Archive of Our Own

"Griff."
 
Agga's voice is quiet, quieter than normal. But that's not what draws me away from the oysters I'm shucking. I toss the one in my hand into the bucket at my feet and wipe my palms on my pants, smiling sheepishly at the way my sister scowls at me despite the tension lacing her tone. But when the scowl drops, it's replaced by an expression that has me tentatively saying, "Agga? What's wrong?"
 
Agga expels a breath and eases onto the stoop beside me, though it takes her some effort due to her swollen belly. Her first little one, she keeps saying. Her name will be Becca. Agga's convinced it's a girl.
 
"Being able to serve our lords is a great honor," she says.
 
"Aye?" That's how Eamon answers Agga, and Eamon's grown. I want to sound grown like him. She looks drained, exhausted in a way I've never seen before. The corners of her mouth are downturned, tight, and she has a distant gaze that I don't like.
 
For a long time, Agga is quiet, and I know better than to prod. Especially since she's been with child, her temper's shorter. Granda says the pains and morning sicks from growing the babe are making her cross, and that back before the days of Tarquin the Conqueror, Norcians used to give expecting mams lemon balm and ginger tea to make them feel better. But we don't have that anymore. Granda says Tarquin took that from us, along with everything else. Agga had shushed him with a look toward the door, and Eamon, who had been standing behind her chair, squeezed her shoulders. I remember he looked worried.
 
Finally, Agga speaks again. As she does, she reaches out and strokes the back of my head, the way our mam used to do before she died. It's a thing of comfort. "They… might need it of you, Griff. To serve them. Soon. And if they do, I need you to do whatever they ask of you without question, alright? Whatever they tell you. You listen to them and you don't argue or ask anything. You just do it."
 
She's scaring me. Part of me wants to shrink into her side for safety, and part of me wants to pull away. So I sit there, frozen. "Why?"
 
"Just…" Agga closes her eyes, looking years older all at once. "Just do it, Griff. Please."
 
"Okay, Agga," I mumble, wishing—for once—that she'd go away and leave me to my oyster shucking.
 
"Promise me, Griff. Promise me you'll do whatever they tell you."
 
"Agga, you're scaring the boy." Eamon's gravel-sand voice interrupts us and I look up to see him standing in the doorway at our backs. He's wiping his hands on a rag, but it doesn't do them any good; they're permanently stained black from his work in the mines. Lots of dirt and dust down there, he tells me.
 
Eamon smiles at me and his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. His long curls are tied back, but a few loose strands fall around his face. His jaw is stubbly in the way that makes Agga complain when he kisses her, so she'll be cross about that too. I think she secretly likes it, though.
 
"If that's what it takes to keep him safe—" Agga sounds a bit hysterical, and I don't like hearing her like that. It's not like her at all.
 
"Agga," Eamon says soothingly, "we don't even know that it's happening. Or if he'll be one of them, if it does."
 
"You really think we'll be so lucky?" she demands shrilly. Eamon steps out of the doorway and crouches next to her. He murmurs in her ear, low enough that I can't hear what he says. Agga's eyes are closed and she shakes her head. "It never works like that for us, Eamon."
 
I study my hands and pick at the oyster grime beneath my fingernails. I don't know what they're talking about. They're usually not so vague with me. My jaw clenches.
 
"Why can't you just tell me what's happening?" I demand.
 
Agga's lips press together and Eamon suddenly seems less keen to talk as he averts his eyes.
 
"You tell him, then," Agga says. "If you're so sure he won't be one of them. You tell him what the dragonlords will want from him."
 
"Agga—" Eamon is interrupted by the sound of bells tolling in the citadel. He falls quiet as we listen. They've done this twice so far, the Triarchy-in-Exile have. The first time was a couple weeks ago, when the dragon hatchlings Chose their dragonlord riders. There were five tolls, five new riders. The second time the bells tolled was a few days after, when they presented girls to the dragons. It's never happened before, but apparently the dragonlords didn't have enough sons to present dragons to. They needed more.
 
The bells tolled only three times that night.
 
The pieces are slowly fitting together in my mind as the bells rattle the island. One, two, three…
 
Eamon is rubbing Agga's shoulders, which are drawn to her ears. Her eyes are still closed as she mouths each number soundlessly.
 
…four, five, six,…
 
Agga's friend works in the Provisional Palace as a lady's maid-in-waiting. She probably hears more of the Triarch happenings than anyone else on New Pythos. She comes round for tea every few days, and she and Agga talk for ages. I always assumed it was about girl stuff.
 
Was I wrong?
 
…seven, eight, nine.
 
The silence that follows rings louder than the bells. My ears almost hurt with it. I look over at Agga. She lets out a low, miserable moan and buries her face in her hands. Eamon still rubs her shuddering shoulders, but he doesn't say anything.
 
I don't know what any of this means. Or maybe I do, and I just don't know what to do with it.
 
"I can't—" Agga gasps, muffled by her hands. "Eamon, I can't—"
 
"You won't, love," says Eamon, his voice low and tense. "You won't. There will be loads of kids there. What are the odds one will be him?"
 
"Eight," Agga says. "Eight chances I can't take on him."
 
I could demand answers again, but I already know. Eight. Eight hatchlings that didn't Choose. Eight chances. Eight Norcian kids that will become part of the Pythian aerial fleet. I've heard talk around the harbor that our lords were considering it if the dragons failed to Choose enough of the bastard children from the mainland's vassal islands. A lot of yelling was involved, someone said.
 
I thought it was just gossip. It almost always is. I thought it wouldn't happen.
 
Being able to serve our lords is a great honor.
 
There must have been seventeen remaining hatchlings. Only nine Chose.
 
Our lords are out of options.
 
I don't realize that I've stood until Agga says my name and I see she and Eamon are looking at me. Agga's eyes are red and wet. Her lower lip trembles.
 
There's nothing that I can say. Not right now. I worry that if I open my mouth, I might be sick. I back away from them and nearly trip over the stoop in the process. Agga says my name again, and moves as if to stand, but her pregnant belly prevents her from doing so quickly. It doesn't matter. By the time Eamon can get her to her feet, I'll be long gone.
 
My feet carry me through Clan Nag and out of the village. I don't pay attention to where I'm going, only that I need to get away. This island that I've never left suddenly feels too small.
 
I end up at the harbor. By now, all the dockmen and sailors and traders have retired for the evening, and the docks are empty.
 
The citadel towers above me. It's an oppressive force over my shoulder and I hate it. I wish it would burn.
 
If I had a dragon…
 
It's a treacherous thought, and I force it away. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk past the docks, toward the black sand beach. The surf is calm this evening. Waves roll up onto the shore and slowly pull back, creating a lulling rhythm that could put you to sleep if you're not careful. Granda says napping on the beach during the day will turn you red as a cooked lobster, even if the fog hides the sun. But the sun is going down right now. It's almost dark.
 
I lie down in the sand and close my eyes.
 
Somehow, it's more comfortable than the shit little cot I sleep on at my home in Clan Nag. But it's cold and I suppress a shiver. I guess that's a good thing, because it means I won't nap. I don't want to nap. I just want to think and I can't think with Agga's sad eyes on me and Eamon's effort to keep the peace and Granda's angry ramblings about the Triarchy.
 
Does he know? Did Agga tell him?
 
I don't want to serve the Triarchy-in-Exile. I've heard the rumors, what they do with their dragons. How easily they can turn their beasts onto peasants like me for no reason at all. I see the nervous glances at the door every time Granda shows his anger toward them. There's a dragonborn boy in the citadel—Ixion Stormscourge, his name is—who likes loudly telling the stories at great length whenever a Norcian peasant is close enough to hear him.
 
But if the dragons listen to their riders, can't I do the same?
 
The thought sends a jolt through me and I open my eyes to stare at the dark gray clouds that bear down on me. The citadel is just visible in my peripheral, but I ignore it. My mind is now racing.
 
If the dragons listen to their riders, what's stopping me from turning mine onto the Triarchy-in-Exile? Sure, it will be too little at first, but it will grow. It will grow and grow and grow and then I'll be able to fight back. There will be six other Norcians to help me, right? Agga won't be hungry anymore. Eamon won't have to go into the mines every day. Granda will be able to tell me the stories of our peoples' history without fearing being overheard. I can save my family.
 
I feel a smile form at the thought. Maybe, if I'm Chosen, it won't be so bad. Maybe I can fix things. I can—
 
A disgruntled yowl interrupts my thoughts and I go still. At first, I think it's a cat, like the ones that roam the villages catching mice and rats. But it doesn't sound right. I've heard the harbor cats before as they chase vermin from the ships. Whatever made that noise sounds bigger.
 
Another yowl, and this time, it's followed by the sound of someone quietly shushing. I don't move, afraid of being caught out here after the child's curfew. Is it after curfew? It's not night yet.
 
I hear voices speaking quietly. Close enough to hear each syllable. Fear jumps through me when I realize I can't understand what they're saying, which means they're using Dragontongue. I'm no good at Dragontongue. That's their language.
 
I remain very still as I listen to the voices move past me. By now, I'm certain I'm hearing a boy and a girl talking, which makes me feel a little better. Their voices don't have the depth of a grown up voice. They travel up and the sound of footsteps on salt-worn wood reaches me.
 
They're going to the docks? But why? I frown and sit up, confident I won't be seen now.
 
There are three people up there—two boys and a girl. One of the boys is a bit taller than the others, and he and the girl carry odd, misshapen lumps in their arms. Odd, moving misshapen lumps. I remember the yowl I heard earlier. Are they drowning cats? No, they look too big to be cats. Curiosity gets the better of me as it always does and I shift onto my knees before slowly getting to my feet. They don't see me. I creep to the beach end of the dock but go no further. I crouch next to the end post and squint toward the three dragonborn. It's getting more and more difficult to see, but even the gloom of evening can't hide the flash of silver-white scales as the tallest of the three sets his wriggling lump down on the dock.
 
My body goes cold.
 
It's a dragon hatchling.
 
The girl sets her hatchling down, too. Hers is slightly darker than the boy's, but no less brilliant. The dragons sniff at each other and I realize that they're scrawnier than I expected them to be. They're built more like winged eels than what I imagine dragons look like.
 
The girl sticks her hand into a nearby basket and a second flash of silver makes me tense. For a wild moment, I think she has a knife in her hand. Can they kill their dragons? But she holds the silver thing up to her dragon and it snaps it up in its jaws. She lets out a surprised yelp and jerks her hand back. The shorter boy laughs, the sound of it echoing out around the harbor. The taller boy shushes them and offers his own dragon another little silver fish.
 
It accepts it more calmly then the other one did. The boy strokes the top of her head with what looks like affection, but I feel anger burning in my blood.
 
Fish. They're feeding them fish. Even though it's likely chum or bait, these baby dragons are being fed fish, but my family can barely find food that isn't scraps and broth? We can't even have herbs to make tea to help my sister's lungs or her pregnancy pains. Surely this must be some sort of joke.
 
But I know it's not. It never is.
 
I don't realize how forcefully I've been leaning against the end post, watching the dragonlords, until my hand slips and I scrabble for purchase. My fingers catch a random rope attached to a bucket that's yanked from the railing and crashes onto the dock, spilling water and fish guts all over the wood. Three heads whip around to look at me and three sets of eyes meet mine. The ones I'm most aware of, for some reason, are the taller boy's. They burn bright in the growing evening, but I don't take anymore time to look at him.
 
I set off at a run back toward Clan Nag.
 

 
They come for me at dawn.
 
Citadel guards from Clan Thornrose practically kick our door in, demanding any child in the household from age ten to thirteen be brought to Conqueror's Mound right away, or face the consequences. Agga and Eamon know better than to plead with them. Granda sits, silent and stony-faced, in his chair with a shabby blanket drawn over his frail shoulders and his eyes locked on the embers of last night's fire.
 
As I'm ushered out of our little hut and into the frigid morning, I see other kids from my clan likewise being corralled through the streets. I can't tell if it's nerves or the cold that makes me shiver. The worst part is the silence; no one says anything as we're herded like cattle up the hill to the Mound. Three of the other villages are in similar states—Turret, Kraken, and Knoll all have a knot of children ascending toward the Mound while their families trail behind, smudges of dark shadow in the gray dawn. The only clan that remains barren of activity is Thornrose.
 
Bloody traitors.
 
That's what Granda calls them, and right now, I feel the hatred behind his words more than I ever have.
 
We're forced into a tight circle at the center of Conqueror's Mound with Thornrose guards surrounding us like barbed wire. Once all children have gathered at its crest, there is no distinguishing between clans, though we try to stick to our own. I'm pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between a girl who lives two huts down from mine and another girl who lives at the very far end of Clan Nag. I only know them by name—Banba and Uaine—but in this moment, I feel like we've been thick as thieves our whole lives. It's us against them, I can't help but think.
 
With his back to the Provisional Palace stands the Greatlord Rhadamanthus ha'Aurelian. On either side of him are Lord Nestor Skyfish and Lady Electra Stormscourge. None of them look pleased, and Lady Electra clutches a thick, fur cloak close to her withered body. I envy her; I know I'll never experience that luxury.
 
When our families have formed a semicircle around the cluster of Norcian children, Rhadamanthus raises his hand, as if silencing a rowdy crowd. But no one is talking. No one has said a word since we were all taken from our homes.
 
"Good Norcian people," he begins in his heavily accented Norish, "you have my apologies for rousing you so early and having your children brought here." The Greatlord has always been good at acting, at the very least, decent toward us. "Unfortunately, the matter is very urgent. As you know, we have five and twenty dragons now—" No, I don't think most of us knew that. "—but to our dismay, only seventeen of them have Chosen their rider."
 
A ripple of discontent surges through the onlooking families. But it's the kind you feel. Not the kind you hear.
 
"New Pythos needs a full aerial fleet if we want to take back what was wrongfully stolen from us," Rhadamanthus continues. There's a passion in his voice that doesn't quite reach his audience. Most everyone around me has the same dull look in their eyes that I feel. "And as such, we have expanded our horizons. In the past, only young dragonborn men of legitimate birth were permitted to become riders. Now, we have accepted young dragonborn women into our ranks, and dragonborn children of illegitimate birth. But that wasn't enough to complete our fleet, so now, we must turn our gaze to what was once thought even less thinkable than female and illegitimate dragonriders: our commonfolk."
 
If he expects applause, he doesn't receive it. No one even moves. Until I feel Banba's hand slip into mine and squeeze. I squeeze back.
 
"We will present the hatchlings to Norcian children until all eight have Chosen their riders," says Rhadamanthus. "Those eight riders will then become part of the Pythian Fleet and have the honor of serving dragonborn riders as squires. This privilege does not come without promise of recompense. When we retake Callipolis, your families will be rewarded. They’ll be given land of their own, freedom and riches, as payment for your service."
 
At this, a surprised murmur does break the silence formed by the onlooking Norcians. I narrow my eyes with suspicion as I glare up at the Greatlord.
 
Our families.
 
Rhadamanthus clasps his hands together. "You will form a line at the Greatlord's Hall, where you will be presented three at a time to the dragons. If you are Chosen, you will be taken to the training pen, where you will meet with Lord Nestor for a physical assessment. Passi will go about their day as normal."
 
I don't know what passi means, exactly—it's a Dragontongue word—but context makes me think it refers to those who don't get Chosen.
 
Rhadamanthus says something in Dragontongue, and whatever he said is repeated as a bark by one of the nearby Thornrose guards. And then we're moving, the lot of us being pushed toward the Greatlord's Hall and bottlenecked at the side gate into a single file line. Banba's hand is ripped out of mine. I don't make an effort to find it again. It takes ages to reach the gate, and once I do, I realize she and Uaine are no longer anywhere near me. I'm surrounded by strangers from the other three clans.
 
I make it in just past the gate before the line stops moving. I don't see Agga or Eamon when I look over my shoulder. Just a blur of Norcian faces in the distance and a line of citadel guards stopping them from following their children.
 
I turn back to face the front and the massive, sprawling Garden of Folly that stretches between the Provisional Palace and the gates suddenly doesn't seem that massive or sprawling anymore. There are about fifty or so others ahead of me. I can't decide if I want to make it to those doors or not.
 
The dragons have never seen peasants before, I remind myself. They might not even Choose us. They only want the lords with dragon blood.
 
"On the bright side," the Clan Kraken boy in front of me says, "there will be a feast to celebrate the completion of the fleet tonight."
 
"You've broken your rudder if you really think they'll let us go to that," says the girl behind me. I think she's from Turret. None of the usual clan animosity is anywhere to be found. It's… odd.
 
"Why wouldn't they?" Clan Kraken asks. "They're taking Norcians now. They made us a part of this."
 
"Exactly. They made us," I say bitterly.
 
"Oi! No talking!" a guard snaps, brandishing his pike in our direction.
 
But this is an honor and a privilege. My thoughts are savage, as savage as I wish I could be. Instead of that, though, I close my mouth, remembering my promise to Agga.
 
The Greatlord's Hall creeps closer and closer as more Norcian kids trickle inside. At one point, there's a burst of energy that riffles down the procession. Someone was Chosen, a girl from Knoll. Mabalena, the hushed voices say, like a form of reverence.
 
So the dragons will consider us after all.
 
Reality is settling in my gut like a stone. Peasants can be riders. What will that mean for us? Can we finally fight back? Turn the tides on our lords and reclaim our island that they colonized all those years ago?
 
Another thought strikes me, one that has me feeling sick.
 
What if they make us turn our dragons on our families and friends? Other clans? I don't even know if I could do something like that to Thornrose, and they sold us out to the invaders, serve in their homes, and speak their language.
 
I'm nearly to the entrance of the Greatlord's Hall when there's another surge of activity. Another dragon has Chosen. Another girl. Fionna, also from Knoll. I wonder if she knows Mabalena. Maybe they're friends. Or sisters. Maybe they somehow have the dragon blood in their veins and the dragons will only Choose peasants from Knoll. Lords take peasant girls into their beds all the time. Who knows how many of us are the result of that?
 
Finally, a guard stops the Kraken boy at the massive double doors, which are firmly shut. I suppose I'm to go in with him and the Turret girl. My legs feel numb, but not from cold. I stare at the intricately carved wood in front of us. It depicts images of dragons in flight, fire spewing from their jaws.
 
I don't think I can do this.

But I have to. I think about the night before, those dragonborn kids feeding their dragons fish scraps that could've gone to any one of our starving families.

Your families will be rewarded.

I have to at least try.
 
Two knocks sound on the right door from the inside. The guard nods to himself and opens it for us. On the other side, the Greatlord's Hall yawns wide and dark. We step inside and the door closes behind us. Turret presses close to my back.
 
"Away from each other," a voice commands. I recognize it as belonging to Nestor Skyfish. "Step forward, and quickly."
 
I have a brief second to take in my surroundings as I stumble in on numb legs. I've never been anywhere in the citadel before, and this hall is no exception. It's shrouded in darkness, save for a row of lanterns that hang from the far wall. Lord Nestor stands on a dais with Greatlord Rhadamanthus and Lady Electra. Behind them, a gaggle of kids both younger and older watch us curiously. I don't have to look at them to know who they are, even if I didn't see Ixion Stormscourge at their head, arms crossed and expression bored. But that's not what has my focus.
 
Six dog-sized dragons sit in a row before the dais. There are two in golden hues, one of the little pale eel-like ones, and three in various shades of gray and black. They wait for us like perfect statues, unmoving and unblinking. I wonder, for a moment, if they're real. Maybe this is all a joke.
 
"Walk past them in a line," Lord Nestor orders coldly. "No sudden movements. Look at their faces, but do not move directly toward them unless you are Chosen. If that happens, you will know."
 
I follow the Kraken boy past the two gold-shaded dragons. I can't feel my legs and I tremble, despite how warm it is in here. I look at each one, but they don't seem much interested in me. Their inky black eyes slide right by both of us, and as far as I can tell, nothing happens with the Turret girl behind me, either. The little eel dragon looks as if it's halfway to falling asleep and also doesn't really seem to notice us walking by.
 
I meet the eyes of a steel gray dragon, one of the last three, and a growl startles me. It sounds as if it's intended to be threatening, but it reminds me of a starving dog trying to protect its food. And it doesn't come from the steel-colored dragon.
 
There's a trickle of something teasing beneath my thoughts, a thrill of discomfort like unease. Like my attention is wanted. I resist the urge to shake out my shoulders as I look at the second to last dragon with scales black as night.
 
Amber eyes like fire bore into my own and that trickle of something becomes a cascade of everything. The rest of the world ceases to exist around me and all that matters is embracing the presence that blossoms at the back of my mind, right at the base of my skull. The roar of silent sound in my ears is fragmenting, breaking into something more definable. I nearly fall to my knees but manage to remain upright. I need to remain upright so I can—
 
My hand lands between those inferno eyes and the undefinable snaps into place. Thoughts and feelings that don't belong to me flood my senses, sharper and more intense than they've ever been.
 
Minemineminemineminemine—
 
We gasp as our minds become one, blending, merging, fusing, amalgamating into each other. There is no beginning or end.
 
My boy my dragon my boy my boy my dragon my boy mine mine ours ours oursoursours—
 
Rough hands grab us under our armpits, pulling us away, and we writhe, trying to break free. Trying to get back to our dragon. Our boy. We need to stay close. Together.
 
"If you don't stop that shit right now, they'll put you in irons, boy," a voice snarls in our ear. "Get a hold of yourself."
 
Another voice rings out, speaking in halting Norish. It sounds familiar, but its origin is lost in the violent crash of thoughts, feelings, and senses. "He's spilled over. He doesn't know how to extricate."
 
There's a response, but we can't make sense of it. We're still being dragged away. The distance grows greater, and with it, pain.
 
"I'm telling you, he's spilled over. Father—"
 
I don't know how I manage it, but I cling to the memory of that voice and use it to yank myself free of the dragon's mind. My chest heaves with effort and I shake my head, trying to clear it.
 
"I'm fine," I gasp. "I'm alright."
 
I realize I'm dead weight in a Thornrose guard's arms and jerk away, stumbling to my feet in disgust. The room is entirely silent. Kraken and Turret are on the far side of the Greatlord's Hall, huddling close to the exit and looking at me with something like fear. The dragonlords atop the dais all wear expressions of shock or revulsion, aside from one—a Skyfish boy my age whose dark eyes burn almost as bright as the amber ones I just lost myself in. I recognize him, but I can't place it.
 
The dragon—my dragon is on all four feet, fangs bared and little wings raised in a defensive position. No one approaches him though. So I do.
 
I don't think I'm quite in my right mind to be approaching a dragon so fearlessly. But I know that he won't hurt me. "There now, love. It's alright."
 
My hand just barely grazes his nose when Nestor's voice snaps, "Enough of this. We're delayed enough already. Put the dragon with the others and take the boy to the pen. I'll be there when this is done."
 
"What?" I choke, like I'm being strangled. "You mean—leave him?"
 
I'm so unexpectedly shaken by the idea that I forget to use formal address. No one corrects me. I wouldn't care if they did. They're going to take my dragon away already?
 
"Only for now," Rhadamanthus calmly says. "You need an assessment and your dragon needs to return to his nest. You can see him soon."
 
Soon? When is soon? I open my mouth to ask, but the Thornrose guard grips my upper arm tightly and pulls me to where Kraken and Turret are still waiting. Neither of them look at me. I can't care about that right now. Not when there's a new weight at the back of my mind, a presence that flares as bright as the sun and tugs me back toward my dragon, who is being herded away by palace servants. Fear that isn't mine pulses like a headache. I long to call out to him, to comfort him, but I can't.
 
I haven't even given him a name.
 

 
The training pen feels more like a prison than anything else. It's a circular pit with a domed metal grid enclosing it. Where the dome meets the pit walls, there's a landing for people to observe what happens within. I don't like the feel of it at all.
 
When I'm practically thrown into the pen, the other two girls—Fionna and Mabalena, but I don't know which is which—look up at me. They sit in the mud, skirts drawn up to their knees and backs to each other, though they remain close. Like they're drawn together by clan solidarity. Neither of them say anything to me and I don't say anything to them. I find the least muddy spot I can and sit with my back to the wall.
 
My dragon's anxiety still beats like a second heart at the back of my mind. I squint up at the watery gray sky, trying to drown it out. Is this what it will be like all the time?
 
"What is your name?" one of the girls asks.
 
It takes me a moment to realize she's talking to me. "Griff. Griff Gareson."
 
She manages a smile, and it's a feat in and of itself. "I'm Fionna Moransdaughter. That's Mabalena Lorcansdaughter."
 
I nod, but don't say anything else. I don't know them. They're from Knoll. Not Nag. Our clans have been fighting for ages now. All of them. Not just Nag and Knoll.
 
"Which one Chose you?" It's Fionna again, and I can't help the annoyance I feel when I look at her. She lifts her shoulders. "I was Chosen by the dusky one. Lena says hers is pale gold."
 
"The black one," I tell her. "I was Chosen by the black one."
 
We fall silent. I drop my head against the wall behind me and close my eyes, willing this nightmare do be over. What comes next, I don't want to know. I wonder after Agga and Eamon. Do they know? Were they told? Or are they still waiting to see if I come back to them? I wish I could've gone to them after, to reassure them that I'm alright. Granda will be waiting at home too.
 
I hope he doesn't hate me for this.
 
The day drags on and gradually, more newly Chosen riders show up. First comes Nolan Ceallachson of Clan Knoll, who was Chosen by the steel gray one I saw earlier. After him is Colleen Abansdaughter, from Kraken. She's chatty and tells us she was Chosen by the little pale dragon. She doesn't seem at all bothered by his size or elongated shape.
 
It's nearly midday by the time the sixth new rider joins us. He introduces himself as Bran Fergalson, from Turret, Chosen by a rosy-gold dragon. All I can really register about him is that he's very tall.
 
Only two left, I tell myself.
 
Those two end up being Moira Bardensdaughter from Turret and Tara Kieransdaughter of Kraken. Cold seeps into me when I realize I'm the only one from Nag. I feel even more alone than I did before.
 
When Lord Nestor Skyfish appears at the entrance of the training pen, my heart sinks into my stomach. He barks an order in his intermediate and accented Norish for us to form a line. We do, and despite our display of obeisance, he glowers at us with a mixture of hatred and disgust. "We will begin the physical assessment shortly, but first, I must address several things as your new drillmaster: Do not think your being here is anything more than luck. You are not worthy of more than your station because of a few… misguided dragons who will likely fail to spark. Were it up to me, we'd find another solution, but Greatlord Rhadamanthus sees this as the only way."
 
How encouraging.
 
Up on the landing, three figures appear to watch on curiously. With the shock of my Choosing and that—whatever it was that happened with my dragon faded, I recognize them as his children; the younger twins and the eldest, his heir.
 
It was ages ago that I first saw them, when they arrived in New Pythos. I've never been allowed near them, and they've never bothered in treating us like some sort of novelty, like Ixion Stormscourge and his friends do.
 
Seeing them all side by side makes me think it might've been them out at the docks last night. I know two of them were Chosen. The news reached us down in Clan Nag, but not their names.
 
The eldest's intense, dark eyes catch mine, and I look away. Back toward his father.
 
And Nestor Skyfish is looking right back at me with a deep scowl. His eyes full of hatred drag up to his watching children, then snap back down to me, and his expression somehow darkens. I realize then that this man is more dangerous than anyone else I've ever encountered.
 
"Defiance will be punished swiftly and severely," he says coldly. "Any attempts at sedition or desertion will be handled in a way that will make you wish you'd never been born. You are not true riders. You are squires. It's imperative you remember that not only you know exactly who and what you are, but we do as well. The same goes for your families."
 
The threat isn't idle. My fists curl at my side and Lord Nestor glances down at them with a strange sort of satisfaction that makes my stomach feel coated in barrel scum.
 
Promise me, Griff. Agga's voice haunts the back of my mind, just above the space humming with fear and anxiety that my dragon now occupies.
 
I unclench my fists. Lord Nestor Skyfish moves on.
 

 
After I'm poked, prodded, pinched, measured, weighed, and assessed, I'm practically dumped out of the training pen in a heap with an order to return to my village, but be back at the training pen at sunrise. I suppose I can only be grateful that Nestor didn't do the assessment himself, and had Thornrose servants do it for him while he observed in the background with that scowl that seems to be a permanent part of his face.

They also interrogated me. I was asked my name, my age, my clan, about my family, who they are, what they do, who they know, who I know. Questions, questions, and more questions digging into every aspect of my life and peeling me apart layer by layer. And when I thought it was over, they asked me some of the same questions again. They held up a scroll of some sort and demanded I tell them what it said. I couldn't, and the humiliation was almost too much to stomach.

I don't know what the point of that part was.

By the time I was escorted out, the rest of the Pythian Fleet had arrived to see us all in our ill-begotten glory. Ixion and his younger sister, Julia, pressed closer than the rest, watching us with eerie delight.
 
The stupid physical took all day. The sun is starting to set. A headache started up some time ago but I won't be able to rest any time soon. I still have chores I need to do. Agga can't do them with how far along the babe is and Eamon likely left for the mines shortly after I was taken and won't be back til after dark. Granda is too weak to do most of it himself.
 
A new pinprick of fear starts up in me. How can I take care of my chores if I'm going to be training with my dragon? I know Nestor is going to do his best to run the lot of us into the ground. I don't know how much time I'll have to help Agga. And once the baby comes…
 
I can't worry about that right now. Right now, I need to focus on doing the chores I was forced to neglect this morning. I gather myself up as best as I can and start to head down to Clan Nag, but a strange jolt of excitement buzzes through me, so overpowering that it makes me dizzy. I falter, reaching out to catch myself with a hand. But instead of stone wall or wood or anything else, my palm meets soft fabric and warmth.
 
I jerk my hand away in alarm when I see Nestor's eldest son blinking back at me. He has both hands raised, as if to support me. His eyes are bright, even under the shadows of the ramparts that stretch high over us.
 
"It's alright," he says in slow, accented Norish. Like he's still learning. "It's—eating time. The dragons. They always—get like this."
 
The implication that I'm feeling my dragon's emotions unsettles me.
 
"You will get used to it," the boy says, his fine brows furrowed like he's concentrating hard on his words. "Are you alright?"
 
I stare at him as I slowly retract my hand. He lowers his. I don't know if I'm allowed to speak to him. I never have been before. But this boy… He doesn't have the same look about him as most other dragonlords. He still has those same soft, kind doe eyes that he had the first time I ever saw him when he landed in New Pythos. He's also… pretty. I've never thought of a boy as pretty before, but there's no other way to describe him.
 
Then, I remember my station. I bow low. "My lord."
 
"Don't— don't do that," he says hastily. "Please. It's not needed."
 
I straighten, confused. "My lord?"
 
"Delo," the boy says, another line forming between his brows. "My name is Delo sur Gephyra."
 
His focused expression becomes something more pleased, but I don't get what's so pleasing.
 
"Delo," I repeat, and Delo nods. I don't try to say the rest of it. I barely remember it as it is. It's an unusual name, I think.
 
"There you go," he says. "And who are you?"
 
"Griff. Griff Gareson." Proudly, the way Granda taught me. I should be proud of being Gares' son.
 
"Gareson," Delo says, thoughtfully. "You're named for your—"
 
He frowns, hesitates, then says a Dragontongue word I don't know, but I nod anyway, remembering from Agga that it's best to agree with the dragonlords, even if I don't know what they're saying. But if I had to guess, I'd think Delo said da, or something like it.
 
"Aye," I say, drawing myself up. I puff out my chest and pretend my head isn't trying to explode and my dragon isn't making me feel strange. "Da's going to come home soon, and then I can tell him I was Chosen, and that I'm going to save our family."
 
I cringe. I shouldn't have said that, but I think my dragon is affecting me. That was a right stupid thing to say, and I don't know where my mind went, thinking it was safe to speak like that. All I know is I feel proud of that fact for reasons I can't sort out. It has to be my dragon.
 
My boy my dragon mine mine mine—
 
Something illuminates in Delo's pretty doe eyes and my concern and the odd rush of pride fall away. "Save them from what?"
 
I gesture around, feeling stupid as I scramble for a suitable answer. Somehow, this boy, this dragonlord, makes me feel like an idiot simply by existing near him. "All of it. My sister and her babe can have a good life."
 
"Oh. Do they not now?"
 
I almost laugh, but then I remember laughing at a dragonlord probably isn't the smartest thing to do. I shake my head.
 
"Not really," I say.
 
"It will get better," Delo says. "They'll reward you for this, you know. Once we reclaim Callipolis."
 
"Yeah," I say, because I don't know what else to say. Delo is nice. Nicer than I thought any dragonlord could be. I don't want to upset him.
 
He kicks at the gravel with the toe of a boot made from shiny black leather. For some reason, he looks embarrassed. "I can help you with your dragon, if you want. Mine's a skyfish—Gephyra, that's her name—but your stormscourge can't be too difficult. I've read up on them, you know."
 
Two things make me feel a surge of jealousy and shame. One is that Delo can read. It's not… We have no reason to learn, Granda says. The second thing is that Delo got to name his dragon. His dragon that is apparently a skyfish, whatever that means. Isn't he a Skyfish? And mine is a stormscourge. Like Ixion? I'm not sure I like the sound of that.
 
"I'm supposed to help you," I point out. And hastily tack on: "My lord."
 
"Right." Delo frowns. "We can help each other, then."
 
"No," I say, stubborn. "I'm supposed to help you. That's how it is. You can't help me. It's not proper."
 
Before Delo can respond, a harassed-looking Thornrose maidservant appears at the far end of the training fields and stops upon seeing us. She shouts something in that lyrical language of the dragonborn, and Delo pauses for a moment before calling back. The words sound better than I've ever heard them as they roll off his tongue.
 
He looks back at me, regret plain on his face. "I have to go—the feast is soon. Will you be there?"
 
I shake my head. "I have to go back down to my village, my lord."
 
"It's supposed to be a celebration of the completion of the fleet…" Delo says, as if that means anything to anyone except him. And maybe that boy from Clan Kraken earlier. He wasn't Chosen.
 
This time, I do laugh through a tight throat. Delo will go to the feast with his family. I will go down to Clan Nag, where Agga will later pretend she's full so I can have what she won't eat. As if fish-flavored water can fill anyone's belly. "They won't celebrate us like they celebrate you. Surely you know that, my lord."
 
I shouldn't have said that, either, but Delo doesn't seem bothered by it. He gnaws on his lower lip as the Thornrose maid calls out to him again. He sighs, frustrated, with another line between his brows that's starting to become telltale. He mutters something under his breath in Dragontongue.
 
"Alright, then," he says, in Norish, but he doesn't sound happy. "I'll see you at training, Griff."
 
Delo Skyfish walks away, across the training fields. I stand in the growing dark, watching him go for a few minutes more before I turn toward my village, feeling angry and overwhelmed and confused and scared and excited all at once. I don't know which feelings are mine and which are my dragon's. I don't know how to fully untangle myself from him, either.
 
I don't know that I can.
 
And maybe I shouldn't. I don't know the first thing about riding a dragon, but maybe this is how it's supposed to be. Maybe this is how I can prove them all wrong. By leaning into this bond between us. Lord Nestor said our dragons will likely fail to spark, and I don't exactly know what that means, but I know I want to prove him wrong. I will prove him wrong.
 
That pride I felt, when I told Delo I can tell Da that I was Chosen… I don't think that came from my dragon. I think it was mine. I can tell they don't want us to want this. They don't want us to be proud of this. They can't punish me for doing what I'm told, right? And if my dragon sparks, they'll have no choice but to reward us for our service. Even if it is only our families that get rewarded. They won't have to rely on fish-flavored water for meals while the scraps of our catch are fed to beasts that can likely hunt and feed themselves.
 
This time, when there's a flare of foreign emotion at the back of my mind, I smile despite the ache of separation and the raw newness of it all.
 
My dragon. My Sparker.