https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tf1pcoSrXbI

{Season 1|EP. 8}

"Congrats Alice!" Wendy cheered as she hugged Alice walking into the White Swan Corps. "This place is beautiful!" Alice smiled. The inside of the building highly resembles a small restaurant or pub, mainly constructed of wood. The room possesses a stone floor, and several small, round tables are scattered across it, paired with some chairs. In the right side of the room is a bar counter, complete with a sink and several bottles, which has a wooden platform in front of it, with some more tables and chairs sitting on it, plus some round bar stools by the counter. Behind it is a staircase, with its landing sitting on the only structure of bricks in the inner part of the building, a massive, rectangular column. Leaning against the walls are some bookshelves packed full of books, and at the entrance sides are a pair of plants kept in jars. Some lamps are attached to the pillars adjacent to the walls; one of such walls is covered in a variety of frames, of different size and shape, seemingly housing pictures. "I know! It's a bit smaller than Black Swan Corps but it's still really cool." Musa added. "Come on you have to get your symbol." Carla smiled as they walked towards the bar to see a girl with white hair smiling brightly. "So where do you want your symbol?" She asked. "Blue on my upper left thigh." Alice answered as the girl stamped the stamper on her thigh. Once she removed the stamped a beautiful blue swan silhouette was in its place. "Welcome to White Swan kid." Tequila patted Alice on the shoulder making her smile.

Meanwhile, Zayla was in a large tent text to the arena when Whiskey walked in. "Well, now we're all here - time to fill you in!" said Whiskey brightly. "When the audience has assembled, I'm going to be offering each of you this bag" - he held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them - "from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different - er - varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too. . . ah, yes. . . your task is to collect the golden egg! The person who can get their egg in the quickest time get's the spot."

Zayla glanced around. Caleb had nodded once, to show that he understood Whiskey's words, and then started pacing around the tent again; he looked slightly green. Fiona Delacour and Keith hadn't reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly how Zayla felt. But they, at least, had volunteered for this. . .

And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking. . . . Zayla felt as separate from the crowd as though they were a different species. And then - it seemed like about a second later to Zayla - Whiskey was opening the neck of the purple silk sack.

"Ladies first," he said, offering it to Fiona Delacour.

She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon - a Welsh Green. It had the number two around its neck And Zayla knew, by the fact that Fiona showed no sign of surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he had been right: Madame Maxime had told her what was coming.

The same held true for Keith. He pulled out the scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number three around its neck. He didn't even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground.

Caleb put his hand into the bag, and out came the blueish-gray Swedish Short-Snout, the number one tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Zayla put her hand into the silk bag and pulled out the Hungarian Horntail, and the number four. It stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared its minuscule fangs.

"Well, there you are!" said Whiskey. "You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I'm going to have to leave you in a moment, because I'm commentating. Mr. Caleb, you're first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now. . . Zayla. . . could I have a quick word? Outside?"

"Er. . . yes," said Zayla blankly, and she got up and went out of the tent with Whiskey, who walked him a short distance away, into the trees, and then turned to him with a fatherly expression on his face.

"Feeling alright, Zayla? Anything I can get you?"

"What?" said Zayla. "I - no, nothing. "

"Got a plan?" said Whiskey, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Because I don't mind sharing a few pointers, if you'd like them, you know. I mean," Whiskey continued, lowering his voice still further, "you're the underdog here, Zayla, only being 19 meaning that your the youngest in the fourth test. . . . Anything I can do to help. . . "

"No," said Zayla so quickly she knew she had sounded rude, "no - I - I know what I'm going to do, thanks. "

"Nobody would know, Zayla," said Whiskey, winking at him.

"No, I'm fine," said Zayla, wondering why she kept telling people this, and wondering whether she had ever been less fine. "I've got a plan worked out, I -"

A whistle had blown somewhere.

"Good lord, I've got to run!" said Whiskey in alarm, and he hurried off.

Zayla walked back to the tent and saw Caleb emerging from it, greener than ever. Zayla tried to wish him luck as he walked past, but all that came out of her mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt.

Zayla went back inside to Fiona and Keith. Seconds hater, they heard the roar of the crowd, which meant Caleb had entered the enclosure and was now face-to-face with the living counterpart of his model. . . .

It was worse than Zayla could ever have imagined, sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed. . . yelled. . . gasped like a single many-headed entity, as Caleb did whatever he was doing to get past the Swedish Short-Snout. Keith was still staring at the ground. Fiona had now taken to retracing Caleb's steps, around and around the tent. And Whiskey's commentary made everything much, much worse. . . . Horrible pictures formed in Zayla's mind as he heard: "Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow". . . "He's taking risks, this one!". . . "Clever move - pity it didn't work!"

And then, after about fifteen minutes, Zayla heard the deafening roar that could mean only one thing: Caleb had gotten past his dragon and captured the golden egg.

"Very good indeed!" Whiskey was shouting. "And now the marks from the judges!"

But he didn't shout out the marks; Zayla supposed the judges were holding them up and showing them to the crowd.

"One down, three to go!" Whiskey yelled as the whistle blew again. "Miss Delacour, if you please!"

Fiona was trembling from head to foot; Zayla felt more warmly toward her than he had done so far as she heft the tent with her head held high and her hand clutching her wand. He and Keith were left alone, at opposite sides of the tent, avoiding each other's gaze.

The same process started again. . . . "Oh I'm not sure that was wise!" they could hear Whiskey shouting gleefully. "Oh. . . nearly! Careful now. . . good lord, I thought she'd had it then!"

Ten minutes later, Zayla heard the crowd erupt into applause once more. . . . Fiona must have been successful too. A pause, while Fiona's marks were being shown. . . more clapping. . . then, for the third time, the whistle.

"And here comes Mr. Keith!" cried Whiskey, and Keith slouched out, leaving Zayla quite alone.

She felt much more aware of her body than usual; very aware of the way her heart was pumping fast, and her fingers tingling with fear. . . yet at the same time, she seemed to be outside herself, seeing the walls of the tent, and hearing the crowd, as though from far away.

"Very daring!" Whiskey was yelling, and Zayla heard the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd drew its collective breath. "That's some nerve he's showing - and - yes, he's got the egg!"

Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass; Keith had finished - it would be Zayla's turn any moment.

She stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. She waited. And then he heard the whistle blow. She walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside him. And now she was walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence.

She saw everything in front of her as though it was a very highly colored dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at her from stands that had been magicked there since she'd last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, heaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Zayla didn't know or care. It was time to do what he had to do. . . to focus his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance.

She raised her hand.

"Accio Firebolt!" She shouted.

Zayla waited, every fiber of her hoping, praying. . . . If it hadn't worked. . . if it wasn't coming. . . She seemed to be looking at everything around her through some sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of faces around her swim strangely. . . .

And then she heard it, speeding through the air behind her; she turned and saw her Firebolt hurtling toward him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside her, waiting for her to mount. The crowd was making even more noise. . . . Whiskey was shouting something. . . but Zayla's ears were not working properly anymore. . . listening wasn't important. . . .

She swung her leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground. And a second later, something miraculous happened. . . .

As she soared upward, as the wind rushed through her hair, as the crowd's faces became mere flesh-colored pinpricks below, and the Horntail shrank to the size of a dog, she realized that she had left not only the ground behind, but also her fear. . . . She was back where she belonged. . . .

This was just another Flying Soccer match, that was all. . . just another Flying Soccer match, and that Horntail was just another ugly opposing team. . . .

She looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the gold one, gleaming against its cement-colored fellows, residing safely between the dragon's front legs. "Okay," Zayla told herself, "diversionary tactics. . . let's go. . . "

She dived. The Horntail's head followed her; she knew what it was going to do and pulled out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where she would have been had he not swerved away. . . but Zayla didn't care. . . that was no more than dodging a Defender. . . .

"Great Scott, she can fly!" yelled Whiskey as the crowd shrieked and gasped. "Are you watching this, Mr. Keith?"

Zayla soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still following her progress; its head revolving on its long neck - if she kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy - but better not push it too long, or it would be breathing fire again -

Zayla plummeted just as the Horntail opened its mouth, but this time she was less lucky - she missed the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet him instead, and as she swerved to the left, one of the long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping her jeans -

She could feel it stinging, she could hear screaming and groans from the crowd, but the cut didn't seem to be deep. . . . Now she zoomed around the back of the Horntail, and a possibility occurred to her. . . .

The Horntail didn't seem to want to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on Zayla, she was afraid to move too far from them. . . but she had to persuade her to do it, or she'd never get near them. . . . The trick was to do it carefully, gradually. . . .

She began to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make her breathe fire to stave her off, but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept her eyes on her. Her head swayed this way and that, watching her out of those vertical pupils, her fangs bared. . . .

She flew higher. The Horntail's head rose with her, her neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, hike a snake before its charmer. . . .

Zayla rose a few more feet, and she let out a roar of exasperation. She was like a fly to her, a fly she was longing to swat; her tail thrashed again, but she was too high to reach now. . . . She shot fire into the air, which he dodged. . . . Her jaws opened wide. . . .

"Come on," Zayla hissed, swerving tantalizingly above her, "come on, come and get me. . . up you get now. . . "
And then she reared, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small airplane - and Zayla dived. Before the dragon knew what she had done, or where she had disappeared to, she was speeding toward the ground as fast as she could go, toward the eggs now unprotected by her clawed front legs - she had taken his hands off her Firebolt - she had seized the golden egg -

And with a huge spurt of speed, she was off, she was soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely under her uninjured arm, and it was as though somebody had just turned the volume back up - for the first time, she became properly aware of the noise of the crowd, which was screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup -

"Look at that!" Whiskey was yelling. "Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get her egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Zayla! Zayla wins!" Whiskey yelled.