The Dragon's Fire (Peregrine x ze_kraken)

[Peregrine]

Walking from the nursery to the hallway to the outside was always a shock for Nena, despite the fact that she'd been making the transitions for nearly twenty years now. It was impossible not to react, when the nursery was so hot and dry it always made Nena wonder if she was about to wither like a corpse, the air in the hallways was so moist from the humidifying systems it felt like someone had pressed a towel over her face and her hair immediately plastered to the back of the neck, and then the heat sun struck her like a blow as soon as she stepped outside. She almost always paused just outside the door to the stable, taking a brief moment of respite in the shade of a nearby awning, to give her stunned system a chance to recover and wait for the water that had beaded on her skin from the walk through the hallways to evaporate.

Today, though, Nena didn't pause. Five minutes ago a stableboy had found her turning the eggs in one of the nurseries, and told her that Munjid had sent people looking for her, Magen, and Latif, and that he wanted them to get to his office as soon as possible. Nena had frozen at the stableboy's words, and her first instinct had been to halt her task and head over immediately. She, Magen, and Latif made up the three head officers of the stable, and he wouldn't have called for them if it wasn't something important. But she forced herself to relax, thank the stableboy for the information, and then continue turning over the eggs with both patience and gentleness. She couldn't leave this task undone, or take the risks of rushing and messing something up. As soon as possible would simply have to be after she finished this.

Of course, she had no problems making the decision that she could make up for a bit of her spent time by not taking her customary break in the shade, so instead she bore the full brunt of the sun immediately, eyes narrowing to slits against the pain of the glare, as she set off for the small, detached building where Munjid had his office.

Of course, her rush had proved unnecessary. Nena couldn't decide whether it said more about her or Munjid that the stablemaster wasn't even in his office when Nena arrived, nostrils slightly flared from the brisk walk as she took deep breaths to control her panting. She'd rapped briskly against Munjid's door once she had her breathing mostly under control, and had received no answer. The handle on the door had been locked. She'd been left leaning against the wall near the door, fuming.

Of course, Nena was always one to show up fifteen minutes before the expected time for a meeting, and she knew most people in the city considered "when the sun's high in the sky" to be a perfectly reasonable description of when they hoped to meet up with someone else, but Nena had assumed Munjid might have a little more consideration when his instructions had been "as soon as possible". Obviously she had been wrong.

She was left tapping her foot for another restless two minutes that felt a lot more like ten, before Mugen opened the door, letting in a ray of sunshine, a puff of sand, and the man himself. Nena acknowledged the man with little more than a curt nod, and he didn't even bother to return that. Instead, he limped his way over to the door to Munjid's office, and knocked harshly. Nena scowled at his back. As if she wouldn't have thought to try that.

Munjid didn't answer Magen's insistent pounding any more than he had Nena's polite rap from a couple minutes ago, and the man was forced to retreat to a wall on the opposite side of the door, occupying a position quite similar to Nena's own, albeit mirrored.

Munjid showed up with Latif half a step behind him a few minutes later, which had seemed even longer than her wait when the hallway had been empty, because now she had to listen to Magen and his wheezing breath the whole time. For a moment he seemed taken aback by the fact that Nena and Magen were standing there, before the brief expression was buried under the mask of competence he always wore. If she was feeling perfectly honest Nena wasn't much more font of Munjid than she was of Magen, but at least Munjid had the emotional maturity to act like a professional. He did his work, trusted Nena to do hers, and they only had to cross paths rarely. Magen couldn't manage more than that first one.

Latif settled near Nena while they all waited for Munjid to struggle through the process of unlocking his door. She leaned in slightly closer to Latif, gaze curious."Do you know what this is about?"

Latif nodded, rubbing the stump of his right shoulder unconsciously with his left hand. Despite Latif's penchant to snap at anyone who bumped him the wrong way, literally or metaphorically, Nena liked him a lot better than Magen and Munjid combined. The old man could be a bit of a curmudgeon at times, and every one of the handler trainees had borne the brunt of one of his tongue lashings at least once, if not more, but he'd also seen enough of life that he knew exactly what he cared about and what he didn't. In a world as cutthroat as this one, that kind of straightforwardness was as refreshing as the first cool breeze after the sun dropped below the horizon.

Latif didn't offer any more information about why they had been summoned, and Nena cocked an eyebrow at him, silently prompting him to spill the beans. He didn't seem particularly willing.

"Munjid will tell you as soon as he gets the door open. No point in saying it twice."

Nena let the matter drop, half because she knew Latif would get impatient if she kept pushing, half because the sound of metal sliding across stone reached her ears, as Munjid finally managed to get his key to slide the bolt that held the door closed. Even if she pushed, it was doubtful Latif would be able to say anything before Munjid ushered them into his office.

A moment later and they'd filled four of the six chairs in the room, and Munjid had cracked the window in hopes of getting a trace of airflow through the stuffy room. Nena considered the wait far worse than the oppressive mustiness of the air.

Munjid took a couple moments to shift around in his chair while Nena did her best to school her expression to something that wouldn't reveal her impatience. Finally, however, he seemed satisfied with the way he had oriented his bulk, and got down to business.

"I'm certain you all know Youssef…"

"Samir's son, Youssef?" Magen clarified before Munjid could get anything else out, a scowl crossing his face.

Munjid leveled a harsh stare at Magen. "Yes, that Youssef, and if I hear the faintest rumor that you made that expression in reference to our Sultan's son again, it won't go well for you."

Magen opened his mouth to protest, but Nena spoke up before this conversation could end up any more derailed. She understood the reason for Munjid's anger to an extent, Youssef was technically his nephew, but if he and Magen got into a pissing contest, it would never end. "Why are you bringing him up, Munjid?"

Potential catastrophe successfully averted, Munjid turned his attention to Nena. His expression was hard, and vaguely resigned "Youssef is coming here." When his statement didn't earn any reaction from Nena or Magen, he continued. "To train as a handler."

Silence lingered on for another couple seconds, before Magen finally spoke up. "You must be joking." For once, Nena found herself agreeing with something the man said.

Munjid shook his head. "I've already spoken to Latif about it. We are going to be assigning Nadjilla as his personal trainer, and he'll be working with the small wyvern Bihjan just finished training. That should hopefully ward off… potential disasters."

"But…"

"This isn't a meeting to ask your opinion on the matter, Magen," Munjid snapped. "It is a meeting to tell you how it is going to be. Youssef might be a bit... " It looked like Munjid was struggling to pick an appropriate word. "Immature at times, but he is still one of Samir's sons. I expect you to remember that, and behave accordingly."

This time it was Nena's turn to frown. "He may be Samir's son, but if he gets anywhere near the nurseries, I'm going to give him as solid a thrashing as I would any trainee, Sultan's son or otherwise."

Munjid nodded. "Of course. Samir isn't expecting us to coddle him, and we have our rules. If he breaks one, he will be in just as much trouble as any other trainee. But that doesn't mean he is any other trainee, and he certainly won't be put through the normal, err, tests."

Nena winced slightly, remembering a few of the "tests" she'd been put through when she'd been just a girl. One had involved dousing her in a water tank before throwing her on the back of a sleeping drake. She still had the burn marks on her stomach. She wished she'd had some relationship with the Sultan to protect her then; the fact that her father was the head breeder at the time hadn't spared her anything.

Nena didn't seem to be the only one recalling some of the trials they'd been put through. Every one of the people in this room, except for Munjid that was, had been put through them. Munjid, however, didn't seem to sense their discomfort, and continued without pausing. "I expect you to distribute that information to the rest of the people under you, and keep an eye on the situation. If anything happens, I'll make sure everyone in this room takes equal blame."

No one doubted his words.

 

[ze_kraken]

Dawn had come too early. Its rosy tendrils had peaked over the horizon, cutting through the gaps in the young prince's curtains, rousing him from his slumber. Agitated, Youssef rolled over and reached feebly for the curtains, hand coming short. He was dimly aware of the dip and bob of his father's pleasure barge as he cracked open one uncooperative eye, wincing as the eye, crusted shut, snapped open. Blinking several times as his eyes adjusted to the sudden flood of light, Youssef stumbled forward and meekly tugged the curtain shut. He shut his eyes and clutched at his temples, suddenly feeling the sharp throb of a migraine.

A wave of nausea welled up inside of Youssef as he hobbled back to his bed. He managed two steps before rushing back to the window, flinging it open and hunching over the edge of the ship to wretch. Coughing and spluttering, he hauled himself back into his bed chambers and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. Youssef slid to the ground, back to the wall as he let out a mirthless chuckle.

A knock on the door suddenly boomed through the bed chamber. Flinching at the noise, Youssef raised a feeble hand to shield himself as light flooded into the room from the opened door. A man dressed in flowing blue silk stepped into the room. He was broad shouldered, skin stained a subtle shade of blue, a similarly shaded turban wrapped around his head. At his side sat a curved scimitar, and his boots were shod with iron. The man let out a curt laugh as he examined the young prince. His boots thudded against the wooden deck, each step sending daggers through Youssef's head.

"When your father told me you had taken his barge for the week, I had not expected you to remain docked at port," the man said, chuckling. "I had expected to have to send vessels up and down the river to track you down."

Youssef swung his head up to look the Tuareg in the face. An unruly beard sprawled across the man's face, his skin pitch dark. His chiseled brow was furrowed as he returned the prince's bleary-eyed stare with an inquisitive one.

"Do pardon me if I've," Youssef coughed, grimacing as the sudden motion send pain flaring behind his eyes. "...Forgotten your name. My father has made it a habit to send a new errand boy to fetch me on such occasions.."

"My name does not matter," the Tuareg responded. "No more than hers does, I imagine."

The man gestured to the bed. Youssef spun to trace his index finger, spotting a woman tangled in the sheets. The young prince let out an audible groan to the apparent amusement of the man before him.

"I take it, then," he continued. "You have no recollection of today's significance, do you?"

Youssef blinked.

"Ah, so you don't. You, my prince, are to report to your father's training grounds by noon," the Tuareg said dryly. "Come, on your feet. I will not stake my reputation upon your incompetence."

"You cannot talk to me like that, Berber," Youssef growled, stumbling to his feet and swerving as the vertigo returned. "I am your rightful prince!"

"And if you remember this encounter when the morrow comes, I shall face whatever punishment you deem fit," the man replied. "Now come."

Youssef, leaning heavily upon the Tuareg, staggered out of his father's pleasure barge and out into the docks of the city. Pain assailed his five senses as the two made for a pair of horses picketed at the base of the gangway. A low ringing assaulted his ears, he tasted bile upon his tongue, he smelled the cloying stench of vomit and wine clinging to his body, he felt sharp pain blaring behind his eyes, and he saw lights dancing around his peripheral vision. The prince knelt to vomit once more, feeling the Tuareg's strong hands hoist him back to his feet, half guiding half dragging the man to his horse. With Youssef strapped into his saddle, the two proceeded into the city, the sights, sounds, and smells of the city mingling with his already frayed senses. Eyes tightly shut, Youssef clung to his horse and counted the seconds as they meandered on by.

What felt like hours passed as Youssef and his escort pressed on into the city. His stomach, now empty, had quieted and his ears had ceased ringing but his migraine persisted and his eyes still struggled to open wider than a hair's breadth. Suddenly the horses came to a halt and Youssef could hear the Tuareg and someone else briefly conversing. Iron grinding against iron sounded, and the horses continued.

"Where..." Youssef spluttered. "Where are you taking me?"

"You should not concern yourself with speaking, my prince, we are nearly there."

The prince grunted. Minutes passed before the horses came to a stop again. Youssef could hear his companion dismount and did the same, slipping from his saddle and tumbling to the ground. The Tuareg's hand gripped the prince's arm and hauled him to his feet, shoving him forward. Youssef opened his eyes and wheeled around, raising a hand to block out the sun. He stood in the courtyard of his father's palace complex, sandstone walls surrounding him. The royal gardens sprawled from the gate to the palace, leaving the flanks of the main road barren and coated in sand. To his left stood the entrance to his father's dragon nursery, the building constructed far more practically than the main palace, though it was no less lavish. Two stone drakes stood on either side of the entrance, their necks intertwining into a dual-headed dragon crest that peered out from the top of the gates. Four guards stood on either side of the mammoth gates, each clad in a chain mail and leather and armed with barbed spears.

Understanding flickered through Youssef and he let out a low groan as he looked back to the Tuareg.

"I wish you best my prince," he replied, eyes twinkling with amusement. "If all goes well, we two shall never cross paths again."

The blue-clad men bowed to Youssef in the traditional sign of respect and mounted his horse, clutching both beasts' reigns and guiding them away, back towards the royal stable. Youssef stood there, watching as the Tuareg vanished into the royal gardens, and turned to face the gates.

Shit.

 

[Peregrine]

The stable was divided up into three major areas. The nursery was the smallest, albeit the most well protected. The next largest was the stable itself, where mature but untrained dragons were kept when they weren't undergoing training. However, the area that took up the most space was the training ground, where retired handlers worked with young dragons, drumming responses to various whistle commands into them so that they would execute the actions unconsciously when it came time for them to be put to work out in the wider world.

The training grounds were connected directly to the stable by a covered passageway, and that passageway created two alcoves, one on either side. Somewhere along the line a pump had been set up there, and not long afterwords someone else had set up several brightly colored tarps to provide shade. Someone else had dragged in chairs, and that was all it had taken for the area to quickly transform into a space where trainers on break would pass the time.

That was the space where Bihjan was resting now, having only moments ago chased another trainer out of what he considered "his" seat. It wasn't that the half lounge chair was particularly comfortable, notably convenient to the water pump, or even that well shaded. As a matter of fact, the chair was broken, one handle having been kicked off who knew when, and it had taken part of the seat along with it. Perhaps that was the reason the other trainer was willing to give it up. Or maybe it was Bihjan's not-so-subtle reminder that his wildly twisted right leg made this the only chair in the resting area he could actually sit in. It was also possible that his glare, combined with the subtle head-tilts of a few of the nearby trainers, had chased the younger man off.

Whatever the reason, Bihjan settled happily into the chair, his knee passing neatly through the broken gap in the wood. He placed the small cup of water on the remaining armrest, and proceeded to tilt his head backwards, closing his eyes against the speckled sunlight that fell through the holes in the overhead tarp.

"I figured I might find you here," a voice to Bihjan's back said, the sound not too unlike two stones grinding against one another. "That chair is far too uncomfortable for any mere mortal to sit."

For a couple moments Bihjan didn't bother to open his eyes. The grating voice was practically as familiar as his own, and he didn't need to open his eyes to identify the speaker.

"Nadjilla," Bihjan replied, sounding as though she'd just woken him up from a delightful nap. He knew his mock irritation would have absolutely no impact on her.

The sound of something dragging across the ground, however, did finally force him to crack one eye open. What came into view was a stout woman dragging a chair behind her. She set the chair down and seated herself opposite Bihjan, examining him with her one good eye while the other man stared blearily back at her. Nadjilla's other eye, milky white, stood at the tip of a wheeling scar that spanned from the cleft of her chin to her brow, taking with it the left corner of her lip. Her head was shaved, her baldness apparent even though she wore a pale blue silk scarf wrapped around her face to shield herself from the sun.

The woman laid her spear across her hips and grinned.

"Did you hear? They gave the brat to me."

"They don't like it when you move the chairs," Bihjan 'replied', the exact same comment he always gave whenever Nadjilla, or anyone else for that matter, dragged one of the chairs somewhere it didn't belong. There was no telling exactly who that 'they' was, but there was no denying that they didn't like it. Whenever Bihjan left for a couple hours and returned, the chair would be right back where it had started, as though it had simply snapped back to the position after it had been vacated. Of course, there was no official rule, and the one time someone had left a note asking that the chairs not be moved, everyone had woken up the next morning to find every single chair scattered across the entire stable.

There were no notes left around after that.

Of course, Nadjilla gave the exact same reply whenever Bihjan mentioned her removal of the chairs. "What will they do? Exile me?"

Satisfied that their particular little ritual was complete, Bihjan turned his attention to the more pressing matter. Youssef. "I heard," he replied, almost as though they had never spoken about moving chairs. He didn't seem particularly concerned by Nadjilla's revelation, but a moment later a frown crossed his face. "Did you hear they are giving him my wyvern?"

Nadjilla blanched at the news, lips turning downward in a scowl. "Oh but of course they did, bet he might even be in charge of the whole god-forsaken stable in a month, too!"

The woman gripped her spear tightly, knuckles flaring white. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and made a clear effort to relax herself. Bihjan did his best not to think about the graceful, rust red wyvern he had been working with for the past year. If he thought about her being forced to respond to the brat's whistle, he'd get... His hand clenched abruptly around the armrest, and it was lucky that Nadjilla started speaking again right then, or the chair might have been lacking an armrest on both sides, instead of only one.

"I won't let them coddle him, though," she vowed. "Sultan's brat or not - if he thinks he can flaunt some name around and have another title blindly handed to him, then I believe he might be sorely disappointed."

She laughed then, a sound harsher than her voice. "It's for the best my reputation will not proceed me: my former pupils rarely have many pleasant things to share, as I'm sure you'd be surprised to hear."

"Good," Bihjan replied, a flash of russet scales appearing in his mind's eye. "She's one of the best I've trained, and she'll follow any command he gives without question. Even if it ends up hurting her. That's no doubt why they are giving her to him, can't have the Sultan's precious brat getting clawed up by a dragon, but if he wrecks her..." The wood creaked under a sudden increase in pressure, and Bihjan had to remind himself to loosen his grip. He almost didn't notice as a callous hand reached out and gently touched his taut fingers.

"He would not dare," Nadjilla remarked matter of factly, voice edged with steel.

The corner of Bihjan's lips twitched slightly at Nadjilla's reassurance, but a moment later he seemed to sag. "I doubt he would do it purposefully. That's what scares me."

"I doubt anything he will do will have any purpose to it at all," Nadjilla shrugged. "With any luck he'll grow bored of wanting to play dragon tamer and move on-"

The woman was cut off as a stablekeep timidly approached the pair, doing his best to keep from fidgeting as he cleared his throat.

"Uh, Nadjilla, sir?" He asked, staring at Bihjan.

"Yeah?" The response was barely half a syllable, more a grunt than anything else.

"The sultan's son has arrived," the boy muttered. "You're supposed to go meet him and show him around."

"Of course..." Nadjilla shot Bihjan a sideways glance, lips twitching in a smirk. "Well, sorry Bihjan, but you're no reason to keep royalty waiting."

Bihjan seemed unamused, frowning slightly as he waved Nadjilla away with the back of his hand. "Go." There was a scoff in his voice, but it wasn't directed at her so much as it was at the situation. "And make sure he understands exactly how lucky he is to be working with a dragon like that red."

"I think he will be too busy lamenting what cruel mistress intertwined his wyrd with mine to notice," she replied, waving as she left with the stableboy.

Bihjan stared after her as she walked away, before closing his eyes and leaning back against the chair. "I suppose that will have to do," he replied to nobody in particular.

 

[ze_kraken]

Youssef's condition had not improved in the delay that followed between his arrival at the taming grounds and the sudden opening of the gates. The guards during that time had examined him in equal parts uncertainty and pity, unsure if the young noble intended to move at all. The prince flinched at the metallic crunch of the grinding gears and staggered forward as a single woman approached, using her spear to support herself. Once the two were within earshot of one another, the woman raised a clenched fist. Youssef halted, barely managing to keep himself on his feet as his legs threatened to give out underneath him.

"Merhaba," the woman stated in greeting. "You are Youssef I take it?"

Before Youssef could reply, the woman continued.

"Of course you are, because only royalty would dare approach this stable in such a state," she continued, her voice grating against Youssef's ears. "Only a Sultan's son would dare to arrive late, vomit fresh on his tunic, eyes bloodshot and hair awry."

The woman took a wide step towards Youssef, glowering at him with a mismatched stare.

"But understand this," she asserted. "The moment you walk through these gates, you cease to be a Sultan's son. You will be no more valuable or influential than a stable hand, and while some here may coddle you, or call you my prince, you will get no such treatment from me. You earn your keep here with actions, not names. Have I made myself clear?"

Youssef managed a curt nod. The woman turned around and strode to the gates, making no move to confirm that the prince was following her. He coaxed his protesting body into motion, following behind the woman, vision swimming at the sudden call to movement. As he passed the gates, they began to shut behind him, clashing together with a loud thud. The last time Youssef had visited the grounds he had been a young boy, more interested in petting the hatchlings and watching the dragons fly than anything else. The compound looked far different than he had remembered - a large swath of it was open ground, the stable dominating the center. Left of the stable stood a smaller structure, a long hallway serving as the only way in or out. The stable was similarly constructed, three hallways visible from where Youssef stood.

"I didn't catch your name earlier," Youssef croaked, hastening to catch up with the woman.

"That's because I never told you."

When it became clear that the woman would not elaborate, Youssef pressed her.

"I believe even the stable hands know your name, though I'm sure it's only in hushed whispers," he said.

"Nadjilla."

The two reached a third structure in the compound - a small hut that extended only about four feet from the ground. It was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. Youssef gave the woman, Nadjilla, a quizzical stare. Without a word, she hunched down and swung open the door to the building, revealing a set of stairs that extended down into the earth below. Moisture clung to the walls, and Youssef swore he could feel the humidity pulsing from the stairway.

"These are the quarters," Nadjilla explained. "You will sleep, eat, and bathe here. Your own chambers will be assigned when next you sleep."

Dozens of questions surged through Youssef's aching head, the most pressing of which escaped his lips without second thought.

"When next I sleep?"

"Aye, it might be this evening. It might not," Nadjilla replied, good eye twinkling with amusement. "Now come, there is still much to see..."

By the time the two had finished their walk around the grounds, introducing Youssef to the proving grounds for the dragons and the staff of the compound, the stables, and the nursery, Youssef was running on his last ounce of endurance. The sun hung directly overhead, worsening his headache, which in turn brought his nausea pulsing back with it. Nadjilla produced something from a pouch slung at her side and offered it to him. When he did not respond, verbally or otherwise, the woman clutched his arm and dragged it forward, forcing a small metal object into his hand and shutting it tightly.

"Lastly, this is your whistle," Nadjilla stated.

"I can see that," Youssef replied, staring at the object, his vision showing double.

"You will learn how to use this properly in due course. But for now, know this: if you lose it, you leave. I don't care if you left it in your bunk and find it while you are cleaning your shit from your quarters, I don't care if a thief stole it from you at knife point. If I ask for your whistle and you don't have it on you, you leave. It was made for your arrival, and on it you will find your name, so do not try and borrow someone else's should you be lacking yours. Understood?"

The young prince swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good. Now, with that out of the way, let us begin in earnest. Oh? Did you think your birth or your inattention would excuse you?" Nadjilla let out a harsh laugh and clapped the prince on the shoulder. He flinched at the contact. "Unfortunately you won't have the honor of meeting with me again for some time - you are to report to the proving grounds for group instruction with the other fresh recruits. From there on, you are at the mercy of your instructor. When you have been deemed fit for further training, then we shall see if you are worth my time."

 

[Peregrine]

Farid cast a heavily lidded glance at the field in front of him, gaze limp and disinterested. Basic training was taking place in a half-sized arena that was normally used to test small groups of young wyrms. Now it was being used to test small groups of young handlers. In this moment, Farid couldn't help but feel a small affinity for the young dragons. They were both being put through baby lessons.

But that brief feeling of connection vanished as soon as Farid saw the five other young men and women who were currently gathered together in a loose circle while they waited for their instructor to arrive. Farid had been a part of this group once, but he had no interest in joining them now. Two years ago he would have considered people like these his comrades, but that had been two years ago. Now he had no intention of trying to associate with them again. He didn't belong here, and he'd be gone again soon enough. One hand raised to stroke the metal whistle that hung on a cord around his neck.

Farid might not believe he belonged here, but Latif, or someone directly under the head handler, certainly did. And Farid knew full well that you didn't dispute the decisions of your seniors if you hoped to stay at the stable for long. That was why he'd swallow this punishment, and would work his way stoically through the next month of his forced return to basic training. And he'd use that time to plan, and make sure next time he went to see the green drake, he wouldn't get caught before he had a chance to work with the giant dragon.

None of the five young men and women who were also present in the arena were new to basic training, even if most of them still had many months to go before they would be able to leave said training for some of the more advanced material. This meant the moment Tarik's clipped grey hair and carefully pressed military uniform appeared through one of the doorways the small group quickly ceased their chatter and spread out, forming into a neat row with toes almost perfectly aligned.

Farid, still on the far side of the arena, picked up his pace, jogging across the packed dirt ground to pick up a position at the end of the line. This action finally caused the other recruits to glance in his direction, and a brief look of surprise to cross their faces. It was clear from his age, from his lean, muscled form, and from the scars that criss-crossed his forearms that Farid was anything but a new recruit. However, their curiosity was stifled by Tarik, who clapped his hands to turn their attention to him once more.

Suddenly, and before Tarik had a chance to speak, the main gates to the arena creaked open, accompanied by the screech of unoiled hinges. A young man squeezed through a crack in the gates, glanced around the open floor at the line of people. Every single head immediately turned in that direction, and Farid heard a muffled chuckle from one of the other people in line, the recruit clearly not as skilled at hiding his emotions as everyone else in the area except Tarik himself. For his part, Farid had to stop himself from shaking his head at this person's ignorance. There were plenty of human sized doors scattered all across the training arena, all of which were easily accessible. Of course, whoever it was had decided to use the only door in the entire area suitable for dragons.

After awkwardly struggling to close the door once more, the new recruit took his spot by Farid, doing his best to mimic the stance of his fellows, sweat beading down his brow. Tarik watched the newcomer, his gaze not revealing any of his thoughts as his eyes turned forward again.

The look he had gotten as this particularly stunning case of fresh meat had walked over was more than enough for him to tell that this new arrival was a brand new recruit, if his entrance through the door hadn't already clearly given it away. Harsh training and long days had long since sculpted Farid's body to look as though it was carved from hard stone. Even the recruits, who hadn't been here for the years Farid had already put in, still had clearly defined musculature and the beginning of the firm, rigid look common to all dragon handlers. In contrast to everyone else, this new handler was soft as silk. His gut extended ever so slightly past his belted waist, and his face blurred into a continuous whole with his neck. He ungracefully wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

As Tarik turned his back on the new arrival, Farid used that moment to lean in slightly closer to the new arrival. "You look about as pleased to be here as I feel," Farid whispered, making sure his voice was pitched so that no one but the young man next to him would be able to hear the quiet words. As of yet nothing about the other young man had inspired much confidence, but he couldn't help but feel a trace of curiosity for this newblood. He was, at the very least, more interesting than anyone or anything else in this arena, and Farid would have to settle for that.

"So you're clearly in bright spirits," the man countered sarcastically.

Farid's lips twitched, but his mask remained otherwise intact. Sarcasm. He couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for this fresh meat to learn that kind of response would never get him anywhere in this place. Well, he'd have to learn himself. "If you've got enough energy for snark, you must not be doing too bad."

"I've been a fair bit better," he gave a twitch of his shoulders as if to shrug. "You know who I am?"

Farid gave a carefully measured shrug in response. "You're a newblood." It seemed that was all the definition Farid was concerned about. Which the newblood missed, if his response was any indication.

"Youssef Bardakcı," he replied instead, chest swelling with pride, clearly assuming the other trainer would recognize the name.

It was a correct assumption. There was no one in the city who would not recognize the surname of their Sultan, even if they might not recognize Youssef by his name. The Sultan had many sons, and most people did not bother to keep track of more than a couple of the most notable ones.

As for Farid's thoughts about Youssef's proclamation of identity, they were less than flattering. Pride. There was another useless reaction. Self-confidence was important, but Farid had long since learned that the people who controlled this place were much quicker to react to humility than they were to arrogance. A name wouldn't help Youssef here.

"And I'm Farid, if we're exchanging names. But I'm afraid a name won't get you very far here. Nothing but time will do that."

"So everyone else has said," Youssef remarked dryly.

"I'm glad you've figured that out so well, then." It actually sounded like a compliment, taken out of context.

"I am so glad you have taken a liking to our boy-prince, Farid," Tarik suddenly boomed from further down the line of recruits,catching on to Farid's lack of attention to the proceedings. "Looks like he'll be your partner, that way you two can just ignore what I have to say together. It'll be fucking grand."

Farid casually straightened back up, the movement almost imperceptible. He met Tarik's eyes without any particular shame at having been told off for chatting. He might have been ordered to return to basic training as a punishment, but everyone knew it was little more than a slap on the wrist for the handler-in-training. He had nothing to learn from this class anymore, or Tarik for that matter. There was a reason the man was only ever in charge of basic training. It was his job to force military discipline upon new recruits and teach them things anyone could learn. Farid was far beyond such content.

He'd always hated basic training. The endless repetition on things he'd already learned, the strict requirements, the senseless putdowns. But he'd never forgotten how to play the game, and the lessons he'd learned still stuck with him.

The salute he snapped out was flawless. "Yes, sir. I'd be happy to show the newblood the ropes."

"Well shit, it looks like you did learn something your first go around," Tarik quipped, turning his attention to Youssef. "And who's this paragon of timeliness?"

"Youssef-"

"Youssef. We'll keep it at that. Well Youssef, that's the last time you will show up late to my training. If you so much as dare poke your head through those gates just one second late, I will rip out your eyes so you can watch me end you."

Before Youssef could respond, Tarik took a step back and paced in front of the line, glance flickering over the new recruits. His bushy brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he examined them.

"So as I was saying before his royal shitstain interrupted," the former muharib began again. "I expect you to be at your posts here, every morning, on time." He shot a glare at Youssef. "Many of you will come to hate me, but the more you hate me, the more fun this job gets for me. Now, each of you sound off with your whistle and let's get started."