Ember Flare's Flap and Dash Derby

Bolda the Bright, an adventurous girl Viking with braided red hair, a fur-lined leather tunic, and a carved wooden shield on her back, stands atop a snowy hill gazing down at a sprawling Viking village with colorful crimson, gold, and deep blue banners snapping in the wind. In the background, snow-capped mountains rise behind the Viking village of Stormhaven with a shimmering fjord stretching into the distance.

Something was different about Stormhaven this morning. The sprawling Viking village, nestled between snow-capped mountains and a shimmering fjord, hummed with an excitement that Bolda the Bright could feel all the way down to her boots. Colorful banners—crimson, gold, and deep blue—snapped in the icy wind above the rooftops. Villagers hauled barrels of mead and stacked firewood near the grand outdoor arena carved from ancient stone, its tiered seats rising like giant steps above a frost-covered playing field. Today was the day the Frost Cup Games began, and Bolda intended to win every single event.

Ember Flare, a small blue-green-scaled dragon no bigger than a large dog with golden eyes and translucent wings, tumbles playfully through a snowdrift, shaking frost from his scales with a tiny burst of blue-green flame escaping his nostrils. In the background, snow-covered rooftops of Viking longhouses with colorful crimson, gold, and deep blue banners fluttering above them.

"Bolda! Bolda, wait for me!" A burst of blue-green flame shot into the air, followed by a small dragon tumbling through the snowdrifts. Ember Flare shook the frost from his scales and flapped his wings to catch up. He was no bigger than a large dog, but his curiosity was the size of a mountain. "Did you hear?" Ember said breathlessly, his golden eyes wide. "The Wolfclaw Clan's team lost three players to a fishing voyage. They need new members—desperately." Bolda grinned. "Then they need us." "Us?" Ember tilted his scaly head. "You mean you want to join a team? You usually prefer doing things on your own." "I prefer winning," Bolda corrected him, already marching toward the arena. "And I'm going to carry that team straight to the Frost Cup."

A worn leather ball, stitched together with thick cord, scuffed and darkened from use, resting on a frost-covered stone ledge near the entrance of a grand outdoor arena carved from ancient stone with tiered seats rising like giant steps. In the background, the grand outdoor arena carved from ancient stone with its tiered seats rising like giant steps.

The Wolfclaw team gathered near the arena's entrance, looking about as confident as a ship without a sail. There were four of them: a tall boy who fidgeted with his rope, a sturdy girl who kept adjusting her shield strap, a wiry boy who whispered strategies to no one in particular, and a quiet girl who stood slightly apart, clutching a worn leather ball to her chest. "I'm Bolda the Bright," Bolda announced, planting her feet wide. "And this is Ember Flare. We're here to help you win the Frost Cup." The tall boy exchanged a glance with the others. "We don't need a hero," he said carefully. "We need teammates." "Same thing," Bolda said with a wave of her hand. She didn't notice the quiet girl flinch, or the way Ember's ears drooped at her words.

Bolda the Bright, the adventurous girl Viking with braided red hair and a fur-lined leather tunic, sprints fiercely across a frost-covered playing field, her arms outstretched holding a heavy round Viking shield, her face set with intense determination. In the background, tiered stone seats of the grand outdoor arena rise like giant steps, filled with cheering Viking spectators.

The first event was the shield relay race. Teams had to sprint across the frost-covered playing field while balancing heavy round shields on their outstretched arms, passing them from one runner to the next without dropping them. The trick was timing—each runner had to match their teammate's pace perfectly. But Bolda didn't want to match anyone's pace. She wanted to be fastest. When the horn sounded, she grabbed the shield and launched forward like an arrow, leaving the tall boy stumbling to keep up with her handoff. The sturdy girl nearly dropped the shield because Bolda had thrust it at her too quickly. By the time the quiet girl received it for the final leg, the team's rhythm was shattered. They finished third out of five clans. "Third isn't bad," the wiry boy offered. "Third is losing slowly," Bolda muttered.

A towering wooden pole wrapped in thick rope stretches high into the cold sky, with a gleaming bronze bell hanging at its very top, frost clinging to the rope fibers. In the background, the frost-covered playing field of the grand outdoor arena with colorful crimson, gold, and deep blue banners flying above.

The rope climbing event went no better. Each teammate had to scale a towering wooden pole wrapped in thick rope, ring a bronze bell at the top, and slide back down before the next climber could begin. Bolda scrambled up her pole so fast she actually rang her bell first among all the competitors. But a team is not one person. Instead of cheering her teammates on, Bolda paced at the bottom, shouting instructions they couldn't hear over the roaring crowd. The sturdy girl's hands slipped on the icy rope. The tall boy froze halfway up, his arms trembling. Only the quiet girl climbed steadily, ringing her bell with a calm, practiced pull—but by then, two other clans had already finished. Fourth place. Ember landed softly on Bolda's shoulder. "Maybe if you encouraged them instead of—" "I need better teammates," Bolda interrupted, and Ember went quiet.

A small wooden catapult positioned behind a stone marker on a frost-covered playing field, its arm cocked and ready, with a tall stone hoop standing in the distance across the field. In the background, the grand outdoor arena carved from ancient stone, its tiered seats packed with spectators wrapped in furs.

Then came Dragon Ball—the event everyone had been waiting for. Two teams faced each other across the frost-covered field, each with three small wooden catapults positioned behind stone markers. The goal was to launch a worn leather ball through tall stone hoops at the opposite end. Players had to work together to load, aim, and fire the catapults, adjusting their angle and power with every attempt. Communication was everything. Before the match, the quiet girl tugged Bolda's sleeve. "I've been practicing with the catapults," she said softly. "If you load and I aim, I think I can—" "I've got it," Bolda said, barely glancing at her. "Just stay out of my way and feed me the balls." The quiet girl stepped back, her face unreadable. Ember watched from the sideline, his tail curling with worry.

Bolda the Bright, the adventurous girl Viking with braided red hair and fur-lined leather tunic, stands alone on the frost-covered playing field beside a small wooden catapult, her shoulders slumped and her expression stunned, as a worn leather ball rolls away in the distance. In the background, Viking spectators in the tiered stone seats look on with disappointed expressions.

The Dragon Ball match was a disaster. Bolda tried to do everything herself—loading the worn leather ball, adjusting the catapult's angle, and pulling the release rope all at once. Her first shot sailed wide. Her second bounced off the rim of the stone hoop. The opposing team, who moved together like a school of fish, scored three times before Bolda managed a single point. "Let me help with the aim!" the wiry boy called out. "Move the catapult left!" the sturdy girl shouted. Bolda ignored them both. She yanked the release rope one more time, and the ball flew wildly into the crowd, knocking over a barrel of salted herring. The horn blew. The match was over. The Wolfclaw team had lost their worst round yet, and every member knew exactly why. No one said a word to Bolda as they walked off the field. That silence hurt worse than any defeat.

Ember Flare, the small blue-green-scaled dragon no bigger than a large dog with golden eyes and translucent wings, sits pressed warmly against a cold stone wall, his golden eyes glowing softly in the fading winter light. In the background, the ancient stone wall of the grand outdoor arena stretches upward, dusted with frost.

Bolda sat alone behind the arena, her back against the cold stone wall. Ember Flare settled beside her, his warm scales pressing against her arm. "They hate me," Bolda whispered. "They don't hate you," Ember said gently. "But they feel invisible. You never asked what they were good at. You never listened when they tried to help." He paused, his golden eyes glowing in the fading light. "Being brave doesn't always mean charging ahead, Bolda. Sometimes the bravest thing is stepping back." Before Bolda could respond, a shadow fell over them. An elder Viking with a long silver braid and a walking staff carved from driftwood stood watching her. There was no judgment in her weathered face—only recognition, as if she were looking at a memory of her own younger self.

A walking staff carved from pale driftwood, its surface worn smooth and etched with faint Viking knotwork patterns, leaning against a frost-dusted ancient stone wall. In the background, a dim winter sky with the faint glow of torchlight from the Viking village of Stormhaven.

"I once cost my team the Frost Cup," the elder Viking said, easing herself down onto the stone beside Bolda. "Thirty winters ago, in this very arena. I was the fastest climber, the strongest thrower. I thought doing my best meant doing everything myself." "What happened?" Bolda asked quietly. "I burned out my teammates' spirits before the final round even began." The elder's voice was steady but kind. "Here's what I learned, young one: when the pressure feels enormous, that's exactly when you need to communicate openly with the people beside you. Ask them what they see. Tell them what you need. Listen—truly listen—to their answers." She placed a wrinkled hand on Bolda's shoulder. "Doing your best doesn't mean doing everything. It means lifting up the people around you and trusting their strengths. That takes more courage than any solo victory ever could." Bolda sat with those words long after the elder had gone, turning them over in her mind like a stone worn smooth by the sea.

Bolda the Bright, the adventurous girl Viking with braided red hair and fur-lined leather tunic, stands before her teammates near the small wooden catapults on the frost-covered playing field, her hands open in a gesture of honesty, her expression earnest and humble. In the background, the grand outdoor arena carved from ancient stone with crimson, gold, and deep blue banners snapping in the icy morning wind.

The next morning, before the final Dragon Ball match, Bolda found her team warming up near the catapults. They stiffened when they saw her. "I owe you all an apology," Bolda said. Her voice wavered, but she kept going. "I was so focused on winning that I forgot what a team actually is. I didn't listen to your ideas, and I didn't trust your abilities. That was wrong." She turned to the quiet girl. "You said you'd been practicing with the catapults. I should have listened. Will you be our lead aimer today?" The quiet girl blinked in surprise, then slowly nodded. "And I want to hear everyone's ideas," Bolda continued. "Before every launch, we talk. We decide together. If someone sees something, they speak up, and the rest of us listen. Deal?" One by one, her teammates nodded. The tall boy even smiled. Ember Flare, perched on a stone marker nearby, let out a small, proud puff of blue-green flame.

The quiet girl, a young Viking with dark braided hair, a simple wool tunic, and steady dark eyes, pulls the release rope of a small wooden catapult with calm confidence as a worn leather ball arcs high through the cold air toward a tall stone hoop. In the background, the packed tiered stone seats of the grand outdoor arena, spectators leaping to their feet with arms raised.

The final match was fierce. The Wolfclaw team faced the Ironbear Clan, the tournament's reigning champions, who moved with frightening precision. But something had changed in the Wolfclaw team. Before each launch, they huddled together. The wiry boy calculated the wind. The sturdy girl adjusted the catapult's base. Bolda loaded the worn leather ball with steady hands. And the quiet girl aimed—her dark eyes narrowing as she read the angle of the stone hoop like it was a page in a book she'd memorized. The score was tied with one launch remaining. Bolda's fingers itched to take the final shot herself. Every muscle in her body screamed to seize control. But she looked at the quiet girl, whose hands were already on the catapult's guide rail, calm and sure. "You've got this," Bolda said, and she meant it with her whole heart. The quiet girl pulled the release rope. The worn leather ball arced through the cold air in a perfect, soaring curve—and sailed cleanly through the stone hoop. The arena erupted.

Ember Flare, the small blue-green-scaled dragon no bigger than a large dog with golden eyes and translucent wings, soars through a darkening sky trailing sparks of blue-green flame, circling joyfully above the grand outdoor arena. In the background, colorful crimson, gold, and deep blue banners ripple against a twilight sky above the snow-capped mountains of Stormhaven.

That evening, the Wolfclaw team stood together on the winner's platform as the Frost Cup—a massive silver chalice etched with mountain wolves—was passed from hand to hand. Bolda made sure the quiet girl held it first. Ember Flare circled overhead, trailing sparks of blue-green flame against the darkening sky, and the colorful banners of Stormhaven rippled in the wind as if the village itself were cheering. Bolda watched her teammates laugh and cheer, their faces lit by torchlight, and she felt something she hadn't expected—a warmth that had nothing to do with victory. It was the feeling of belonging to something bigger than herself. She didn't know what next year's Frost Cup would bring. There would be new challenges, tougher opponents, and moments when the pressure would feel enormous all over again. But as she looked at the people standing beside her, Bolda knew one thing for certain: she would never have to face any of it alone.

Ember Flare's Flap and Dash Derby

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