Page 20 of Feralheart

CHAPTER SIX

ERADIN

The exhibition would be excruciating. I knew this before I’d finished gathering the equipment I’d need for the event.

Public display days meant nobles who treated dragons like furniture and servants like dirt beneath their boots. Lords and ladies lounging in chairs beneath awnings that magically tilted to keep the sweltering sun off their skin. Hours of standing in place while pretending to be invisible, which was harder than it sounded.

It meant watching things happen I couldn’t fix and swallowing opinions that would get me flogged.

I wound my way up the mountain toward the training ring complex, the queen’s castle looming above me, a threat dressed in pretty architecture.

Silk banners in house colors snapped at the tops of poles, each one announcing bloodlines and alliances I’d never be part of. Musicians tuned instruments on a platform built specifically for this display, their notes discordant in the cold morning air. Bright pennants marked viewing boxes where cushioned seats waited for people who’d never stood through a full day’s work.

My tasks came rapid-fire from multiple overseers: haul water buckets to wash stations, rake ash from fire pits where dragons would demonstrate flame control, and oil leather equipment in the tack room until my hands cramped.

Near the kitchen, two of the staff huddled by the wash barrels. Narlene, the woman who’d caught me outside the records room but said nothing to anyone, stood with her apron pressed against her face, her shoulders heaving while an older cook gripped her arm.

“They came in the night,” the cook said to a scullery girl who’d stopped to gawk. “Took her Dorresk straight from his bed. Twenty years scribing for the crown, and they sent him down the mines. No charges. No reason given.” She jerked her chin at the girl. “Move along. Grief’s not for staring at.”

I owed Narlene for not speaking, but anything I said would only pin more eyes on her.

I hurried to get back to work, keeping my head down while the spectacle built itself around me. Servants hung garlands. Others placed magically preserved food and drink at intervals inside the stands. A master of ceremonies practiced announcements, his voice booming across the sand.

But underneath the shine, rot thrived.

Scorch marks blackened the stone ring walls where dragons had been pushed too hard in training, their fire burning hotter than control allowed.

Old gouges in the arena sand had been covered with a fresh layer, but darker stains showed through in patches, blood that had soaked too deep to hide.

As nobles started filling the stands, we lined the dragons up like living jewels. Scales polished to mirror-shine, harnesses oiled until they gleamed, and head-spikes wrapped in ceremonial decorations that served no purpose except to announce wealth. Twenty of them, each one worth more than everyone in Shaleside combined would earn in a lifetime.

The event began with a parade of the dragons. One near the end of the line trembled. Its handler spoke a sharp word, and the dragon went statue-still, locked in place by something that had nothing to do with training or trust. The handler nudged the dragon’s back heel with his boot, and the beast jolted forward, catching up to the others.

I took two steps toward them before catching myself. Did I truly think I could confront the handler in front of the entire gallery? I’d be dismissed or worse.

I forced my feet to stop. Forced my hands to remain at my sides.

I couldn’t save every creature in this place. But I wanted to. The wanting was a physical ache, and I hated how useless it made me feel.

Another dragon’s eye wept clear fluid. I had to tuck my hands under my arms to keep from striding over and wiping it away.

I gathered an armload of harnesses that needed oiling and went to the tack room that held the familiar scent of leather and polish. Dim light poked through the high windows. I settled on a bench in the corner and got to work.

The first harness I worked on was beautiful, leather dyed burgundy, with silver fittings. I ran the oil cloth along the straps, working it into the grain as I’d been taught.

When I touched one of the threads binding it together, warmth prickled under my fingertip.

I pulled my hand back and looked closer. The threads formed runes, small, complex, repeating runes along every strap that would touch the dragon’s head. I dragged the matching breastplate closer to examine, finding more runes.

“The elite use safety sigils on their tack,” one of the other servants had told me. “It keeps the bond stable and prevents wild behavior.”

Stable. Wild behavior.

I dragged one piece of equipment after another across my lap, examining each one.

Every piece in this tack room had the same stitching.

I looped a loose cheek strap over my forearm, and the hairs there lifted. A pulse tapped along the leather, a cold-hot thrum that made the skin underneath it twitch away.