Page 53 of Feralheart

“Why did you enter the trial?” he asked, his gaze on my face.

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” He turned his attention to Lykor, and I’d swear his hands twitched at his sides. “The dragons they give you remember being broken. They won’t trust you just because you’re desperate.” His voice came quieter than it had in the stables.

“Does Aristus trust you or does he just obey?”

His gray eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know the difference?” His gaze dropped to my hands, still clutching the harness, the red lines faintly visible across my palms.

“The fire maze claims more than the canyon,” he said.

A canyon and a fire maze?

“Watch for timing. Spires. The net overhead.”

“Are you going to tell the others this same information?” I asked softly.

“No. Just you.”

Why just me? I peered around, though no one appeared to be paying attention to us. No, they were preparing their dragons, something I should be doing.

“We should tell them,” I said.

“And watch the others when you’re paired. The trials aren’t your only threat.”

I stiffened. “You think my fellow commons will try to kill me?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Share what you want, but be aware that others may not feel as generous about this as you.”

They’d use the hints to kill me, he meant.

It made me look at my fellow commons in a new light. Would Marda or the blonde woman who’d smiled actually hurt me?

Maybe.

“Thank you,” I said. “Sire.” I added the latter when I realized I’d been talking with him like I would one of my own, not the kingdom’s golden son.

He turned to leave but paused, not looking back.

“Lykor was my father’s mount,” he said. “Before.”

Before the last Scorching claimed his father’s life. Before this dragon learned what breaking felt like.

They should’ve left you in peace, he’d said. You were with him.

It all caught up to me at once. Last night, he’d apologized to Lykor.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So am I.”

He left, striding toward the edge of the arena. I couldn’t drag my gaze away until he’d stepped through a gate and started climbing the stairs to the royal box.

I forced myself to slip the harness over Lykor’s head. He tolerated it the way he did everything else, his breathing stuttering when the throat latch settled into place.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He’d carried a king once, a man who’d made it through two trials before the race killed him.