Page 241 of The Sun He Buried

High. Ragged. Furious.

Snowpetal tears into the Hall.

Blood has turned half her white coat red.

It covers her horns, runs down one front leg, and mats the fur along a cut in her side. The puffball is gone from her tail. Six bare spikes strike the floor when she turns toward the nearest guard.

His spear comes down.

“Drop it.”

The spear hits stone.

Snowpetal sees me.

She runs.

People press against the walls while the only living predator their kind remembers crosses the floor with her mouth red and both horns uncovered.

She reaches my boots and climbs.

Talons pierce my trousers, coat, and shirt. Her front paws strike my chest. One horn scrapes the mask.

“Where is she?”

Snowpetal screams into my face.

The sound scrapes her throat raw. She turns toward the open doors, jumps down, and runs three paces before her injured leg folds.

She hits the floor.

Then she gets up.

Blood marks each step toward the yard.

Ketill catches her before the leg gives again. Snowpetal turns on him with every tooth visible.

“Careful,” he says.

She snaps one inch from his wrist.

Ketill looks at me. “Helpful animal.”

A fine silver loop is caught near the base of Snowpetal’s right horn.

I cross back and take it between two fingers.

Vein-silver. Narrow enough to lie flat against the horn, fixed to a torn leather cord.

The metal is old. The leather isn’t.

Ketill sees it.

His hands tighten around Snowpetal, careful of the cut.

“A restraint.”

“Yes.”