Page 57 of Feralheart

We cleared the gap and plunged into the arena.

Lykor landed hard on the stone floor, his legs buckling before he caught himself. He dropped to the ground, his sides heaving. I slid from the saddle. Or tried to. My legs had stopped taking orders. They folded underneath me and the ground came up fast, slamming into my knees and palms, sand grinding into my flesh.

My teeth rattled. My vision swam.

Breathe. Count. Stay conscious.

Marda stood off to the side, looking bored. The blonde woman had slumped on the ground and was staring at nothing.

I tried to stand, but my body informed me we were staying down. My side screamed where I’d hit the saddle. The red lines across my palms had opened, blood filling the cracks.

As I struggled to rise, a handler in dusty livery strode toward me, his face twisted in a sneer that mirrored the snide comments from the viewing boxes. He didn’t offer a hand for support; he reached down and snared my upper arm, his fingers digging into the skin with a force that made me flinch.

“On your feet, stable girl,” he barked.

A crack echoed off the stone floor, the sound of a static discharge. The handler let out a yelp and recoiled. He stumbled back, cradling his hand, glaring at me.

He pivoted and scurried across the arena, disappearing through the opening leading to the stands.

I lifted my head.

Prince Fenian stood in the front row of the royal viewing box, his hands braced on the rail, scowling at the entrance below. His gray eyes flickered to me and held.

He didn’t look away, and neither did I.

Something passed between us. It wasn’t pity. I would’ve hated that. Respect, maybe. Or the horror of watching someone choose this knowing what it cost.

He looked like a man watching a disaster he couldn’t stop.

His jaw tightened, that tell I’d learned to read.

Heat landed in my cheeks. I was covered in sand and speckled with blood and my own terror, and he was looking at me like I was⁠—

I dragged my gaze away before I could finish the thought and pushed myself to my feet, wavering. A short time ago, I was plummeting toward stone teeth. My body hadn’t caught up to the fact that I wasn’t falling anymore.

An official’s voice cut through the noise. “Six riders remain. You will now be taken to the second trial.”

Priestesses flowed into the arena, surrounding us and our dragons.

Lykor’s sides heaved, his breathing coming too fast. I stroked his leg, and the heat in my palms flared, what little magic I possessed trying to give him something I wasn’t sure I had.

“One more,” I whispered. “Just one more left, and you can rest.”

I’d survived the canyon.

I’d do my best to survive what came next.

And in the next trial, six of us would become fewer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FEN

The handler should not have touched Eradin.

Satisfaction settled in my chest as he stared at his splayed fingers in confusion. He was lucky I hadn’t ripped off his fucking hand.

Why had I intervened?