Of course, there is no escaping James Murphy forever. He arrives like the rest of the riders, a Sprinter named Hort by his side.
He looks at me like he always does, as if holding in an insult. I hold in my own choice words and greet James’s dragon instead. Hort swings his crocodile eyes toward me and taps his feet in excitement like a toddler. I smile at the contrast between rider and dragon. When a thousand-pound creature is friendlier, you know you have problems. Dad and I go through the typical procedures. Measuring him and then examining his wings, his joints, his teeth. I even pull on the buckles of the saddle to make sure the leather straps are secure, but not too tight.
“He looks good, James. Like a champion. We just need to check his metal,” Dad announces.
James whistles, one high note. “Hort. Shield.” It’s always majestic watching a dragon transform. Blink and you’ll miss it quick, silver metal jets outand coats every scale, a sheath of armored protection. The once orange-scaled beast now stands before us as a wall of impenetrable metal. Nothing can pierce dragon silver, except dragon silver. And in this form, nothing could stop the dragon except a silver-crafter.
Every dragon can fortify themselves in a type of metal though. It’s Hort’s perfect obedience that’s truly novel. These two facts have never added up. James being decent enough to train such a well-behaved dragon. And Hort actually liking James. That training didn’t come with a firm hand, but a loving one. Unusual for a Sprinter placed in the races, pushed to rely on their fear.
While my dad examines Hort’s wings, I pat his neck before sliding down his side to feel each of his joints again. I have to get down on all fours to check his claws and the underside of his feet. If a scale, especially a metal scale, is growing oddly it can cause excruciating pain. This means I’m on all fours right in front of James Murphy. Normally, riders backstep and allow me room to work. Not Murphy. Never Murphy. He’s a perpetual hoverer.
I refuse to look up, willing him away. “Excuse me.”
Instead of moving, James crouches beside me. Anyone else, and I’d assume it was concern for their dragon. But this is John Murphy’s son. So, I know what this is—questioning my competence.
After hearing what he and Colm think about me and the scholarship, maybe it’s more than my competence. Maybe he truly is classist. Society constantly reminds us of crafting hierarchy. If you’re half-decent you don’t judge people for that. An iron-crafter isn’t inherently lesser than a tin, or a tin lesser than a copper. But I find silver-crafters, at the top, never fail to look down on those they deem beneath them. Colm Ditters probably only makes the friendship cut because his family is on the brink of social climbing from bronze to silver.
I know for a fact James still looks down on all of us, and me in particular. An old friend of mine, Cara Moore, overheard James once telling Colm and other riders that I was a worthless know-it-all, a copper nobody, and if anyone thought I was attractive they’d might want to get their eyes checked. So yeah, classistanda conceited jerk.
“Can I help you?” I ask, still somewhat aghast he’s on the ground with me for no reason.
“Just watching.”
I inspect Hort’s last foot. Then because his words still burn from earlier, I whisper, “Don’t think you can beat me in medical just bywatching.”
“I know.”
Oh, so he knows.Can he be any more infuriating?
It’s times like this I want to ask why again. Because “good opportunity” still doesn’t make sense to me. That’s obvious. A full scholarship to one of the only universities in Toulin that specializes in dragon-related jobs, who wouldn’t consider that a good opportunity? But why go for the all-around scholarship? Why take the one thing I need and want more than anything when his parents could pay the tuition three times over and not bat an eye? Plus, James could get recruited into the racing team and earn a free ride that way. Most likely that racing scout perches in one of the viewing towers now, eager to jot down his name. Who am I kidding, they don’t even need to write anything. They probably have his offer letter ready, and we still have one last year of school.
“Why—” I start.
“Something wrong?” A hard voice slams into us. I flinch. More surprising, so does James.
Mr. John Murphy, James’s father and owner of what feels like the whole town, stands before us. He’s not exactly tall, but damn does he cast a long shadow.
“No, Hort’s good to go,” I announce while I look over to Dad to make sure the head and the wings got his approval.
“Hort’s really growing.” A hidden meaning lies in Dad’s tone and I try to decipher it. Hort is growing, but he’s three and still within the measurement limits of racing Sprinters. Height eighteen and a half hands and wingspan forty hands according to the notes I just logged. Hort likes the attention. As we stare, he raises his head higher. Cute little show-off. Probably learned that from his owner. The show-off part, not the cute part, obviously. James tenses at my father’s words though.
“If there are no issues, get going then,” Mr. Murphy’s hard voice rumbles.
James reaches for Hort’s lead, but freezes and his eyes close.
My dad tilts his head. “Your arm hurting?”
I look down at James’s arms. Dad’s right, one is stiff. James clenches his fist as if in anger. Or maybe that’s pain. “Dr. Burke should be in the medical tent,” Dad continues. “It’s not only dragons who need a checkup every now and again.”
“I’m—”
“He’s fine,” Mr. Murphy informs us. Why does it sound like a threat though? Likedrop it or else.
My dad is a lot of things. Friendly, passionate, a pushover, some might say. But he always gets the hint. “Glad to hear it. Good luck, James,” Dad adds warmly, as if he enjoys the races at all.
As soon as father and son are out of earshot, Dad tugs me toward him. “Farren, watch for James and Hort out there.”
“Should we not have passed Hort? Did you sense something?” I recall the way his scales felt. Bones and joints in good condition. He produced his armor of metal seamlessly.
