Page 28 of Feralheart

I knelt and started scooping.

The blood had saturated deep. The wooden scoop scraped against wet clumps as I lifted them into the bucket. My knees pressed into the damp sand, and cold seeped through my pants, making me shiver despite the heat.

Lords and ladies in the viewing boxes pointed and whispered. A few laughed, the sound carrying across the ring.

The scoop’s lip bit my palm. A grain worked under my nail and stayed. Fine. Let it live there.

A noblewoman laughed in the viewing box above me, the shrill sound grating across my skin.

I wanted to throw the scoop at her. Wanted to stand up and scream that they were the ones playing in filth, not me. Their pretty dragons were dying inside their own skins and nobody cared as long as they went down with shiny scales.

I lifted another clump of blood-soaked sand and dropped it into the bucket, reminding myself of who I was. Who I must be always be.

Small, useful, and invisible. The only way to survive.

Movement in my peripheral vision made me glance up.

Prince Fenian stood at the arena’s edge, half in shadow. Just standing there. Watching me. His face held the same expression it had after I’d sassed him about the water buckets.

My cheeks heated. I dragged my gaze back to my task.

A lord leading a dragon strolled past me, staring down his nose. Smirking. He came to a stop, the dragon halting beside him.

I kept scooping, my body aflame. When I reached forward to shovel up more bloody sand, the lord stepped toward me.

His boot dropped down on my hand.

I gasped and tried to tug my hand from beneath his boot while his snicker rang out, echoed by those in the stands who were savoring the latest “demonstration”.

A growl shot across the arena.

The lord’s head jerked up, and he peered around, as puzzled as me.

Wind burst across the arena, hitting the man, sending him flying.

I was probably the only one who saw the flick of Prince Fenian’s fingers—blue-tinged with magic.

The lord landed hard in the sand, a bellow shooting up his throat. He sprang to his feet, his face the color of chalk, and called to his dragon. The beast lumbered over to him and with a glare sent my way, the lord led the beast from the arena.

Prince Fenian had…

No, I must be mistaken.

I made myself get back to work, scooping bloody sand, on display in a chastised, silent arena.

When I looked up again, Prince Fenian was gone.

The scale in my pocket had been burning against my thigh since I’d placed it there.

Not hot enough to hurt. Just alive in a way a shed scale shouldn’t be. Every time I bent to lift a harness or haul a water bucket, heat throbbed against my leg.

What if the magic radiating from it could be sensed by the elite, the way Aristus had scented the wild dragon on me before? I should’ve buried it in the forest or left it where it fell. But the thought of discarding it made my chest ache, so I kept it, stupid and dangerous as that was.

I hung another harness on a peg for the late afternoon demonstration and continued working, making sure all the tack had been cleaned before the afternoon demonstrations.

The Bond of Trust began once the elites had finished their lunch. Lady riders paraded their dragons in a circle, each one performing choreographed postures and poses.

The crowd applauded.