Jim the groundskeeper raked leaves at the edge of the courtyard, where the start of the school year at Riordan Academy for the Magically Gifted always brought a fresh wave of wide-eyed teenagers. Every last one of them looked certain they were the Chosen One, bound for glory before they’d even scuffed their boots.

  He pressed his rake through a patch of stubborn, wet leaves that clung to the stone like fungus, the handle creaking in his hands. The smell of damp earth and chalk dust drifted on the breeze from the gates.

  At the archway, the newcomers filed in — cloaks too clean, boots barely worn, eyes shining with that vacant, na?ve hope that only existed before the world kicked the teeth in. One lad carried a staff so tall it wobbled like a drunk every time he moved; another girl kept tripping over her own hem, cheeks flushing crimson each time.

  Jim snorted. Poor buggers.

  Then he spotted him — Professor Elmsley.

  The man’s cloak billowed dramatically behind him, jet-black hair slicked back as though he were off to seduce a queen, and that same smug expression plastered across his face screamed, I’ve skimmed three whole books about leadership. He stood tall and stiff, chin high, as if the cobbles themselves might salute his presence.

  Jim muttered under his breath, “Utter prick.” His spit landed dark against the stone, and he dragged the rake through the muck with a little more force.

  “Welcome, young magisters!” Elmsley boomed, arms flung wide in a grandiose gesture.

  A swirl of his cloak, a flourish of his hand — pure theatre, the sort of thing that made him look like he thought the sun rose just to watch him perform.

  “Welcome to your home for the year ahead, where you will learn to wield power beyond your wildest dreams!” His voice carried, rolling across the courtyard like he was addressing kings instead of a gaggle of children.

  He thrust his hand forward. With a sharp crack and a hiss of smoke, a dazzling burst of blue and violet light exploded into the air. Sparks rained down over the students’ heads, drawing a chorus of gasps and shrieks.

  “Oohs” and “aahs” rippled through them, like they were watching gods descend instead of some puffed-up showman with a smoke charm.

  Jim shook his head, leaning on his rake, the old wood digging into his shoulder. Every damn year.

  “Now, follow me, children,” Elmsley declared, sweeping around with dramatic flair. “Come, and witness the grand majesty of Riordan!”

  He marched toward the academy’s towering oak double doors, cloak billowing behind him like he thought he was the bloody wind itself. The students trailed after him in a loose gaggle, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, clutching their books and bags like ducklings desperate to keep up with their mother.

  Jim leaned on his rake and watched them go, jaw working as he worried at the inside of his cheek.

  Hmmm, he thought. Wonder how many of the poor buggers’ll make it to the end of the year.

  Last year… what was it—five? Six? He ticked them off in his head like tally marks carved into a stockade post. Two dead during the Riordan Games, carved up in the name of “healthy competition.” Another three buried by those cursed Defence from Darkness lessons that were supposed to teach survival. And one lad… just gone. No body. No spell trace. Vanished like he’d been plucked clean out of the world.

  And yet the school stayed open, doors polished, banners flying. Parents still packed their little darlings off with fresh cloaks and big dreams, eager to say they’d got a child in Riordan. They never saw the grave markers behind the east wall. Or didn’t want to.

  Jim shook his head. Madness. The lot of it.

  He’d been in pitched battles with a lower death count than this bloody school. At least soldiers knew what they were signing up for.

  He turned back to his raking, the scrape of metal against stone steady and familiar. That’s when he noticed one of the stragglers at the back of the group.

  Older than the rest — not by much, but enough to stand out in the herd. Pale skin, dark hair. Nothing remarkable there. But the eyes… the eyes caught him.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Not awe. Not fear. Not curiosity.

  Something colder. Calculating. Almost like the boy already knew the odds and was wagering on them.

  Eh, Jim thought, rolling his shoulders. I’m sure the “professors” will figure it out.

  He went back to raking, spitting into the dirt.

  About an hour later, Jim was knee-deep in dragon shit. Out in the paddocks, boots sucking at the muck, clearing the enclosures before feeding time. The air was thick with the sweet-sour reek of beasts and hay, and his rake clinked against a half-buried chain.

  That’s when he heard it — voices drifting over from the far side of the enclosure. Older students, second-years by the sound of them, already full of piss and bad ideas.

  “Tonight,” one hissed, low and eager, “we break in and see if we can’t bond ourselves a dragon.”

  Jim froze mid-swing, rake heavy in his hands. His eyes narrowed.

  What was his name again…?

  “Castus, we can’t,” another lad whispered, his voice shaking. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Ah. Castus.

  Elmsley’s bloody pet. That little arsehole had blown up Jim’s rockery last summer during “practical spellwork” and hadn’t even had the decency to mutter a sorry. Jim still found bits of stone lodged in the hedges.

  “Are you a coward?” Castus snapped, his tone dripping venom like a snake baring fangs. “Because it sounds like you are.”

  The other boy shrank back, shame scrawled across his face as though branded there.

  “Fine,” Castus huffed, tossing his head like a sulking prince. “I’ll bond one myself.”

  Jim stepped out from behind the feed shed, rake balanced casually across his shoulder. His boots crunched against the gravel.

  “The fuck you are, lad.”

  Castus froze, lips curling in irritation.

  “If you even try,” Jim went on, voice flat as a hammer blow, “they’ll tear your bloody head clean off. I’ll tell you a simple fact: dragons only bond with folk who’ve got conviction — real conviction — and strength of character.”

  He lowered the rake, pointing its chipped prongs square at Castus’s chest.

  “And you, my lad, haven’t got either one.”

  Castus squared his shoulders, chin lifting in mock bravado. “And why should I be taking advice from the help?” he spat.

  Jim shrugged, expression blank. “Eh. Don’t believe me. Give it a go.” He turned back to the paddock gate with the weary gait of a man who’d seen this play out before. “Just don’t expect me to mop up your organs when it all goes tits-up.”

  Castus’s jaw tightened, but he brushed past Jim without a word, the arrogance practically steaming off him, and made a beeline for Aualine’s pen.

  She was the oldest dragon at the academy — massive, scarred across her flank, and far too clever for her own good. The kind of beast who’d outlived half the keepers foolish enough to try and “tame” her.

  Jim leaned against the post, arms folded, and watched as the boy scrambled up the fence, knuckles whitening as he clutched the top rail like he thought he’d already earned the right to be there.

  Jim caught Aualine’s eye across the paddock. Just a small nod. Nothing more.

  The dragon shifted, slow and deliberate. Her wings unfurled with a deep, leathery rustle that sent dust swirling from the ground. Castus froze for half a heartbeat, then clambered higher.

  Aualine exhaled — a sound that could’ve been mistaken for a sigh if not for the low growl underneath.

  Then, without warning, she spun. Her tail cut the air with a whiplash crack, whipping around like a siege engine loosed.

  Crack.

  Castus was swatted clean off the gate like a fly from a windowsill. He tumbled through the air, arms flailing, and hit the dirt with a winded grunt that knocked every bit of arrogance right out of him. He lay there coughing and gasping, mouth working like a fish dropped on land.

  Aualine settled back down with a low, grumbling snort, her wings folding neatly as though nothing at all had happened. Within moments she had tucked her massive head back beneath a scarred wing and drifted toward sleep again, tail curling lazily.

  Jim turned his gaze to the other lads, who were still frozen stiff. Wide eyes, jaws slack, faces pale. One had dropped his satchel, scrolls spilling out into the muck, but he didn’t dare move to pick them up.

  “He’s lucky,” Jim said flatly, jerking his thumb toward Castus. “She could’ve torn him in half.”

  The boys didn’t budge.

  “Well?” Jim barked, his voice like gravel dragged over steel. “What’re you waitin’ for? Pick your man up and fuck off.”

  That did it. Panic loosened their joints. They scrambled forward, scooped up Castus like a sack of grain, and bolted in a tangle of limbs and curses. As they hauled him away, Castus raised a trembling hand and pointed weakly back at Jim.

  “You…” he wheezed, chest heaving. But no other words followed.

  Jim just shook his head, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

  Ooh, I’m gonna get a hell of a telling-off from Elmsley tonight.

  Ah well. What they gonna do — fire me?

  He let out a low chuckle that rattled in his chest and walked toward Aualine’s paddock.

  The dragon stirred as he approached, pushing up from her haunches with the heavy grace of a creature who had outlived empires. She stepped forward, lowering her massive head until it hovered before him. Jim reached up and laid a calloused hand against her muzzle, the scales warm beneath his palm.

  Aualine let out a deep, contented purr that reverberated through the ground, shaking his boots.

  “Good girl,” he murmured, scratching the scar at the ridge of her jaw. “Ya know… I wouldn’t have minded if you’d hit a bit harder.”

  Aualine gave a soft, almost chiding whine, eyes half-lidded.

  “Aye, I know,” Jim sighed. “You’re too kind for your own good.”

  He smiled and leaned into her warmth, the smell of smoke and iron lingering on her hide, and for a moment the world felt steady again.