Page 207 of Feralheart

Tolross’s poem rested in my pocket.

I still hadn’t opened it yet.

I sat against Selira’s flank, her heat seeping through my leathers while the rest of the survivors processed what we’d survived in their own isolated corners of the meadow. Her breathing came shallow, slower than usual.

I’d carried the poem through every trial, yet I didn’t know if I was brave enough to read it.

I pulled it out and laid it on my thigh, staring down at the last piece I might have of my little brother.

My hands trembled when I tried to open it. I made them stop and pressed the paper against my chest.

Reading it would make refusing Tolross real. It would confirm I’d chosen the trials over saving him, even when the vision had offered me everything I was racing for.

And I wasn’t ready to give up. It wasn’t about that. It was about needing this connection to my little brother while he still lived.

Footsteps approached from my left. I knew who it was before I glanced that way.

Fen’s shoulder drooped as he walked. His wound must be killing him. He’d had no time to rest.

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze gliding over me.

I thought he might keep walking, but he didn’t.

Easing past me, he lowered himself to the ground on my right, leaning back against Selira.

Our arms met.

I’d been fracturing, and now I was not.

Yours, Selira said, so quietly I wasn’t sure if it was meant for me or for him.

We sat in silence, neither of us reaching for words. After the trial, silence was the only honest thing left.

Minutes passed, maybe more. Time felt strange now. It had been stretched and compressed until the measurements stopped meaning what they should.

“My little brother painted,” I said.

The words came from nowhere. Or maybe they’d been building since I’d refused his vision and they needed somewhere to go.

Fen turned his head to watch my face, waiting.

“Suns, mostly. On cups and bowls and anything that would hold still long enough.” I traced a finger along the poem’s edge. “He couldn’t get outside much. Lately, not even to the window to feel the sun on his skin. He said painting the sun on something brought the warmth inside. That he could feel it in his heart.” I held up the paper. “He wrote poetry too, starting when he was eight. Our mother taught him.”

“She taught you as well.”

“Different things.” I swallowed past the thickness in my throat. “She taught me healing. Herbs. How to make my hands do what needed to be done. But Tolross got the art. The words.”

Fen shifted closer until our thighs touched.

“Before he got sick, he’d recite poems while I worked. Made up verses about dragons and forge fires and silly things that made no sense.” The memory pulled a sound from me that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt. “He’d perform them with full dramatic gestures. Father would pretend to be annoyed, but he’d be smiling.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got sick. Slowly, then all at once.” The paper crinkled in my grip. “But he’s still in there. Still making art even when his hands shake and he coughs so much he spits up blood. He’s still writing even though every breath costs him.”

My fingers twitched on the poem, and I laid it flat on my thigh, smoothing it with my fingers.

“He gave me this before I left. He told me to read it when I wanted to give up.”