Training dragons to do anything is never easy, let alone training them to race three and a half furlongs around a track.

Dragons are independent creatures, symbols of nobility and dominance. They could kill men with just one flick of their tail and they can easily assert their authority over the land and the sky.

With muscles rippling, their strength is comparable to that of God Himself, while their predatory grace allows them to swoop from the heavens and pick off their quarry in a single second. Meanwhile, their factory of fire is an oratory to all those who dare challenge their supremacy, a hidden testament to the power that is stationed within.

But humans, as they had done with cows and pigs before them, had found a way to breed this species, to select particular traits and to cast aside those which were deemed undesirable. Genetic engineering had catalysed the process and, as ever, it was the pursuit of money which had resulted in the negation of morality. The progress of science had not progressed the soul.

Racing had always been big business. First, they had used horses but entrepreneurs experimented with dragons in the mid-21st century. The sport had instantly taken off. Not only was it faster than conventional racing, it was also more competitive, with the dragons' pride ensuring they all wanted to finish first. With the prize of creating a lineage by being put out to stud, the rewards for success were made even higher and this had only made the dragons compete harder.

The sport was also safer as there was no need for jockeys due to the regimented training all dragons had to endure. Each race also happened inside a minute, which budgeted for the hurried impatience of contemporary life. Fun was time-managed, like everything else.

Marketing soon became omnipotent as businessmen jostled to sell a piece of the action. Horses became redundant and were driven to extinction as the sight of a swooping dragon - wings outstretched and resplendent - developed a romantic inference of glory and success. It was as if the 'Sport of Kings' had found an even nobler cause.

It also meant that dragons had become the slaves of men; their fire extinguished by tranquilizers, their power sedated by submission. The noble creature had met an ignoble fate. They were bred purely for profit, which was no life for a sentient creature.

But the subjugation of a race is part of the trappings of power and although some condemned the practice, there were many who believed it was a statement of intent. As superpowers had done before, they used subjugation as a tool to assert their control. History was merely repeating itself.

***

Chén looked up at the featureless sky. A few years ago, there would have been hundreds of his kind between the earth and the heavens. Now there was just emptiness. He sighed and looked out of the stable towards the other captives, trussed within their tiny stalls. He wondered whether they ever yearned to be free, but they always looked so supine. Maybe he was just stronger at fighting off the poison.

He sighed again. Neatly packaged in efficient rows, they were all wrapped up and protected against the elements. But dragons don't need protection - at least not from the weather. The only thing they needed protection from was the protectors.

Chén looked down at the chain binding his feet to the stall. He kicked at it nonchalantly, in futility and in boredom, hoping that the strong links would somehow fall apart. It was a desperate hope but hope is the last vestige of the desperate.

In the distance he heard the sound of laughter and yearned to feel such freedom again. The city was a hubbub of noise, as dizzying and confusing as the effect of the tranquilizers.

In contrast to the dullness of his purgatory, the city felt alive. Music drifted through the air with a soundtrack of chatter, while the scent of roast chestnuts and noodles tingled his senses. He breathed in. It was a whiff of the life he had once had, before he had been taken to this place as part of their dragon repatriation program. Back then, they had bred them and just kept the strongest. Now they wanted to keep them all, experimenting with their genes in the pursuit of more desirable traits. A lonely tear welled up in his eye. He would give anything to have his former life back.

It was Chinese New Year and he knew that tonight was his one chance to put things right. He sighed again. Kaarme, sweet Kaarme. Oh, how he yearned for her. Through twelve lunar cycles, through the cloying oppression of the summer heat, through the blanket suffocation of the winter snow and through the bloody beatings he had often endured; he had always kept her beauty fixed in his mind.

He had only spoken to her a few times but had fallen in love in an instant. The feeling had been mutual but society's conventions had intervened, tearing them apart in the nascence of their desire. Female dragons had to be won so he would have to fight to get her.

But if there was anything worth fighting for, it was Kaarme. The torture of her absence had kept him going through the torture of his soul and tonight was the night he would give her his heart.

He knew he only had an outside chance but if he won the Rocket City Cup at The Lucky Eight Racecourse, his hell would be over and he could live once again. It was the prize for winning the most prestigious race of the year. Winners breed winners and in such a competitive industry, his seed would be coveted. He would win his girl and be put out to stud. He would be crowned the greatest racing dragon despite being one of the smallest. He would be adored by the public and win the right to have children.

Yes, he would swap one form of servitude for another but submission's not all bad. After all, what's the price of a few endorsements and a couple of kids? Surely that's the very definition of fame. The tabloid press, here he came!

***

To a young dragon so used to staring torpidly at the bars of his cell, the city would have been baffling enough on a normal day. Today, the bustling streets - filled to bursting with the sights, sounds and smells of celebration - were completely alien to Chén. Surely this hive of activity, this excitement and happiness, couldn't be the same place which had heaped so much misery upon him? Surely this was another world, not the very same town? But then the CEO and the homeless man see the same scene with two different pairs of eyes.

The Lucky Eight Racecourse was a short walk from the stables and this saw dragon and handler parading their way through the cluttered backstreets of the old city. Tonight, they were more jumbled than usual, with hawkers offering every ware imaginable - from fresh satay cooked on skewers to hand-made sarongs rich in colour.

Many people were bedecked in traditional red, creating veins of life that pulsated through the city. The atmosphere was piqued with anticipation, like the final seconds before a magnificent firework display is due to begin. In this narrow thoroughfare, thousands had crammed into the claustrophobic space like blood around an embolism. Progress was slow yet lively, but then progress has always been a matter of definition.

Chén kept his head bowed, part in fear, part in shame, as he made his doleful way through the maze of buildings. As he traipsed, the seething mass infected his senses, polluting his thoughts with a sense of claustrophobia. It reminded him of his loneliness, of the endless days hunched in his tiny compartment. He shed more tears, scared of spending more time alone.

His sadness led to disorientation and this led to fear, which enveloped him like a discomfort blanket. Stealing a glance at the crowd, he saw the faces of beasts leering back as the imposing edifices became huge wooden monsters which threatened to come down on him and bury his soul. He felt as if Nian himself had devoured him whole and that the sea of red was the blood of his forefathers.

But a battle soon ensued as his resolve ripped back against the tide, welling up a sense of belief from deep in his heart. He would make his ancestors proud. He would sire the children his family deserved. Love would conquer futility. And perhaps now was the time his luck would finally change.

He glimpsed to the heavens, part in faith and part in remembrance, and now saw scars of colour tearing through night's blackened skin. He looked deeper, allowing the streams of poison to leak into his brain, scorching streaks of pain across his retinas. Blinking furiously, he spied the chains to which the female dragons were attached, floating deceptively, almost merrily, in the February breeze. He looked at the metal that connected his own paws to his neck, rusted and monochrome in comparison. His eyes shed more tears as his chains reflected their dispassion. At least they had the freedom to pretend to be free.

As they approached the racecourse, the noise grew louder as the excitement permeated the air, giving more life to the night. But the only life that Chén sensed was the desire to be free. He looked up longingly, as if in prayer to an absconded deity, and allowed himself to dream once more. He would free himself. He would.

The buildings soon opened out into a cobbled courtyard which served as the main entrance to the track. Around the fringes, there stood more sellers, primed and waiting for the 30,000 spectators expected for the race. It was sure to be a profitable evening.

In the middle of the square, Chén spied a large ruby-coloured dragon with 24 legs dancing hypnotically towards him. He stared at it in bemused wonder, the rhythm of the movement complementing the sound of the drum perfectly. He couldn't understand it. He knew it looked like him but it was free to move. And all those legs looked somewhat human. Surely, they hadn't furthered their abominations by creating human-dragon hybrids. What was this? Were they mocking him?

Feeling the need to distract himself, he focused on a group of small children who were flying kites and lanterns. They were clutching on to red envelopes guardedly - their prized possessions and a sign of prosperity for the year ahead. There was more redness in the square. It was as if the whole city had been bathed in blood. It turned his cold.

He allowed himself one more look at the delight of the crowd before he turned towards the concrete edifice in front of him. As he walked through the gate with teeth gritted, he hoped that the number eight would prove to be lucky for him tonight.

***

The lights of the city twinkled below as Chén was loaded into the cramped starting cage, suspended fifty feet above the carnivorous crowd baying for his blood. It had been designed for horses - profits hadn't stretched to redesigning the equipment - and so he had to elevate his wings above his head in order for him to fit.

Within 10 seconds, a painful cramp had started to develop in his shoulders. There was little he could do to alleviate it. The heavy tarpaulin jacket he was forced to wear, embroidered with the number eight on each side, was hardly helping matters. It was the uniform of his enslavement. He looked at the number tattooing his form. The number eight may be propitious, he thought, but it wasn't for him. He was far from being lucky.

Through the thick steel bars, Chén spied his beloved circling the stadium. It anaesthetized the pain for a few brief moments. He allowed himself to dream wistfully, his spirit climbing to soar with her, to sit atop her outstretched wings and feel the exhilarating blast of the cold winter air.

Awash with victorious thoughts, he swore she winked at him. He smiled, a feeling of warmth conquering his bitterness as he bowed his head, ready for war. He fixed a steely gaze through the rusted railings; a stare so cutting it could have seared right through them. This is the last time I will ever be trapped, he thought. This is the day I'll set myself free. Tonight, the number eight would be lucky.

His mind began to focus, his senses razor-sharp. He thought of the day he had been captured and of all the times he had been whipped to near death for his transgressions. He thought of his handler, his carer, his tormentor. All his rage condensed into a single droplet, which then exploded into life to reveal the beauty of Kaarme. His mind tuned, every muscle in his body was poised to fight.

He stared at the track; empty air punctuated by a series of floating bollards marking the course. They were swaying gently in the wind. He growled, the buoys becoming the heads of his captors ready to be decapitated. Fifty feet below him, the crowd screamed. Fifty feet above him, his destiny waited.

When the trap opened, the dragon fell. Five feet, ten feet, twenty feet; like a stone he sunk into the pit of the baying hounds below. He tried not to look down but it was impossible to resist. His wings were tired before they had even begun, useless sails billowing in the eye of a hurricane. He shook them, desperate to get blood flow before it flowed out onto the ground. He looked around and spied the other seven dragons, all falling too, all hurtling towards their deaths, their wings stuck together as if praying desperately for salvation. He glanced down at the mob once more, their mouths like traps threatening to engulf him. They were voracious. They were hungry. And it was all in the name of sport.

He looked up and focused harder, the image of Kaarme tattooed on his mind. He wasn't going to fall prey to their talons. He was determined. And as those feelings increased, he started to soar as he forcefully prised his wings apart. He embraced the air like his one true love and rose above the demons, propelling himself forward. The others soon followed but he was lucky number eight.

Amidst the melee, his mind was calm. Gone were the doubts and the nerves of before - he was determined that today would be the start of the Year of the Dragon. He felt the wind of freedom rush down his back as he started to arc gracefully around the track. He heard the crowd howling in ecstasy, their ululations haunting his soul, but the fear was being converted into energy now as he whipped around the course and closer to destiny.

One furlong passed and he was still in the lead, leaving a choppy wake with his tail for the others to drown in. He caught a glimpse of Kaarme, who smiled in return, as if willing the dragon to finish the task. Desire was making his heart beat stronger as every muscle in his body pulled towards his goal. He risked a glance to his left and saw a beautiful beast thrashing the air in obvious frustration. He grimaced back at Chén, poison etched into his face. Whether it was due to the pain of the race or the prospect of another year's service, Chén was unsure.

As he realigned his sights, he felt a waft of cold air on the right side of his body. The sensation danced up his skin before mugging his senses, like a ballerina pirouetting with a towel full of chloroform.

He tilted his head and saw a resplendent green dragon catching up to him fast. With wing muscles rippling, his lithe body cut through the air like it cut through Chén's hopes. A feeling of panic started to take hold as he knew that with two furlongs to go, the race had not even begun.

Chén tried to ignore his assailant as he continued to swoop, his momentum increasing with every beat of his heart. The crowd were on their feet, screaming in passion, but every muscle in the dragon was now screaming in pain. He looked at his prize then stole another glimpse to his right. His head was awash with a feeling of giddiness but he was unsure as to whether it was panic or love. He stared at the finish and prayed he would survive the assault but only instinct and passion were driving him now.

The dragon was gaining on him with each beat of his wings, beating Chén's heart and his hopes into a new kind of submission. And as his rival was strengthening, the young dragon was suffering, the flags of surrender fluttering like butterflies in a storm. Chén gritted his teeth and flailed stubbornly onwards, hoping his body would somehow survive.

A furlong and a half left and they were now neck-and-neck. They stared at each other with cold yellow eyes, a jaundice whipped up from tempestuous seas, as their rivalry darkened the sky to form the blackest of storms. He flashed a wink at the young dragon before forging ahead, beauty meritorious over the hopes of the mundane. Chén fought back the tears and kept fighting the fight but deep in his heart he knew the battle was lost.

Another year of submission, another year of torment ahead. He was naïve to believe it could have been anything else. But a life built on slavery was no life at all and a life without Kaarme was one built on torture. He looked up at her beauty, allowing himself a salutary glance, before he readied himself to return to the cage he called home. Their eyes quickly met and his heart skipped a beat before he buried his head in embarrassment and shame.

A death knell to go as the furlong bell rang, the noise awakening Chén out of his self-pitying slumber. The hollow sound reverberated around the young dragon's head as the tail of his rival hypnotically mocked him in front. He sighed, letting the symbol of failure invade his senses, inviting the mercenaries of doubt to start slaughtering his soul.

Fifteen seconds later, in the midst of the melee, he heard fireworks go off as the noise of the crowd reached its crescendo. He saw his rival collapse in the euphoria of victory, the anti-climax of New Year striking once more.

As his rival rode high on the wave of adoration, he drowned in a tsunami of crippling regret. How he wished those cheers were for him. How we wished that good fortune would one day grace him.

He thought of his Kaarme in the arms of another and cried screams of anguish far worse than anything he had endured. His pain was drowned out by the empty orgasms of the crowd, but then no-one wants to hear from the losers after the event.

He spied his captor with his shackles prepared, stood on the podium which constituted the finish line. Chén inched his way towards him, accepting his servitude and resigned to his fate.

Before bowing before the chains, he looked up for the last time to spy his beloved. She seemed far closer to him than she had initially been.

He blinked, unsure as to whether the exhaustion was playing tricks with his mind. Surely, she hadn't broken her bonds and was heading his way? But yes, like the angel she was, she was descending into hell, with wings broad and outstretched, waiting to receive. The February sky had never looked so radiant and warm.

Shrugging off his master, he flapped his wings manically, his heart beating paroxysms of joy as he rose up to join her. As they met in the air, all time stood still. Seconds dissolved in love's warming embrace as the two dragons shared their first moment of many.

And as Kaarme wrapped up the young dragon in her delicate wings, flying him out of the stadium and into the night, their lips drew together in a sensual kiss, the boos of the crowd a mere backdrop to love. He didn't know where they were going, but he didn't care. Perhaps he was lucky number eight after all.