Page 36 of Feralheart

“Another notch,” I muttered and finished my meal fast.

I escaped after the first bell to check the herb verges along the old quarry road meandering down the backside of the mountain. Wild graymallow sometimes grew there, tucked into crevices where the shale crumbled and water seeped through. The road curved wide around the quarry’s edge, the drop steep enough you didn’t look down unless you wanted to find your belly in your throat.

I kept to the inside, scanning the rock face for graymallow, and because I was looking off the path, I nearly ran into a woman eight or so years older than me, coming up.

We smacked into each other, and she dropped the cinched tote she was carrying. It fell to the path with a heavy thud, and a few objects inside shifted. Books? I’d swear she carried books.

“Excuse me.” She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and stooped down to collect the bag, hugging it to her chest when she straightened.

Definitely books. I recognized the shape.

“Sorry. I didn’t see you,” I said.

“No problem.” She gave me a sweet smile before she continued up the path toward the fortress.

As she rounded the bend, a shadow crossed overhead.

The wild dragon circled, its stone-gray and purple scales catching the light. The pale stripe along its snout stood out like a scar.

It had found me. Or I’d found it. The distinction didn’t matter. Everything inside me answered its call, a pull deep in my spine.

The dragon banked, dropping lower, its wings spreading wide. It made a sound, low and rumbling, not quite a growl.

Hoofbeats rang out behind me, and I reeled back, impacting with the stone wall.

An elkbire patrol burst around the curve, the lead rider’s hand already raised. A flare-bolt launched from his palm, arcing toward the dragon.

The wild dragon veered hard, its wings snapping.

Something fell from its grasp, tumbling down.

A talon shard, black and curved, hit the road ahead of me and skittered sideways, falling into the ditch.

The vision slammed into me.

Stone hollow. High ceiling. Damp air tasting of minerals and rain. Hunger, yanking like a rope bound to my ribs.

Safe. Come. Waiting.

The image snapped shut, a closing fist. I gasped, my knees hitting gravel.

The patrol shouted. They rushed their elkbire past me, leaping off to the right, leaving the trail for the thick brush.

I dove for the talon shard and snatched it up. The length of my forearm, it was as warm as a coal ember and sharp enough at the tip to punch through leather. I shoved it under my shirt, folding it into the fabric. As I searched for graymallow, the curve bit into my side.

My teeth chattered together. The scale had been dangerous enough. But a talon shard the length of my forearm?

I was carrying evidence that would get me executed.

But I couldn’t leave it. The wild dragon had given it to me for a reason, and whatever that was, it felt more important than my fear. More important than being smart.

That didn’t make it any less stupid.

Boots scraped across stone on the path above me.

The talon went behind my back before I’d finished turning, my fingers closing around the flat of it. One careless grip and the edge would open my palm to the bone.

Prince Fenian came down the quarry road, wearing hunting leathers, a spear laid across his shoulder with runes spiraling around the haft. Alone. No guards. I couldn’t decide if that made this better or worse.