Page 30 of Feralheart

“How was the shift?” Tolross asked, smudging a wing with his thumb.

“Long.” Father threaded his needle on the third try. “They sent us a palace man this morning. Name’s Dorresk. Not a single callus on his hands. He kept asking where they’d put his spectacles.” He shook his head. “I think he worked for the crown, and now he’s hauling ore he can barely lift.”

“Why would they send someone like that to the mines?” I asked.

“You don’t ask that down there. The mine’s the answer, whatever the question was.”

The trumpet blast shattered the quiet.

My brother’s head jerked up and his eyes widened. “Ceremonial horns?”

Father scowled at the belt. “Not this time.”

A cough tore through Tolross, rattling his whole frame. I was across the room in seconds, my hand on his back, counting until he could breathe again.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

His shoulders shook. I rubbed circles on his spine, willing the fit to break.

Twelve. Thirteen.

The cough released him all at once. He gasped and collapsed, his face pale, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

I kept my hand on his back until his breathing evened out.

The trumpet bellowed again.

Father lurched from his chair and held up his hand. Blood pooled on the tip of his finger and drizzled down the side. He’d pricked it. His gaze slanted toward the window. “Nothing good comes with the horns.”

Cold slid under my ribs and plucked at them one by one. “War?”

“I’ve heard nothing.”

I unclenched my teeth that ached like I’d been chewing iron.

“What is it then?” Tolross asked, staring toward the door.

I turned away from my brother. “I’ll go find out.”

Father’s intent gaze met mine. “Be careful. Take my blade.” He unbuckled the worn sheath from his hip.

He’d once said the blade and sheath would be mine when he was gone.

“Are you sure?” I only hesitated because it was his prize possession. He’d worn it every day back when he’d worked as a castle guard. I’d watched him sharpen the blade’s edge at night, and buckle it on each morning before he walked out the door.

Now he was handing it to me.

“It’s pretty much yours already,” he said.

“Not for a very long time.” Please.

But my fingers closed around the sheath.

The drums started next, a thunder rolling across the valley. Voices rose outside, and stomping feet.

“Stay here,” I said, securing the belt around my waist in the hole Father had made twenty years ago when I was still a child. Then, the belt had slid down over my hips, and we’d laughed about it. Now it hung where it should.

“Cut the end of the strap off when I…” Father said.