Page 48 of Feralheart

A low sound rolled from its chest, not quite a growl.

It knew the blade had come from it, that I was carrying part of it strapped to my hip.

I took a step forward, and the dragon didn’t move.

Another step.

I was close enough now I could see the scars webbing its hide, old injuries from battles with other dragons or prey that had fought back. Close enough to smell sweet-smoke and stone, the scent that had clung to my clothes after I’d freed it from the trap.

“I could try to ride you,” I whispered. “Right now. No officials, no rules, and no one to stop me but you.”

But wild dragons were only good for the hunt, and I was a commons, only good for heavy labor. Without a saddle or harness or the restrictions placed on elite dragons, I’d be thrown, burned, or both.

The dragon watched me think it through, its pupils wide and dark.

If I sat on its back, we could fly. Just me and this creature that had come back when it didn’t have to. Freedom looked like this. Like stone-gray wings and smoke that smelled of cinnamon instead of death.

My chest ached with wanting.

The dragon huffed, a sound of agreement or impatience. Its gaze held mine, and for a breath I felt the pull, the certainty that it wanted something from me.

But wanting and having were different things.

Its muscles bunched, and it launched skyward, its wings beating hard, the downdraft nearly knocking me over. I stumbled backward, my hand flying to the talon-blade to keep it from smacking me in the side.

It circled once, a shadow blocking the stars, before swooping low over the retired dragon aerie. It continued over the distant ridge and was gone.

I pressed my hand against my pocket where the scale sat quiet now. No more pull or demand.

The dragon wanted me to follow it. But where? Every time the tug came, it felt like an invitation I didn’t know how to accept.

Maybe it was hurt worse than I’d thought and whatever I’d done in the clearing hadn’t been enough. Or maybe it wanted something I didn’t have a name for yet.

I stood there alone, the choice sharp in my chest and the tug from it fading to a dull throb before I turned and started for home. The talon-blade bumped my thigh, a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.

Tolross was still asleep when I slipped back inside our cottage.

I sat at the kitchen table in the dark, the coin purse heavy in my hand.

Four coppers. Three half-marks.

I counted them twice. Once for what they were. Once for what they’d buy. Bread for three days. Maybe four if Father stretched it. Coal if they needed heat more than food.

I set them on the table where Father would see them first thing. Where he’d know I’d thought about this. Planned for it.

Where he’d know I might not be coming back.

The herb jars on the shelf sat in a neat row. My father could follow my recipe for the tonic, though I’d made enough for the next five days.

I studied Tolross sleeping on his pallet, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm I’d memorized. I didn’t wake him. He needed rest more than I needed to voice my fear.

I touched the trial mark on the back of my hand, black and raised, a brand that said I’d signed up to die. And I ran my fingertip along the red lines on my palms, still warm from whatever the dragon had woken inside me.

Entering my room, I undressed in the dark and wearing one of Father’s old tunics, lay on top of the blankets.

The talon-blade rested beside me in its worn sheath.

I tried to imagine tomorrow. Lykor’s wings catching air. The trial blurring past. Wind that would rip me from the saddle if I wasn’t careful.