Page 115 of Feralheart

Selira’s curiosity hummed through the bond. Want him?

“No,” I whispered.

The dragon’s amusement rippled back. Liar.

An aide with a careful face stood two paces behind the prince. Everyone in the arena watched the dragons. He watched the prince.

And me.

The gate opened again, and our dragons were brought out. No ceremony or announcements for us.

Lyndie’s assigned mount from the earlier trials shuffled forward, an older black dragon, dull-eyed and broken like the rest until it reached her, when its nostrils flared. It lifted its head and its eyes gleamed before resignation settled back into place.

Lyndie’s hand found the dragon’s jaw, and she scratched, finding the exact spot behind the jaw hinge where tension gathered, working in small circles the way I’d learned by caring for dragons from the time I was small.

The dragon’s breathing steadied. His head lowered into her touch.

“You’re good with them,” I said.

She glanced my way, and for a heartbeat her mask slipped. Something I’d swear was grief flickered in her eyes.

“My mother wasn’t just a seamstress. She worked with animals,” she said. “Before.”

The way Lyndie said before reminded me of how I’d learned to say, the herbs grew wild there, instead of, I stole them. We were both carrying something we couldn’t name out loud.

The dragon rumbled under her hands, and Lyndie’s expression softened in a way that looked achingly real. “My mother always said you could tell which dragons had been loved. It shows in how they stand.”

That wasn’t marketplace wisdom, nowhere near what a seamstress’s daughter should know.

Unless her mother hadn’t been a seamstress at all.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” she said.

“He is.”

She blinked, and her bright smile snapped back into place. I’d seen servants transform fear into usefulness before a lord or lady could notice. Her smile must be for the nobles watching, something she hid behind like I made myself small.

Reece’s dragon was brought out next, scarred across its left flank, one wing hanging crooked. It still moved and functioned, but every step must hurt.

Kerrel’s dragon came last. Skittish, it kept jerking at every loud sound. Its eyes rolled white as it was half-dragged over to Kerrel.

Every dragon told a story about what the court had done to them. This was what happened when you were useful until you broke, then discarded into pens and forgotten.

The handlers finished their checks and stepped back. Silence dropped over the arena.

An official stepped forward, lifting a magical scroll. He called names, matching commons riders to dragons.

After Kerrel’s, he looked up, his heavy gaze landing on me. “Eradin Carver.”

I stepped forward, my boots sinking into the sand.

The official checked his paperwork again, his brows drawing together.

“Mount: Selira.” He scanned the dragons lined up across the arena before scowling at me. “Where’s your dragon?”

My throat went tight. “She’s coming.”

Our bond was new, wild, and untested. What if she’d changed her mind? Coming here, surrounded by the stink of captive dragons and elite magic, might have reminded her why wild things remained hidden.