Page 17 of Feralheart

That was me: audience dressed as participant.

I’d sat here for fifteen years, but the wood still gouged like it expected someone else.

The three council members had already taken their places. Lord Holmen sat across from us, his bulk filling his chair. He’d dressed in dark, formal robes despite the early hour. Lady Chambers sat on his left, wearing an ornate tunic and pants, as always. Mother’s scowl landed on her for half a breath before she looked away. Lord Andra lounged to Holmen’s right, his goatee freshly trimmed, his posture too casual for a council called at dawn.

Dorresk stood near his desk. He’d been the council’s scribe for as long as I could remember. His quill waited beside paper. He’d risen when I entered and bowed, not taking his seat until I’d settled in mine.

He was the only person in this room who behaved as if I was already king.

“Why move up the Scorching?” Lord Andra asked.

“The Oracle makes these decisions, not me,” my mother said, waving for Dorresk to record everything said in the room.

Lord Holmen’s gaze narrowed, while the other two leaned back in their chairs, watching my mother.

The last race had been held twenty-three years ago, and we all knew who had died without even making it through the second trial. I’d studied the records. Every royal did. It was part of our preparation, understanding what you were entering, what had killed previous riders, and what had created heroes. Our library held years of detailed accounts. Trial descriptions, though they magically changed with each race. Dragon performance metrics. Rider casualties with causes noted.

Forty-one riders had entered the last Scorching. Only twelve were still alive after the third leg of the race.

I’d memorized most of my father’s entry. Died in the second trial. Interred with honors.

He’d been called singular.

I’d found that word in a separate archive, a collection of pre-Scorching assessments written by the trial observers who evaluated each rider’s potential before the race began. Most entries ran half a page. Competent. Strong dragon bond. Good instincts under pressure.

My father’s entry took up four pages, and the observer had run out of language twice, crossing out words and starting again. “Unprecedented” had appeared three times. “Dangerous” appeared once, though the observer hadn’t clarified how.

I’d read those pages until the paper softened along the fold.

I traced a knot on the table, the movement small enough no one would notice. My restlessness wanted out. It was vital I keep it contained.

Lord Holmen leaned forward, his voice filling the chamber before anyone else could speak. “The Oracle’s will be done. This is not merely tradition, Your Majesty. This is divine mandate.”

His attention fell on me and held for a beat too long.

I couldn’t read his expression, but he was old enough to have learned every trick to mask it.

He’d been at my bonding ceremony. He’d watched them place Aristus’s Unity Band around his throat and called it sacred. He’d patted me on the back after and told me how proud he was of me. I’d shrugged him off then and every time since.

I traced the table’s wood grain and let him wonder what I was thinking before meeting his gaze head-on and holding it, daring him to declare the outcome of the upcoming Scorching as mandate as well.

He flinched. Only the skin around his eyes tightening, but I saw it.

I looked away first, letting him think he’d won.

I was told he’d stood beside Mother at my father’s funeral pyre, which I had not been allowed to attend. They said seven was too young, that it would be too much for my childish heart.

I’d found his signature at the bottom of my father’s assessment, plus a single line in his tight script: Monitor closely. This one doesn’t know what he is yet.

I’d assumed it referred to my father’s potential as a rider.

Sitting across from Holmen now, I wasn’t so sure.

I’d read Holmen gave my father’s eulogy himself. An extraordinary man. Taken from us before he could show the full measure of his worth.

I’d read and reread those words, turning them over like a smooth stone I’d found along the side of a stream.

If he’d been an extraordinary man, why did Holmen never talk about my father? Through years of council meetings and ceremonial occasions and quiet dinners where old men grew sentimental, he’d never once shared a story about my father. Never said your father used to… or I remember when he… Men who’d genuinely mourned someone shared those stories eventually.