Ren Wildscribe had six weeks to learn a thing no archer had done: hit a target while her dragon flew. The royal tournament allowed mounted shots this year. Ren meant to win it from the saddle. She had shot arrows since she was small. She had never shot one with the ground rushing away beneath her. She stood in the springy field beside the trainer cabin. Riding saddles hung from every post. Her golden dragon crouched low, purple markings bright in the sun, hazel eyes patient. Ren checked the girth strap twice. Her hands were steady. Her stomach was not. "Legs first, then the bow," said Lukus. Her brother leaned against the fence, riding gear scuffed, a belt of small bottles at his hip. He fixed dragons and people both, and he had flown longer than she had walked. "Most riders forget the legs. Then they meet the ground." "I won't fall," Ren said. "You will. That's why we picked this field." He tapped the grass with his boot. It bounced back. "Softest ground for a mile. Now go slow." Ren climbed up. The dragon rose in a smooth beat of wings. The cabin shrank below. Wind pushed her hair back. She gripped with her knees, drew an arrow, and lifted the bow. A straw target waited across the field. She pulled the string. The dragon banked. Her balance slid sideways, and the shot loosed wild into empty sky. Her heart slammed. She grabbed the saddle horn with both hands. "Legs!" Lukus called from below. Ren breathed. She let her knees carry her instead of her hands. She stopped fighting the dragon's motion and started riding with it. When the wings rose, she rose. When they fell, she sank. The dragon felt her settle and held its glide steady, as if it understood exactly what she needed. She drew again. She did not aim at the target. She aimed at where the target would be when the arrow arrived. She let the wingbeat lift her, waited for the still point at the top, and released. The arrow struck the target's edge. Not the center. But it struck. Ren laughed out loud. She circled once and brought the dragon down. The springy field caught its landing with a soft bounce. She slid from the saddle, legs shaking, grinning. Lukus crossed to her. He was not smiling now. He held up her bow and turned it in the light. A thin crack ran through the upper limb, from the strain of the airborne draw. "You did it," he said. "But this bow won't survive practice, let alone the tournament." Ren's grin faded. She took the bow. The crack was real. Her ordinary bow could not take the force of shooting on the wing. She could shoot from her dragon now. That part was solved. But she had six weeks, a splintered bow, and no idea where to find one strong enough to last.