Page 4 of Feralheart

It dragged its gaze from mine and scrambled across the small clearing, launching skyward. One wing didn’t catch the air quite right, but it was flying up through the canopy, branches cracking as it hit them in its ungainly flight. I caught a final glimpse of bruised-stone scales and the pale stripe on its snout before the gray sky swallowed it whole.

Without a blood trail, the bloodseekers would find nothing.

I stood in the clearing, surrounded by torn earth and bracken and the dead goat still leaking its own blood into the soil.

The dragon was free, and I was still here, trapped in the smallness of my life.

A bitter tang rose in my throat. If only I could follow the dragon.

Up.

Out.

Gone.

But women like me didn’t fly. We survived. And I still had a brother to save.

Dragon's blood and the green-brown of stolen herbs stained my arms. Smears painted the front of my shirt, and my pants were worse, mud and blood ground into the knees.

Wingbeats thumped around me. The hunt was close now. Too close.

A shadow passed overhead, fast and huge.

I bolted into the underbrush.

CHAPTER TWO

ERADIN

If I didn’t get rid of the dragon’s scent, the bonewailers would track me.

A stream cut through the forest a short distance from the meadow, fast-moving and frigid with snowmelt. I raced to it and fell to my knees in the water.

The cold hit like a fist. My bones ached right away, and my fingers went clumsy while I scraped at blood that had already started to dry in the creases of my palms. The water was so cold it burned, and I couldn’t tell if I was shaking from fear or freezing or both. I scrubbed my hands, arms, and clothing, the muddy blood spiraling downstream. Most of it came off. Only dark crescents under my nails and a few clothing stains remained.

The sweet-smoke of the dragon’s breath still clung to me, though. I scooped a double handful of black mud from the bank and smeared it over my forearms, my throat, and the front of my tunic. The stink of wet rot crawled up my nose. Better rot than wild-smoke. Better anything than wild-smoke.

Laughter and the furious rush of dragon wings rang out as the hunters dropped down, aiming for the clearing.

The forest’s edge was too far away. I’d never make it back without being seen.

A thicket of blackthorn grew along the stream’s far bank, dense enough to hide in. I rose and forced myself into the tangle, ignoring the thorns raking my clothing and skin. Finding a spot where I could crouch, I focused on breathing quietly.

A thorn pressed into my side with each breath, but I couldn’t shift without rustling. I couldn’t swallow the panic climbing my throat.

I kept picturing how Tolross had looked this morning, his lips tinged blue. If they caught me, who would steal herbs for him? My brother would die because I’d saved a dragon. Father may never know what happened to me.

The hunting party came into view through the canopy, five riders on sleek dragons with polished scales in black and ruby, the distinctive colors of elite bonded dragons. Above them, bloodseekers strained against their leashes, their feral keening biting through my bones.

Shit. These weren’t just any old riders.

The Queen’s Council. Lord Francis Holmen with his sharp gaze and gray hair. Lady Gabriella Chambers, dressed in pants and an ornate tunic. And Lord Ulrich Andra, a foppish man with an equally sharp gaze, his blond hair gleaming in the sunlight. Another lady rode with him, but I didn’t know her name.

No queen among them, but I’d heard she didn’t enjoy bloodsports. Rather ironic considering the laws she made and their impact on commons like me.

My gaze caught on the final rider mounted on a dragon as black as a dark night with silver-star undertones. Only one person possessed a dragon that stunning. I’d seen the crown prince before, though from a distance. Everyone working at the aerie had.

Prince Fenian Balmaris Lancifer. The kingdom’s golden son and its most celebrated rider.