By the end of that year, things had finally devolved into a physical altercation. As the instructor and their classmates pulled them apart, Weysh had shouted at him, “What in the hells is your problem with me?”

“You’re exactly like someone else I hate, you shameful excuse for a dragon,” Noriago had spat back at him. “You make me sick!”

Noriago never explained further, just continued to look at Weysh with utter contempt. The feeling was mutual—Weysh hated Noriago’s stupid beady eyes. He hated his ugly moustache. He hated his annoying Espannian accent. There was a fairly prestigious academy in Espanna, was there not? Why in Movay’s name couldn’t Noriago simply train in his own country?

Now Noriago ran a hand through his bronze hair. “I also heard she said you can take a swim in stone shoes,” he continued and laughed. “She sounds like my kind of girl. I’ll have to introduce myself.”

“At attention,” called General Sol, and Weysh had to bite back his insults, rein in his rage, and fall in line. He stood steaming, the anger festering like it would burn a hole through his stomach. He sent up a silent prayer that he’d be paired against Noriago for whatever training they had that day.

“Today we’ll be running paired aerial pursuit through a hoop course. You’re all old pros so we’re hitting the ground running, folks. Fire is authorized so no holding back. Zui! Make your switch.”

“Yes, General!” Zui, who stood back and to the left of General Sol, nodded and switched to her dragon form. The dragons of Minato spat water, not fire, so she worked as General Sol’s assistant, putting out blazes during training. Weysh thought Zui made a beautiful dragon. She was long, serpentlike, and flowing, with silvery-blue scales that glinted in the sun. Harth was quite lucky.

“You’ll be paired up by surname,” said General Sol. “Each pair will run the course while the rest observe. First up, Nicole Allard and Orah Baudin.”

Weysh let a smug smile take hold of his face. He was almost sure to be paired up with Luiz Noriago. It was like they were fated to be enemies. He watched each match, making mental notes and criticisms, fidgeting with anticipation until sure enough, General Sol called them forward.

“Weysh Nolan and Luiz Noriago.”

They stepped forward together.

“I should offer the poor thing some comfort,” said Noriago, so low only Weysh could hear and still staring ahead at General Sol. “Stuck as she is with you.”

“Shut up, you stinking, wrinkled monkey’s scrotum,” hissed Weysh, also staring ahead. “If I smell you on her, I’ll rip that shit stain you call a moustache off your face and feed it to you.”

“Messer Nolan, you’ll be in pursuit,” said the general.

Perfect.

“Switch!”