The starter perches at Costa Dei Fiori stuck out over the grandstands, above almost five hundred feet of drop to the rocks and waves below. With no second rank opposite, the dragons were spread much further than usual along the start/finish straight, but for now, Phoebe didn’t need to think about that. It was raining still, but it wasn’t the driving, bitter rain of the previous day, just enough to be cold and grim as she quivered with nerves on Soot's back.

Ahead over the cliff, everything was a muddle of grey, except for the red-and-white plastic of the first ring and, below it, the green of the perch lane exit. Both looked incongruously large, she’d never been astride a landed dragon this close to them before. Between the weather and the distance, it was extremely lonely as Soot stepped up onto his perch.

Not being quite so cold, it was easier to feel how wet she already was, a thin layer of rain coating her chin and neck, seeping into the collar of her race suit despite its weatherproofing. Everything about the starting location was odd and a bit awkward; the warning klaxon emanated from more or less directly behind Soot, the starting lights were on a stand jutting out from the right arm of the perch, so she had to look back down the running order to watch them.

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When the lights went out, she felt like she was slow to respond, turning to face the direction of travel before she signalled Soot to launch. He leapt at the first sensation of her movement, though, pushing high with his legs and sweeping his wings downwards, comfortably up and away and through the towering ring before Phoebe could even settle herself.

For a moment, she let her legs slacken, weight forward on her hands to check her grip on the back of his neck. Then his second stroke clapped down and she fell into his rhythm and they were away, the wind teasing them with memories of yesterday’s brutality.