Page 56 of Feralheart

Lykor’s wings beat unevenly, one working well, the other faltering. His breath came in short bursts, smoke-sweet-ash laced with fear.

The wind hit us again, a fist from below that shoved us upward. My spine compressed, and the saddle horn punched into my gut. I gasped, tasting blood where I’d bitten my tongue.

A downdraft slammed us sideways. Lykor’s wing clipped stone, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through his body into mine.

I started humming. The tune barely made it past my throat, drowned by wind and the thunder of his wings, but I kept going. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Hum, breathe. Hum, breathe.

The tune threaded between us, barely audible, but Lykor heard it. His ears twitched back, and his wild fury settled into something steady. I hadn’t earned his trust, but maybe he remembered, somewhere deep in his brittle bones, what it felt like to be soothed instead of controlled.

My airway narrowed to a pinprick. My mother’s gift was working when my own hands couldn’t. For the first time since she’d died, I was grateful she’d taught me this. Even if she’d never live to know it had saved me.

If it saved me.

The reins burned my palms. Every dragon flinch transmitted itself through the leather, the way the throat latch dug into the soft tissue under his jaw.

The fire maze claims more than the canyon. Fenian’s words, a warning I hadn’t understood until now.

The runes magicked into Lykor’s tack sent shocks through me and dug into his jaw with every move. His spine. His chest under his breastplate.

He was fighting the tack as much as the wind.

The elite controlled their dragons with magic and metal and pain. But I wasn’t them.

I loosened my grip on the reins, leaving them slack in my hands. Lykor’s head lifted, freed from the constant pressure. For one wingbeat, I thought I’d killed us both.

Then his flight smoothed. His wings fell into rhythm as he wove between pillars instead of fighting to get around them. He banked left, passing a crumbling arch, then right to avoid a spike reaching up from below.

I thought we’d make it until the wiry man’s dragon slammed into Lykor’s flank.

The impact rocked through my bones. Lykor shrieked, his wings flaring.

Down became sideways. My weight shifted. The saddle tilted. My feet kicked at nothing, stirrups gone, and I was falling⁠—

No.

I snapped my hand around the horn. The leather bit into my palms, but I held on, scrabbling against scales worn too smooth. Lykor bucked. The world spun. My body cracked against the saddle’s back edge and white fire shot up my spine.

Grinning, the man yanked the reins hard, bringing his dragon around for another hit.

His dragon’s wing clipped a pillar.

Stone shattered, pieces hitting his dragon’s neck hard. The beast’s wing folded, tearing at the joint. The dragon roared with pain, the sound punching through my lungs.

They tumbled.

The man’s scream followed them down until stone teeth caught him, spearing up through his chest. He struggled for a moment before slumping.

The riderless dragon shot past me on a jagged course, its wings beating frantically, blood trailing behind it in dark ribbons.

Lykor flinched away from the blood trail.

I stroked his neck. “Steady. I’ve got you.”

How could I protect him when I could barely hold on?

The man had made the wrong choice, and I’d come close to dying on stone myself. I’d almost died before reading Tolross’s poem.

Lykor pushed forward, his breathing uneven, his wings straining. The far edge of the canyon appeared, sunlight cutting through shadows.