You should be more like her,” said Lance, glancing at the confidence with which Kitt brushed off a reporter.

“I’ll never be like Kitt in a million years,” said Parm, who currently had messages from twenty-two agents trying to present him to Dragon City’s three giant megacorporations sitting in his voicemail. “Besides, I already decided where my patents are going to be filed.”

“Yeah,” agreed Lance. He struck out his chest and pointed twin thumbs to the bravery insignia awarded to him in the morning. “With me!”

Parm shook his head and the three of them made it outside.

The streets of Sun City were bright. While looking for Artha, they passed a projector replaying the semifinal race; Moordryd deliberately taking the outside, giving up the inside lane. Soon he would activate a difficult Gear combination over the next hairpin, beating out Kitt and Wyldfyr, who had used their skills to take a lead at the last junction. They’d gained confidence surviving the Academy and its 75% drop-out rate.

“Haven’t seen graduates this impressive in years,” someone commented.

“I thought they accepted two racers in that intake?” Another person asked. “Where’s the other?”

“He was injured during the last ranking round before he entered—maybe he wasn’t good enough in the end.”

The gang from Penn Stables found Artha next to a new Dragon Booster statue, constructed overlooking a crossroads at the middle of the square.

“Artha,” said Kitt, approaching the hero staring at an image of his crime-fighting ego. “What are you doing here, standing around? Has Moordryd graduating with top honours got you down since you’re redoing two years at the Academy?”

“He must be admiring the recognition of himself,” commented Parm. He pulled his hat a little lower and added, “I, well. I kind of... like... being rewarded for my efforts. And the Dragon Booster, being noticed in Sun City? That’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

Kitt smiled down at her race medal while Lance grinned.

“Nice?” said Lance. He patted his bravery awards. “What are you talking about, it’s the drac!”

Artha raised his eyebrows. “You guys do realise I have to stay at the Academy for two more years because I’m doing five times the content, right?”

Lance winked at the statue. “Whatever helps you fight crime at night!”

There was something surreal, seeing himself in gold, shining anonymously in Sun City’s light, Artha thought. Making it to Sun City was supposed to free oneself from the churning in the lower levels and escape the endless stagnant sky. In the last two years, Artha had watched Parm trying to decide between the three megacorporations, Lance’s strength and leadership, and Kitt unlocking greater depths out of Wyldfyr’s mag pool as she grew into the talent she’d always showed.

… and Moordryd, still Moordryd. Doing well. Just like himself.

Artha shaded his eyes as he gazed at the Dragon Booster’s mask, knowing that if the rest of his crew weren’t so individually incredible, they would have been kept back two more years alongside him.

“Hey, let’s all go get some snacks!”

“Sure, but who’s paying?”

“You mind sharing some future earnings from those hotly-contested designs of yours?”

The Dragon Booster didn’t say anything. There was no knowing where the statue was looking, his eyes hidden. Some people went up and took selfies with the Hero of the People, keeping Artha out of the photo frame. It was a while before Artha looked away from the statue and spotted other bystanders giving the golden warrior at least a glance as they went about their day.

“Dad’s right, they need me,” he remembered saying. “They need the Dragon Booster.”

Artha scrubbed at his hair and went to join his friends. “Don’t forget about me, guys!”

The Gold Draconium band on his wrist was warm from the rays of the sun.