The sweaty mage in front of me in line is muttering, ‘_Kinetosis_,’ under his breath repeatedly like a mantra.

He’s about two seconds from collapsing into the fetal position and rocking back and forth.

At least he’ll get use out of that spell he’s conjuring to prevent motion sickness.

A roar rises from over the hill.

The kid whimpers and collapses so rapidly that I barely have time to catch him under his drenched armpits.

I make a disgusted noise in his ear as I guide his body to the cobblestone at our feet.

Hopefully, he’ll belatedly receive my message when he’s conscious again.

I’d normally try to empathize with his plight, but I really don’t know what his problem is.

This is the best day of my life.

A whoosh overhead draws the younger crowd’s attention to the sky.

The impassive older nobles have never been less relatable.

At sixteen winters, this sight still hasn’t gotten old for me, and I can’t imagine it ever will.

A silhouette of a dragon coasts away from the stone fortress before us, dozens watching its retreat as we await entry to obtain our licenses to ride them.

The turbulent breeze it churns batters our bodies in the wake of its wingflaps.

The new guy in line ahead of me draws my attention as he snorts.

I brush my windblown hair from my face and eye him expectantly.

“You act like you’ve never seen one before,” he sneers, scanning my high quality riding leathers appraisingly.

One of the perks of being the apprentice to the leathersmith of the elite is the ability to make my own outfit while my boss pretends not to notice the pricey materials going missing.

This kid probably has a closet full of clothes that I’ve made and an inherited stable full of dragons.

My hatred of him inspires my practiced condescending smile and heats my palm that’s just itching to meet his cheek.

“I’ve just never seen one that small,” I explain with a pitying pout. “Bet you hear that a lot, huh?”

His face transforms into a tomato as he fumes, eyes frantically scanning the families standing in the crowd nearby as if hoping to find the appropriate person to tattle to.

I start looking around at the polished people as well.

I’d just love to hear him repeat what I said.

The line unfortunately moves forward.

He notes the movement, leaving me behind with a scathing look that only makes my smile widen.

I’m still chuckling to myself as we’re guided through the simple stone archway of the battlement and into the bailey.

It’s a cacophony of bustling activity and organized chaos as those of us, who have come of age, are separated into smaller groups and ushered towards one of the six brown burlap tents erected.

I’m taken to the left while my new friend is thankfully guided right.

My group silently finds our spaces at small tables with parchment atop them, ink and quill resting on the side.

As I look down at the test, I suddenly feel sick for multiple reasons.

Not only could these supplies alone feed a family back home for a month, but there are only three questions here.

Three.

I take a deep inhale and let it out slowly through my nose, furious at the elite for insisting my people take one hundred question tests and then relegating the rare few who pass it to only be allowed access to dragons by mucking their nests.

A girl to my left is eying me warily.

I reapply my mask with a rueful grin.

“I hate tests,” I admit.

She smiles at that.

“I always have my handmaid take mine,” she replies like she’s trying to be relatable.

I turn away before she can see my eye twitch.

The proctor sits behind a desk facing ours.

Leaning back in a chair with his feet kicked up on the well crafted wooden surface, he cleans under his nails with a knife.

Classy.

He seems to realize he has an audience waiting for instruction and impassively waves the dulled blade at us. “Begin.”

It takes everything in me to hold in my scoff at him as I dip the quill in the ink.

The first question reads:

**You approach a crossroads where Dragon A is turning southeast, Dragon B is flying due north, and Dragon C is approaching from the east and turning north. **

**Which dragon has right of way? **

I almost overthink it until I recall the type of people I’m surrounded by.

“_The biggest dragon_,” I write with an eyeroll.

Question two:

**When are you permitted to utilize dragonfire?**

A) At will

B) To smite your enemies

C) Self defense

I rub my lips together as I consider the trick question.

I’ve witnessed instances of all of these without any repercussions for the offender, but maybe they’re testing to see if we can at least pretend discernment and discretion.

I pick C.

Question three:

**Do you solemnly promise uphold the sanctity of the relationship between dragon and rider by arresting and/or annihilating any unlicensed who attempt to taint the inherited connection with their touch?**

_Oh_.

The twitch in my eye is back.

I can just picture the person who crafted this question gradually foaming at the mouth in their fury while inventing this imaginary foe.

Little did they know that I’d be right here, smugly scrawling the lie of, “_I promise_,” and punctuating it a little harder than necessary.

I carry my test up to the proctor.

He passively scans my answers but frowns at question two.

My heart drops like it’s in free fall on the back of a winged beast that will never be.

I fight past my panic and tease, “There should really be an ‘all of the above’ option for that one.”

He grunts his amusement that doubles as approval, proven by his casual toss of a leather encased riding license in my direction.

“Just sign your name,” he says, waving me away without looking up.

I borrow a quill to do just that and eagerly bolt out the tent while blowing on the ink.

Most then wander deeper into the fortress to claim their ancestral dragon and go on their first solo ride, but I covertly escape the way I came.

I’m so excited about my success that I don’t even think to watch my back as I weave through the pristine streets and toward the forest shortcut to my destination.

My awed attention drawn to the way the dappled sunlight, traveling through the tunnel of trees, plants quick kisses of blessing upon the license I’ve illegally obtained.

There’s a snap of a twig underfoot nearby, but it’s not from in front of me like I expected.

I turn and find that rude guy from the line.

He’s even brought along a couple friends.

I’m more upset that this means I can’t keep staring at my license than at this turn of events.

I reluctantly close the booklet and slip it into my thigh pocket while they scrutinize me.

“Can I help you?” I ask pleasantly.

The insecure guy steps forward and demands, “What’s your family name?”

“Emmy,” I answer instantly.

All three of their brows furrow.

“There’s no Emmy family,” he informs me impudently.

I snort at that.

“I wasn’t talking to _you_.”

Their collective confusion only lasts a moment before their eyes track movement over my shoulder, then rise up and up and up, widening when they realize the majority of greenery at my back was actually my dragon, Emerald.

But I like to call her Emmy.

Not exactly a creative name, but give me a break.

I was only eight when I stumbled on her egg in the woods behind the tavern where my caretaker worked at the time.

The egg instantly cracked.

Out slithered a beautiful, verdant green, baby dragon, who latched onto me instantly.

We’ve been secretly inseparable since.

If the elite found out that a lesser connected with a dragon, Emmy and I would both be executed for our insolence, but this license I’ve just attained cements both our freedoms.

Which is unfortunate for our audience of skeptics who are quickly coming to the correct conclusion.

“Look how small it is,” one says.

I give a pointed look to the guy from the line.

His fists clench at his sides.

Twenty feet is not small, thank you very much.

But the older inherited dragons are much more substantial.

“She’s not one of us,” one of the friends hisses.

_Thank the goddess for that. _

I reach my hand up and stroke Emmy’s heated throat.

The first guy pulls out a knife and instructs, “Get the guards,” before attempting to close the distance.

The group is only granted a second of surprise as Emmy’s mouth opens and emits a blast of her dragonfire, instantly rendering my accusers ash.

I pet her neck once more in gratitude as the warmth I’d felt building there subsides.

Her purr mixes with the crackle of the remaining flame.

I’ve never had the chance to truly appreciate dragonfire.

It only eliminates perceived threats to the dragon’s bonded.

This is the first time I’ve ever witnessed its use be justified.

A smiting of my enemies, at will, and in self defense.

I look up at my dragon, radiating pride, and relent,

“I guess ‘all of the above’ was right.”