Page 44 of Feralheart

Tolross looked up from his journal. “At least you’ll get to fly before you die.” The joke faltered halfway through, his voice cracking. He set his charcoal down.

“I think I could win,” I said softly.

“I think you’ll try.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No.” He met my eyes. “It’s not.”

Father’s blade scraped once more across the whetstone, the sound too loud in the stillness.

“Your mother would’ve done the same thing,” he said.

I hadn’t expected that. Pressure built behind my eyes. I refused to let out.

“She’d have saddled the dragon herself if it meant saving any of us,” Father said, still not glancing at me. “She would’ve told the first trial to get out of her way. The second one too.” The blade scraped again. “She was stubborn like that.”

Like me, he meant.

“Silvie will bring meals,” I said. “She’ll check on Tolross and help with the laundry.”

Tolross opened his mouth, probably to say he didn’t need anyone checking on him, but he closed it again.

Father nodded. “All right.”

Nothing else. Just those two words. I stood beside the table, the weight of them compressing my lungs.

“I’ll try to come back,” I said.

Father didn’t look up at me. “I know.”

We sat in silence together, not even speaking as we ate the meal I prepared.

Finally, the darkness gobbled up the moon.

I went to my room and lay on my bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

The talon shard rested under my mattress. I’d speak to the smithy tomorrow about turning it into a weapon. I suspected I’d need one.

There was no going back now.

I hummed my mother’s tune, quiet enough I barely made a sound. The wild dragon’s scale heated against my hip, a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.

Three days until the trial.

Then I’d find out if trust and desperation were enough to keep a dragon from throwing me from his back.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ERADIN

The talon-blade buzzed against my thigh, a sound only I could hear. Everything about it felt wrong. Servants didn’t carry weapons. We carried water buckets and the ability to disappear.

I sat on my bed in the dark. Two days ago, the blacksmith had tested the talon’s edge with his thumb. Blood welled before he’d even pressed down.

His warning still rang in my ears. Mind how you hold it, or you’ll take your own hand off.

The sheath he’d given me had seen better decades, but now it was mine.