Page 55 of Feralheart

An official raised his hand. “Man dead.”

My knees tried to fold. I locked them, but my hands kept reaching for something to grip that wasn’t there. The sunburned man. The one who’d nodded at me in the courtyard. He’d had kind eyes and callused hands that said he knew what work felt like.

Gone.

I tried not to think about it, tried not to picture what this place might do to a body. But I kept imagining his family getting word. Would anyone count his breaths the way I counted Tolross’s?

The gray-haired woman and her dragon swooped back into the arena from the left canyon opening. The beast landed hard on the stones, stumbling before catching itself. The woman slid forward, nearly toppling over the front of the dragon. She caught herself and lurched back into the saddle before sliding to the ground, her face bloodless, her eyes spiked wide with panic.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, then regretted it when I saw the trial mark, the black stripe a reminder that I’d volunteered for this.

Around me, the remaining riders shifted on their feet. Marda rolled her shoulders like she was preparing for a street brawl. The blonde woman had paled enough the veins beneath her skin showed starkly.

Another pair was called. Marda mounted easily, all tight angles and harder edges. Her dragon launched before the horn finished sounding.

I made myself watch. Made myself see what was coming.

They disappeared into the canyon’s mouth. The crowd leaned forward as one.

This race remained silent. No screaming and no announcer notifying us of a death.

Both emerged minutes later.

Two more pairs were called. Two more cleared.

The official pointed at me and the wiry man. “Go.”

I hurried toward Lykor. The wiry man fell into step beside me, close enough the sourness of his breath hit my sinuses.

“Stay out of my way,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Or I’ll make sure you fall.”

My pulse spiked. He meant it. I could see it in his eyes, the same desperation I’d been drowning in for weeks.

I didn’t answer. Anything I said would give him a target.

The horn blast shoved me forward. My boots scraped stone as I reached Lykor’s side. How many feet to his back? How far would I fall?

No time. The wiry man was already mounted, already checking his reins.

I hauled myself up, my boots scrabbling against scales. The saddle leather creaked when I reached it and settled. My thighs burned already. Lykor moved beneath me, and I nearly pitched sideways before catching the horn.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Another horn blast and Lykor leaped up, his wings snapping out to catch the wind.

The ground dropped away and my belly went with it. Wind slammed into us from the side, shoving us toward the arena wall. Lykor banked hard, his wings straining, and I clamped my knees tighter, my hands death-gripping the reins.

The canyon opening gaped, and Lykor plunged through the gap, dragging me along with him. My stomach stayed behind in the arena.

The walls pressed in around us, too fast, too close.

I couldn’t get air past my teeth. Every instinct I owned screamed to let go, to curl into a ball, to make myself small enough this couldn’t touch me.

But small wouldn’t save me here.

Desert floor stretched below us, studded with stone spikes jutting up, teeth waiting to catch us. Jagged limestone walls rose on either side, close enough I could’ve reached out and scraped my knuckles raw. Crumbling pillars climbed toward the sky, some still connected by weathered arches that might collapse with one touch.

An obstacle course made of stone and wind and death.