Page 35 of Feralheart

“No.” A faint smile crossed her face, and she tapped her temple. “It’s up here. Nareem in the east wing has a stamp. So does Euan with the scarred lip. Ask after second bell, once they’ve eaten.”

“I wasn’t⁠—”

“Yes you were.” She crouched, bringing herself level with me. “If you do this, little bird, plan it like a heist. Know every step before you take the first one.” She gripped my shoulders. “And tell me first. I won’t stop you, but I’ll measure the rope.”

The scale cooled against my leg, a warning I didn’t know how to read.

The walk home felt like running toward a cliff edge.

I had three days to decide.

If I stepped onto this path, I wouldn’t step off without being marked. This I knew in my heart. If I could get Euan or Nareem to sign the waiver. If I could survive long enough to reach the Oracle.

If, if, if.

I hurried down the alley, toward our home.

Inside, Tolross had fallen asleep with charcoal still in his hand, a smudge marking his thumb and cheekbone. His dragon sketch lay on his lap, half-finished, wings stretching off the page like they were trying to escape.

I pulled the blanket up and tucked it behind his shoulders.

Father sat at the table, nodded off as well.

I tugged the belt from his gnarled hands and placed it aside, shaking him gently.

“Bed,” I said. “Morning’s too close away.”

He looked up, his eyes finding mine.

“Sleep well,” he said.

The words landed like goodbye.

CHAPTER NINE

ERADIN

The heat hit before the sun cleared the ridge, mean and thick enough to chew. Iron grit hung in the air, grinding into my skin and clothes before I’d made it halfway up the path to the aerie.

One day left to enter the trial.

I still had the waiver tucked in my pocket, right next to the wild dragon’s scale, but I hadn’t decided what I’d do.

That was a lie. I knew the moment Tolross coughed pink into that cloth. I just hadn’t admitted it yet.

The servants’ hall smelled of old grease and sweaty bodies. Breakfast consisted of thin porridge and a single slice of bread per person, rationed out by a kitchen hand who watched us. They must believe we’d steal extra air.

Cree sat on the bench beside me, her face pinched. “Did you see the new posting?”

“Which one?” There were always new postings. Rules about noise after dark. Reminders that theft meant the cage. Announcements of hunts and ceremonies we’d work to prepare for but never attend.

“Feast Reallocation. Tomorrow.”

I’d seen the posting on my way through the square this morning. The language had been dressed in ceremony and shouted duty, but the message was plain: less food for us, more for them.

I wrapped the slice of bread in a piece of cloth and tucked it into my pocket. Tolross would eat it with his meal tonight.

The rage that lived in my chest stirred, stretching, waking up. This wasn’t just anger anymore, but purpose.