Page 209 of Feralheart

The paper tore, a small rip along one of the worn creases. It had been compressed in my pocket too long.

I’d done this. My own hands had torn the one thing he’d given me to carry.

A small, broken sound slipped from my throat.

Fen’s hands covered mine before I could try to fix it myself. He took the poem from my grip and smoothed it flat on his thigh, refolding it along the creases that were still intact. He took more care with the worn paper folds than most people took with things that cost a fortune.

He held it out to me after. “He’s not gone yet. You’re still fighting for him. That’s what this says. Fight anyway. He knows you are.”

I took the poem back. The small tear felt like an accusation.

“What if I can’t save him?” I could barely force the question out. “What if I do everything right and win and the wish still isn’t enough?”

“Then you’ll know you tried.” His throat worked. “That’s more than most people get.”

I curled forward, the poem clutched to my chest, and the last parts of me I’d been holding together broke loose. Grief poured out in sounds I’d been swallowing since my mother died. Since Tolross got sick. Since I’d learned that wanting things only made losing them hurt more.

Fen didn’t try to stop it.

He put his arm around my shoulders and tugged me into his side. He held me while I cried against his chest, soaking through his tunic.

Grief was a wretched thing. It ripped through you when you least expected it, as if it could sense when you felt low and just wanted to shove you over the edge.

When I could breathe again and the tears had slowed enough I could speak without my voice shattering, I found him staring at nothing.

“I saw my father,” he said.

The words landed in the quiet between us.

“He looked exactly like I remembered. Before—” His throat worked. “It was so long ago, but I remembered. He said my name. Fen. He was the first to call me Fen. Never Fenian, the name my mother preferred. Fen.”

I waited.

“He told me he was proud of me. That I’d grown into someone strong.” Fen’s jaw locked. “It was everything I’ve wanted to hear for twenty-three years. And I flew away from it.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t cheapen it.

But I reached over and stroked my fingers across his hand like I would touch an injured creature to let them know their pain was seen even when it couldn’t be fixed. He turned his hand over and linked our fingers together.

We stayed like that for a while, both of us holding onto grief that didn’t have anywhere else to go.

After a while, my body remembered it had other purposes besides grief. I shifted, wincing when my muscles protested.

“I should tend to the dragons,” I said.

Fen tilted my chin up, stroking along my jawline. “Your dragon is fine.”

“Aristus is still saddled.” I pushed to my feet, my legs shaking. “And Reece is lying in the grass. His dragon needs care.”

Understanding flickered across his face. I needed to move. Do something useful. Stop wallowing in pain that had nowhere productive to go.

He stood, slower than usual, wincing.

We walked to where Aristus waited. The black and silver dragon had lowered himself to the ground, his sides heaving with each breath. The tremor in his wings had spread to his flanks, a constant flutter beneath scales that looked duller than they should.

I approached slowly, my hands already reaching for the saddle straps.

My palms prickled with heat I hadn’t summoned.