For our next class, we filed into a place even stranger to me than the dragon stables, a place I have never been before – a traditional classroom. Maps and portraits hung from the walls, sandwiched between bookshelves full of ancient texts. Their cracked spines and yellowed pages reminded me of wounded forest animals, begging to be put out of their misery.

Instructor Austen, the woman from the morning's announcements, taught the class. She had us write our names on two sheets of paper, one for our desk, and one to tack on the wall. I tried not to wince when I looked at the finished product. 

My name immediately stood out, my handwriting looking like a child's scribbles compared to the others' swirly calligraphy.

"Every time you answer a question correctly, I will put a tally by your name," Instructor Austen told the class. "Whoever has the most tallies will receive my vote for the auction." 

She turned to a boy at random, reading off his name tag. "Howard, name one of the three pillars to success at the Blood Moon Festival."

Howard replied automatically, the answer coming as naturally as his home address. "Strategy."

"Very good, Howard." Instructor Austen tallied a point underneath his name. "Buford, name another."

"Strength," Buford said, without a moment's pause.

"And the last one..." Instructor Austen scanned the room, and then her eyes landed on the one pledge ducking her head, purposely avoiding eye contact. "Raven."

I told her that I must have missed that chapter in the textbook, because it seemed like a better excuse than I was too busy committing crimes and being a menace to society to study for the Blood Moon Festival ... but can I interest you in an astrology fact?

"Take a guess," she prompted.

My mind went blank.

"It starts with s."

"Uh... ssssss... strive for greatness?"

"One word."

"Strength?"

"Already written down."

"Soul?"

"Closer."

"Soul stone?"

Instructor Austen's eyes dimmed as if she thought I was mocking her. "Can anyone help her out?"

"Sociality," Gordo said, meeting my eyes with a pointed look. "As in, the ability to be liked."

As heat crawled up my face, Instructor Austen scribbled out the tally she had ambitiously drawn underneath my name and put one under Gordo's. Then she turned back to the class. 

"Today, we will focus on strategy. It was not always regarded so highly. For decades, the Blood Moon Festival had as much strategy as a free-for-all death game – a month of fire, blood, and terror. That is, until a young philosopher named Polixenes came along, claiming that if you studied the stars during the months preceding the festival, you would find the gods leaving a trail to the best dragon in the arena. The scholars of his day wrote Polixenes off as a loon, too weak and stupid to bond with so much as a drake."

Instructor Austen crossed the room, standing in front of a portrait of a rugged old man with a scar cutting across his forehead, just below his crown. 

"But when he bonded with the most powerful dragon in the arena, Polixenes the loon became Polixenes the king. For every following Blood Moon Festival, the court's prophet deciphers the stars. He copies his answer in whatever form he desires – a drawing, a riddle, a symbol, a challenge, an order – then his findings are duplicated and distributed to all pledges on the morning of the Blood Moon Festival."

Instructor Austen gestured to a bin labeled Clues 181-199, piled high with scrolls.

"So if I solve the clue, I automatically bond with the most powerful dragon in the arena?" Bianca asked.

"No. The clue is merely a hint in the right direction. It could contain the dragon's location, true name, or something else entirely."

"Like what? Can you give specifics?"

She shook her head. "Results vary too much from year to year for a simple answer. Sometimes every pledge solves the clue in minutes. Sometimes there are decade-long dry spells where no one does. One year, a clue even fell into the wrong hands."

Suddenly, Instructor Austen turned to me. I stiffened when we locked eyes, my back straight as a rod. Bloody hell, was I sweating? This frail old lady had more presence than Drax.

"Raven, perhaps you can redeem yourself by answering this question. Who stole and solved a clue, making them the first person to bond with a dragon without inheriting it or competing in the Blood Moon Festival?"

Without even listening to the question, I replied that I did not know. I mean, come on. The burrow isn't exactly overflowing with opportunities to learn obscure dragon trivia.

"You don't know?" Instructor Austen repeated, her brows nearly touching her grey hairline. Her stare flickered to my tattoo. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, instructor."

"Samuel Crenshaw."

I looked up, startled at the name. "What?"

"The answer," she repeated slowly. "Is Samuel Crenshaw."

Oh.

I probably had known that one.

The day ended on the training field. The swordmaster, Instructor Finnigan, handed out spears according to our height and weight and filed us into four neat lines of eight pledges each. Then he demonstrated a series of swings, followed by a spinning kick. 

The other pledges copied him without a moment's pause. They made it look simple, twirling their spears like they weighed no more than twigs. Meanwhile, I couldn't find the right grip. The spear's head threw each move off balance, threatening to tumble from my hands no matter how tightly I held it. 

It wasn't long before Instructor Finnigan was on my back. "You're mimicking, not duplicating," he said.

I squinted at him, breathing hard, my arms burning from the weight of the staff. "What does that mean?"

"Duplicate, do not mimic."

"But what's the difference?"

Instructor Finnigan flicked his hand. "Don't be insolent, pledge. Try again."

I kept swinging until my arms felt like they were going to fall off, and my shirt clung to my back with sweat.

"What?" Instructor Finnigan asked sarcastically. "Is this your first time executing a crouching sparrow foot sweep?"

"Yes," I said breathlessly. I was sweaty in places I didn't know I could get sweaty – my ankles, my hips, my hands. The spear slid between my slick palms like an eel.

"Nevermind," he barked. "Just swing harder."

I tightened my grip and swung again, in the wide arc he had demonstrated.

"Harder."

I put more force behind the blow, throwing my whole weight into it.

"Harder, pledge!" he roared.

I reeled my spear back, and the spear slipped from my grip and shot backward. I whipped around, just in time to see Gordo duck, narrowly avoiding getting impaled through the eye like a shishka bob. Everyone stopped drilling to gawk at him, and then at me.

"Alright?" Instructor Finnigan said.

Gordo glowered at me. "Fine." He raised his spear, ready to go again.

Instructor Finnigan shook his head. "Take a break, pledge." Then he turned to me. "You too."

Gordo broke formation, stalking away with his shoulders hiked up to his chin, but before I could join him, instructor Finnigan stepped in front of my path, lowering his voice. "I will not punish you for your mistake, even though you could have seriously injured him."

I lowered my head, a flushing crawling up my face. "Thank you, sir."

"Mistakes are punished enough in the arena," Instructor Finnegan continued. "A poorly trained pledge is more dangerous than a thousand hydras. See that you do better."

As the pledges resumed the drill, Gordo and I sat in the grass in silence. Even though squad Tudor picked from the bottom of the barrel, no truly bad pledges were allowed to compete in Blood Fest. 

The pledges executed the drill in perfect unison, having been trained for this since childhood. No one lagged behind or swayed off balance. Their spears sliced through the air, coordinated like dancers, like they were born to be the perfect soldiers.

I glanced at Gordo, trying to think of an apology. During Drax's reign, you settled your differences by ignoring them or beating the faulty party to a bloody pulp. It didn't give me much practice with sincerity.

"Gordo–"

"Did you mean to do it?" Gordo said suddenly. "Did you throw your spear at me on purpose?

"No," I said. Was he trying to get me into trouble? A little late to fake an injury now.

"It would have been better if you had. You can't wield a weapon, look at a dragon, or answer a single question right. Bianca shouldn't have discouraged you from escaping." 

Gordo tilted his face to the sky, basking in the sun. "The noose is a quicker death than what Blood Fest has in store for you."