Page 27 of Feralheart

Jessith frowned. “What does that mean?”

Machas’s sigh rang out. “The mountain has no ears for a trembling heart, and the stone only knows the weight of your boots, not the panic in your soul.”

Cree’s knife stilled on the wood. “No one knows what happened to her. She made it through the first two parts of the race, then vanished. They said her dragon threw her. Or she fled.”

“They say a lot when they want you to stop asking,” Machas said. “There’s no fleeing once you’re inside. The magic won’t let you leave. It’s finish or die.”

“But the prize.” Jessith stretched his legs out and flexed his ankles. “One wish, granted by the Oracle herself. Anything your heart desires.”

“My mum says it’s not that simple.” Cree kept shaving thin curls from the wood. “The wish has to be in harmony with the realm, whatever that means.”

My throat dried to brittle bone. “But if the wish is worthy, it’s granted?”

Cree met my eyes. “That’s what they say. But worthy of whom?”

Machas glanced around and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “My father worked the stables during the last race. Said he’d never seen anything like King Jaris. The man lit up the aerie just by walking through it. The dragons knew it too. They went quiet when he passed, and wild ones circled overhead for three days before the race. Looking for him, my father said.”

He paused. “And then he died in the second trial. That’s what they said, anyway.”

Someone on my right cleared their throat.

We all jumped, Jessith falling off his crate, landing hard on the ground.

A senior groom stood at the end of the building, his arms folded across his chest, tapping the toe of his boot on the ground. “Break’s over. Back to work.”

The group scattered.

Back in the tack room, I worked on harnesses, progressing through a row that needed conditioning before the next exhibition.

Overseer Nuant shoved the door open hard enough it banged against the wall.

I kept my eyes on my task.

He stomped across the floor, stopping in front of where I sat.

“A noble complained about dust on a saddle,” he barked.

I said nothing. What could I say?

“Someone needs to bleed for it, and it won’t be me.” He leaned in and sniffed. “You’ve got wild stink on you. It makes the dragons nervous.”

Fear bolted down my spine. Could he smell the scale? I should’ve left it where it fell.

He had to be lying. The dragons settled faster under my hands than anyone else’s, and he knew it.

“Get to the training ring,” he said. “There’s dragon blood in the sand from this morning’s demonstrations. Scoop it up before the nobles see it. Use your hands if you have to.”

“There are shovels⁠—”

“Are you talking back to me?”

I set the harness on the bench and stood, keeping my gaze on the floor. “No, Overseer.”

I eased around him and grabbed a bucket and wooden scoop from the supply room and hurried to the training ring. A motto had been carved above the entrance: WASTE IS THEFT. It faced Shaleside, not the castle. I tried not to think about what they counted as waste.

Spectators still lingered in the viewing boxes, nobles sipping wine and eating in the blissful shade. Talking in clusters of silk and sparkling jewels.

A dragon’s mouth had bled during a bonding exercise this morning, its tongue bitten when the rider jerked the reins. The blood had soaked into the sand in a dark patch near the center of the ring.