Page 221 of Feralheart

As he spoke, Cedric’s hands moved with care, and I suspected he wanted to appear calm, that he’d rehearsed this conversation before approaching Fen.

Fen’s spine went rigid after the first exchange.

Selira’s attention sharpened. The quiet one is afraid.

“Of what?” I whispered.

Of being right.

Cedric left as quickly as he’d come, skirting around the outer aspect of the camp before approaching from where the stream flowed closest.

Fen returned to us, grinding his teeth together.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He reminded me that no one talks about the people who win.” Fen’s throat worked. “He said his grandfather competed fifty-four years ago and made it to the Oracle. He won.” Fen paused. “But his grandfather disappeared. The family was told he’d accepted a position in the outer territories. They never heard from him again.”

“Was he truly suggesting they do something to the winners?” Lyndie asked.

Fen shrugged, wincing when he moved his shoulder. “His grandfather may not be the only one. Has anyone spoken of the person who won the last race twenty-three years ago? I asked my mother once, but she brushed me off. At the time, I thought she was too busy to speak of it, but now I wonder.”

I’d been assuming the race ended at the Oracle, that winning meant walking away with your wish and your life.

But if winners vanished…

My belly turned over. I’d chosen to keep racing toward something that might kill me even if I won.

Lyndie gaped between us. “Do you know how that sounds?”

I rubbed my face. “If they hold the race infrequently enough, and let us think that the winner took a new position or created a new life for themselves somewhere else, no one would question it.”

“Holding the race more often would create questions,” Reece said.

“Maybe the court doesn’t want one winner,” I said. “It wants one specific type of winner. The trials may not be testing us. They could be selecting for something specific.” I just didn’t know what yet.

“Why do something to the one who wins?” Reece asked.

I didn’t have an answer. But I didn’t trust the elite one bit.

The meadow changed as night fell. The temperature dropped fast, going from comfortable to biting in under an hour. I grabbed my spare tunic from my pack and pulled it on over the one I was wearing, but the cold leached through anyway.

Our four dragons were restless.

Selira paced, her head swinging toward the valley’s edge like she was following something I couldn’t see. Aristus mirrored her, his wings twitching. Even Reece’s and Lyndie’s dragons, dulled by years of collar damage, couldn’t stop moving.

The dragons could feel something we couldn’t.

“They sense whatever’s coming,” Reece said.

“What is it?” I pressed my palm to Selira’s neck. “What’s happening?”

Storm-feel. Frustration bled through the bond, hers tangled with mine. Old magic gathers slow and strikes fast. Can smell lightning. Cannot tell where it lands.

“When?”

If I knew, we would already be flying.

“We should eat while we can.” Lyndie started pulling food from her pack.