The eastern trails down Monzqora were well-worn, cleared of growth, and divinedamned boring. Ice patches occasionally threatened a slip, though rarely near cliff edges. Any monsters they encountered fled from the more intimidating presence of two warriors and their drake companion. And, finally, the ice volcano was dormant on this face of the mountain.

The true hazards of the journey lay within Zyryxa herself. Stripped of the distractions of preparation and banter, she was engulfed in a blizzard of grief and fury. Thoughts crashed against her consciousness: the irrevocable loss of her mother and the fury toward all who failed her. Even Valinax, with his divinedamned warning, didn’t escape her ire. Zyryxa didn’t feel like talking and Lexyn wasn’t the most verbose companion. The silence left her turmoil amplified.

Dryxl, the traitorous drake, hovered near Lexyn as if vying for her favor. Zyryxa yearned to flee, to fight something tangible, but abandoning Lexyn on the mountainside wasn’t an option. Not even the breathtaking beauty of the Volqori wilderness, sprawling out before her, could dispel her miserable mood. She led them downhill, towards the Everice, impatient to trace the eternally frozen river northward to the sea, where finally she might find worthy targets for her wrath.

From their high vantage, they saw homesteads dotting the tundra. Knowing that families lived within their gelubor palisades and cabins made Zyryxa shake with anger at what Saevah and this divinedamned war had taken from her, what the Rite of the Dragon Warrior deprived her of.

She forced herself to get to know Lexyn, hoping it would drive away her angst. “So, what are the key differences between Volqori physiology and the other races?”

Lexyn startled, as if astonished that Zyryxa was still there. Her eyes remained alert on her surroundings, her hand never loosening its grip on her bow. She stayed close to the drake. She was in for a surprise if she thought Dryxl would rush to her defense. “Um, which differences d-d-do you know?”

“We are superior to the other races.”

Lexyn frowned. “In some ways, perhaps. A petite Volqori woman might lift more than a hulking Leverian.” Lexyn said, growing more confident as she discussed her expertise. “Volqori muscle is dense, granting superhuman strength.”

“That’s why I’m stronger than Pelzyq. My muscles are denser even though his are larger.”

Lexyn nodded. “Size matters, but density matters more. The Ice Champion outweighs Pelzyq, despite him being taller and broader.”

“Strength can be deceiving,” Zyryxa said, noting her initial impressions of Lexyn’s frailty.

“Absolutely,” Lexyn agreed. “Our advantages also lie in our skin and our blood. Those with more affinity to the ice dragons and the cold have tougher skin.”

“I won’t forget your arrow shattering against Vaztyma’s chest.”

“Nor will I,” Lexyn said, smiling.

“Neither will Dryxl forget our first encounter. Eh, Dryx?” Zyryxa nudged the drake. The fiend edged closer to Lexyn. Zyryxa glared at him. “And how does our blood differ from the other races?”

“The rest of the world has red blood.”

“Red? Really?” It was hard to imagine blood that wasn’t blue.

Lexyn grinned. “Truly. Ice Tribe blood is thicker, allowing us to endure freezing temperatures that would kill anyone else within moments. The Fire Tribe, in contrast, has extremely thin blood that lets them survive in heat that would cripple us instantaneously.”

“And it is orange,” Zyryxa added, knowing the denizens of northern Volqor to bleed thusly.

“Exactly!”

Zyryxa flexed. “Sneaky, superhuman muscles, beautiful, draconic skin, and thick, blue blood.” Lexyn kept her gaze lowered.

“So,” Zyryxa said gently, “you mentioned we’re only superior in some ways. What strengths does your Leverian heritage give you?”

“None,” Lexyn muttered. “My skin is too pink and isn’t as tough, my blood isn’t as thick—it’s too dark like my hair—and my muscles are small and weak.”

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Zyryxa paused, her heart aching for Lexyn. She wished she could make Lexyn believe in herself, like Queen Alexia Leveria. “A Leverian once bested both the Fire Champion and the Ice Champion, along with their dragons, at the same time.”

“The Love Queen was the most powerful cognitive-affectomancer the world has ever known.” Lexyn trembled. “I’m nobody. I shouldn’t even be alive.”

“You survived the Rite of the Dragon Warrior! You are tough, powerful, your hair is beautiful, and your blood is more than good enough. Besides, you are someone to me.”

Lexyn shook her head. “I shouldn’t be anyone to you.” Lexyn, eyes misted, lips trembling, she stared morosely at Zyryxa. “I should have died on that divinedamned rite.”

Divinedamned rite. Zyryxa recoiled. Criticizing the Rite of the Dragon Warrior was blasphemy against the Ice Tribe, against Divine Qoryxa herself. “Without the rite, we might as well try to make arrows from unshaved sticks.”

Lexyn’s glare burned into Zyryxa’s icy resolve before she turned and continued down the trail. Zyryxa watched her go, Dryxl padding faithfully beside her. Two paths lay ahead: to uphold tradition and condemn the deviant, or to seek understanding of heretical thoughts. Zyrthalla’s teachings urged compassion, to hear the full story before rendering judgment.

Zyryxa called after Lexyn, “One day, I will be Ice’s Champion. I will decide which traditions to uphold and which to change. Since the time of Divine Qoryxa and Divine Seraxa, the Rite of the Dragon Warrior has kept our tribes strong. But just because something has always been done one way doesn’t mean it must remain so forever. If you have better ideas, I would hear them.”

“Volqor will never want to hear what I have to say,” Lexyn murmured, continuing down the mountain.

“I am not Volqor,” Zyryxa asserted softly. “Not yet.”

“Nobody would listen to me.”

Zyryxa caught up to Lexyn and stood in her path. She took Lexyn’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and smiled. “I am listening, Lexyn.”

Lexyn freed her hand, tears welling in her eyes. “Hyzqar was a talented medican. He was funny, kind, and handsome. He could have matched wits with you just like Valinax. He was my best friend.” Lexyn’s voice broke with sobs. “He was my older brother. In Leveria, he would have lived a good life and saved many lives. In Volqor, he died before his seventeenth year.”

Zyryxa felt the tears freeze on her cheeks. Today, she did not brush them away. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around Lexyn. Words choked in her throat, unable to express the depth of empathy she felt for such profound grief.

“Why did he have to die?” Lexyn sobbed.

Zyryxa struggled for words, grasping for explanations to ease Lexyn’s pain: he was not strong enough for Volqor, Qoryxa wanted him to return to the Ice with her, the tribe needs dragon knights, not medicans. All her justifications felt hollow. Why did such a promising young man, capable of saving countless lives and bringing to joy to others, have to die? Where once Zyryxa looked upon perfect ice, she now saw a crack that she could neither mend nor look away from. Fears for her little brother Abbacyx that she had buried in the snow resurfaced. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him too. There had to be a better way.

Lexyn pushed Zyryxa away. “I’ll spend the rest of my short life in fear because I had to be forged into your stupid fucking arrow! The rite took a piece of wood that was perfectly fine where it was, that had purpose, family, and a home, and snapped me apart, again and again, into something that will never fly.” She buried her face in her cloak, bawling.

Zyryxa wanted to banish Lexyn’s pain, to tell her that surviving made her worthy in Qoryxa’s eyes, that she would soar on a dragon’s back. She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Tears flowed freely now, her breath ragged as she wrestled with her understanding of the world.

For seventeen years, Zyryxa was told what was right and tried desperately to cling to the perfect ice, but tradition’s justifications did not mend the crack. Yes, the Rite of the Dragon Warrior proved a Volqori’s worthiness to bond a dragon, but was it necessary to send a couple hundred sixteen-year-olds into the wilderness each year, knowing that more of them would die than survive, when there were never more than thirteen ice dragons?

Did every Volqori need to be a dragon warrior? Even among those who survived the Rite of the Dragon Warrior, few would ever initiate the Rite of the Dragon Knight, and far fewer would succeed. Instead, the majority that survived until thirty became artisans, craftsmen, homesteaders, parents who never aspired to fly or fight forever. Why did hundreds need to die each year when in thirteen years most ended up doing the same thing anyway?

What of the meritocracy? Nations like Kavova and Leveria were constantly at war over family names and inheritances. In these places, prestigious pedigrees were given favor over merit. The Rite of the Dragon Warrior stripped away one’s inheritance and family name. Each person, whether born to a champion or born even to a Scaleless could become anything once they survived the rite. Yet, Zyryxa felt in her own heart the cost she paid. She was not there when her mother died and she was not even allowed to think of her as her mother anymore. Was there not some better way to maintain meritocracy without forcing parents and children to separate and pretend they were strangers?

Zyryxa knelt beside Lexyn. “You’re right. There must be a better way.” She reached out her hand. “Will you help me find it?”

Lexyn emerged from behind her cloak with red-rimmed eyes, cheeks covered in frozen tears, iced lashes, and one of the most wonderful smiles Zyryxa ever saw. “You aren’t going to abandon me?”

Zyryxa shook her head. “Never.” She chuckled softly. “I don’t think Dryxl would let me.”

Lexyn snorted, wiped away her tears, and took Zyryxa’s hand. “To making Volqor a better place—for everyone.”

“For those like Hyzqar,” Zyryxa said, “for those like Lexyn, and for those like Zyryxa.”

“Don’t forget those like Pelzyq,” Lexyn added with a mischievous grin.

“Maybe not everyone,” Zyryxa laughed.