Page 58 of Feralheart

Commons weren’t my concern, and I’d just protected her again.

She should’ve died in the first trial. She rode a retired dragon, and she had no training. She’d loosened the reins, a mistake that would’ve killed almost any other rider. Every variable pointed toward her failing this challenge.

Why had she released the reins?

I’d loosened Aristus’s reins exactly once in my life. Seven months ago, late at night when no one was watching, when the hitch in his breathing had gotten bad enough I’d wondered if the harness was making it worse.

He’d flown differently. Smoother. Like something that had been pulling against him had started to let go.

I’d tightened them again before landing at the aerie. This was the way the bond worked. I hadn’t tried again.

Eradin had done in a trial what I didn’t dare do where anyone could see.

Her gesture suggested trust, but retired dragons didn’t respond to anything like that. They’d had it beaten out of them too many times to remember what it felt like.

But Lykor had responded to her.

Aristus had flown smoother with loosened reins. Lykor had responded the same way. Two dragons, different circumstances, identical result.

I shoved the idea down.

The Unity Bands were sacred. The harnesses had been blessed by priestesses. The entire foundation of our bond with dragons rested on control that had been refined over centuries.

If control was the problem…

It couldn’t be true.

Aristus was sick. That was the issue. Something the healers couldn’t identify.

The alternative was that everything I’d been taught and all I’d done to him for twenty-three years had been making it worse. I couldn’t afford to think that with my mother standing beside me and the entire court watching.

“Impressive,” my mother said. “For commons. The fire maze will sort them out.”

“I believe she’ll make it interesting.”

Mother sniffed. “She?”

“Them. All of them.”

Lord Andra had stood on my mother’s other side, watching the riders die with a bit too much interest for my taste. Making mental notes, perhaps? But my mother’s councilor saw the Scorching as a resource to be managed, not a sacred tradition.

“I hope the next round provides more entertainment than the last,” someone said behind me. Lady Seril or one of her circle. Her voice carried the tone a lady used when discussing a servant who’d forgotten their place. “Six is too many to survive. I hope the fire maze finishes them all.”

I stood with my hands on the rail, my silence close enough to agreement that no one would question it. But my jaw ached. I’d been clenching it too long.

I was supposed to want this race. I’d spent my life preparing for it. Victory wasn’t a goal. It was the point of me. But if Aristus failed, so did I. And if I failed, then what was the point of my existence?

All the training. The careful construction. The crown prince who never broke or doubted or wanted anything he wasn’t supposed to.

If I lost, it would prove I had no foundation underneath.

And if I won⁠—

I’d use the wish to cure Aristus.

The priestesses flowed into the arena, their silver robes catching the light. They formed a circle around the remaining riders and dragons, their hands lifting to teleport them to the second trial. Their chant echoed around me.

Magic gathered in the arena, thick enough to taste. The air pressure shifted, making my ears pop.