Page 67 of Feralheart

I’m here. You’re not alone. We’re going to make it.

Fire roared up ahead, a wall of it, churning from both sides, meeting all the way up to the mesh ceiling. No gap or space. Just endless fire.

We ran toward it.

Weapons don’t slosh, Sire.

I’d said that to a prince in the stable yard, trying not to shake while water pooled at his boots. He’d almost smiled.

Lykor’s wings snapped out, instinct overriding terror. He shielded me with his body, his scales glowing with heat.

The world went orange-white. A furnace slammed into me from every side, stealing the air from my lungs. I couldn’t tell if we were moving or burning in place.

Lykor’s scales scraped my cheek where I’d pressed my face to his neck. His heartbeat thundered under my ear, too fast, too hard.

Then cool air hit my face, and I gasped, dragging in a clean breath.

The flames died back, and we raced forward.

We stumbled into the far side of the arena, and once we were clear, my legs gave out. I dropped flat on the sand, my palms pressed against the cool ground, the red lines glowing so bright they hurt to look at.

Tolross’s poem crackled in my pocket. I’d made it, which meant my little brother still had a chance. I had to keep making it until there was nothing left to survive.

Lykor dropped beside me, his sides heaving, his wing spreading awkwardly where it had been burned.

I crawled over to him and slumped against his side, pressing my palms against the burned areas. Humming, I channeled my mother’s gift through me. Out of me. Into this horribly wounded dragon.

He turned his head, and his gaze met mine. Rheumy still, but I found wisdom there. Trust that had been beaten out of him years ago, flickering back to life for this moment.

I didn’t deserve it. I’d forced him into the maze and made him relive the type of trauma that had broken him in the first place.

My throat tightened. I pressed my forehead into his side and kept humming, pushing every scrap of warmth I had into his burned scales.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

But it was all I had to give.

We lay in the sand while the blonde woman flew through the course and even after she’d emerged and collapsed on the sand, crying harder than when she’d entered.

Four of us left.

The gray-bearded man stood beside his dragon, his hands shaking where he held the reins. His dragon’s right wing hung at an awkward angle, burned through at the joint. His eyes met mine across the sand, and he dipped his chin once.

Silence pressed down from the viewing stands. Every elite in the arena glared at me. A woman in a blue gown stood up, her face a twisted mask. A man beside her shouted something I couldn’t hear over the ringing in my ears.

A man in gold-trimmed robes pounded his fists in the air, his face purple. A woman beside him threw her wine, the goblet clattering on stone three boxes down. Someone else chanted, the words lost in the roar, but the rhythm was clear.

They weren’t just angry. They were offended.

They wanted me punished for making this ugly, for showing them what their entertainment cost.

Prince Fenian stood at the rail, his expression carved from stone.

The herald’s magically amplified voice cut through the uproar. “Protocol violation. Rider five dismounted. Awaiting adjudication.”

The stands erupted. “Kill her!”

I remained where I was, my palms pressed against Lykor’s burned scales.