Page 41 of Feralheart

The man who’d been ahead me in line leaned against the wall, staring at his marked hand. His shoulders shook.

I kept going.

If I stopped and let myself feel what I’d done, I wouldn’t make it home.

CHAPTER TEN

ERADIN

Late that day, I found Lykor in Pen C-3, exactly where the token said he’d be. What the token hadn’t mentioned was the scars webbing his face and neck or the way his rheumy eye tracked me like he was counting the seconds until he could bite my head off.

Three days. That was how long I had to convince a broken dragon not to kill me.

He lay coiled in the right corner, his nondescript black scales faded to gray and mottled with age.

As I crept closer, I hummed the tune I could make perfect even in my sleep, extending my hand as if I thought I’d leave the stall with it still attached.

His breathing evened out, smoke-sweet-ashy, with only a subtle hitch on the exhale.

A handler opened the gate and stepped inside, leaning against the wall. “Don’t waste your time. You’ve met him. Now leave. They never settle for commons.”

I ignored him.

Lykor’s head lifted, and his gaze stayed on me.

The stable hand tossed a bundle onto the ground. “Your tack. Familiarize yourself with it tonight. We’ll deliver it with him to the trial, but you’ll need to saddle him yourself.”

I picked the bag up and loosened the top, peering inside, taking in the worn leather, the reins frayed at the ends. Fine runes threaded through the straps, the same patterns I’d seen on the other equipment.

I ran my thumb over them and a jolt of electricity shot up my arm.

Lykor’s low growl rang out. A huff and orange sparks shot from his mouth, extinguishing when they hit the sandy floor.

He could still shoot fire. Got it.

Our eyes met, his pupils wider than they’d been a moment ago.

We’d both felt the same thing. Did he know I understood?

Did Aristus feel this same jolt every time his harness settled? Prince Fenian came across to me as a man who paid attention to his dragon and to nothing else honest in his life.

The thought had no business being that specific.

I turned to the handler. “How many commons has he thrown?”

The young man’s smirk faltered. “What?”

“You said they never settle for commons. So how many has Lykor killed?”

He shifted his weight. “I’m not required to⁠—”

“None.” I looked back at the dragon. “I bet he’s never been assigned to a commons trial before. You’re lying.”

The handler scratched the back of his neck. “You won’t last anyway.” He left fast, his boots scuffing stone, the gate banging shut behind him.

I set the bundle down and took a step closer to the dragon. His nostrils flared as he scented me. No smoke or flame, just tasting what I was made of.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said quietly. “If that helps.”