Though my shoulder protested, my hand spread up to her side, feeling her chest rise and fall with her powerful breaths. Watching the Karag mill around the darkening camp, I whispered, “Sen endrassa.”

It was what Sarkin had murmured to her. By his tone and body language during that moment, I figured it was a term of respect.

A rustling filled the clearing, a sound I’d heard before though it was quieter. Zaridan’s scales. The sound was like a song.

Sy’asha, Sarkin had said when we’d heard a similar thing on the wildlands of Dakkar. I’d heard that word again when he’d spoken with his aunt upon landing in Sarroth. He’d told her he’d heard his Elthika’s song and that it was more powerful than any binding ceremony.

I wondered what it meant. Sy’asha.

I noticed the clearing go quiet. Most of the Sarrothian horde stopped, freezing in their places, to regard Zaridan. To regard me as her song weaved throughout the entire encampment.

With the sudden attention of an entire horde, I swallowed thickly and dropped my hand away, straightening my spine. My stepmother had always hated when I slouched, even when sitting.

I thought I had done something wrong, but when I sought out Sarkin’s gaze once more, I thought I spied approval on his features. His brows were furrowed, full lips pursed. The fire highlighted the sharpness of his face, and from this distance, it appeared as if his eyes were pitch black, like a starless night.

“Tarosh,” he barked out suddenly, and the horde jolted into movement again, though I still caught whispering and long glances cast my way among the different factions of the horde.

A short while later, as the activity began to die down, and as the delicious scent of cooking meat and bubbling broth filled the clearing, a female approached me. I’d noticed her before because I thought she looked more Dakkari than Karag, with her slighter build and straight black hair. Her skin was dark, and unlike the Karag riders, she had a tail, like any full-blooded Dakkari might. But her features resembled the Karag, straight and sharp, all hard, cutting lines with very little softness.

She had a rounded chin, though, which only sharpened when she smiled at me. I was not used to being smiled at by the Karag, and so I blinked at her, almost in disbelief.

“Hungry?” she asked. She stopped a good distance away from Zaridan, who turned her broad head to regard the new female. She chuffed out a sharp breath, lifting her wing slightly. The female approached, and I realized it was because the Elthika had given her permission.

I struggled to sit up taller, my back against the unyielding hardness of Zaridan’s scales. But given the coldness of the Karag’s reception to me, I still vastly preferred them. At least Zaridan’s body was warm, seeping into my skin and sore muscles.

“Meat, broth, and bread,” the young female added, crouching before me to lay the tray she’d brought on my lap. “The delightful meal of travel. Though maybe you are used to it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked softly.

“I had heard rumors you lived in an actual Dakkari horde.” She dropped her voice like it was meant to be a secret.

“Oh,” I said, giving her a small quirk of my lips, warming to her. Maybe she just wanted to get intel for her Karag friends, but it was the first time a Sarrothian was actually speaking with me—willingly—so I didn’t mind. It was no secret. “I grew up in a horde on the wildlands.”

“And where is that?” the girl asked.

“Well…everywhere,” I answered truthfully. “The wildlands of Dakkar are everywhere. Hordes move from place to place, tracking different game throughout the seasons. Wrissan herds to the East Lands, bveri in the North. We would travel three, four, five times a year if necessary.”

The girl listened to me, seemingly rapt. Perhaps the Karag were as curious about the Dakkari as we were about them. But I didn’t think they feared us like we did them. There was no need for it with creatures like Zaridan at their backs.

Her tail swept over the ground, my eyes catching on it. Curiosity got the best of me when I said, “May I ask you a question? But I hope it won’t offend you.”

The girl quirked a brow. “There is very little that would offend me. Why ask permission? It wastes time. Just ask.”

“Why do you have a tail when others do not? I’ve noticed that the majority of the riders don’t.”

Including Sarkin.

“You don’t have a tail,” she pointed out.

“No,” I said. “But that’s because many of my ancestors were human. And I don’t think that’s the case with the Karag.”

She drank in that information slowly. I didn’t know what she thought of that, but she said, abruptly, “Riders have their tails cut off. It is called the thryn’rosh. The final commitment.”

I froze. “What?”

“Many do when they are young, for riders from the ancient families. Blood borns, we call them. They get off easy. Some don’t even remember it. But others, who came into riding or who were not meant to, like our Karath, get them cut off during the oath-taking ceremony, as a sign of their dedication and honor to the Elthika.”

“That’s…that’s…”

Barbaric? Was that the word I was going to say?

But who was I to judge? Given the old Vorakkar trials of our own people, the insurmountable obstacles and tests of physical strength and how well one could withstand pain.

“It’s the Elthika’s plating. Trust me, it’s for the best. My oath-taking ceremony is next season. I’ll be glad to get rid of mine. I’m so worried sick almost every flight that I’ve begun to strap my tail down my outer leg.”

“Plating?” I asked.

“You might have noticed on Zaridan,” the girl said, jerking her chin back at the Elthika. “The way her scales overlap near the beginning of her tail. Our own tails can get caught there if a rider isn’t careful. During flight, it can get ripped right off. You can bleed out on the back of your Elthika. Many have died that way. It happens.”

For the first time, I was glad not to have a tail, when I’d been teased about it mercilessly, growing up in a horde.

I hadn’t noticed the plating on Zaridan, but I would surely look for it now. Not that it mattered—I’d been riding in front of Sarkin, his strong chest pressed to my back.

“Do you think that you’ll miss yours?” I asked, the question popping out before I could stop it.

The girl grinned, a small chuff of laughter falling from her. “I haven’t given it that much thought. But I suppose I will. I’ll learn to live without it though. I heard the first couple weeks, you’re off balance.”

Across the clearing, I watched as a female rider—one of those who had traveled to Dakkar—approached Sarkin. Her hand touched his arm, and he turned to regard her. They spoke briefly and then he nodded, following her—alone—into the darkness of the forest beyond the clearing. I didn’t know why, but I felt a pinching in my belly, watching them disappear together, how closely they walked next to one another.

Then I couldn’t help but notice Sarkin’s rider’s reactions. Their shared looks, smug smirks.

I swallowed, jerking my gaze away. When I met the girl’s gaze, I knew she’d seen it too. She gave me a soft, knowing smile. “You don’t have to worry about that. That’s long been over.”

So there had been something?

I shouldn’t care. Then again, I’d witnessed my stepmother’s bitterness for over ten years. She’d been humiliated when my birth had been discovered. It had been a mark against her, an insult that she had never recovered from.

That was the only reason, I argued silently, that I felt a lump in my throat, watching her and Sarkin go off alone.

“This marriage is happening because he threatened to kill my people,” I found myself saying. My tone was matter-of-fact, almost soft. The Karag female blinked, her brow furrowing. “I don’t mistake what this is.”