Chapter One

For the seventh time that afternoon, Lysa was about to die.

Sweat trickled down her back, wooden spear clutched firmly in her hand as she focused on her breathing. Sweltering jungle heat pressed inward from all sides, the air thick with the scent of decaying wood, of lush soil, of sickly sweet pineapple fermenting on the ground. Bekal flies flicked against her face and she took a deep breath through her nose, suppressing the urge to swat at them. Any sudden moves would likely result in instant death.

She was staring down the face of a kabul wildcat.

It was long and black and sleek and proud, thick paws padding effortlessly along the jungle floor. Now it was motionless, yellow eyes unblinking, looking at her as if it could pierce into her very soul. One small motion, one wrong move, and it could end her where she stood.

She held herself perfectly still as a tall wolf crept through the trees behind the cat, keeping himself upwind. He, too, held a spear, intelligence shining from inside his strange green eyes. He walked on two legs, muscles rippling as he moved, sharp fingerclaws wrapped around the weapon’s wooden shaft. Thick brown fur covered him from head to toe, whiskers quivering along his snout as he stalked through the forest. He glanced meaningfully at Lysa, shaking his head as if to tell her not to move.

Because Lysa wasn’t the hunter.

She was the bait.

She couldn’t help the revulsion that filled her as she watched the ugly wolf man move. His name was Jascyn, and he was a rylak. Not her captor, not her friend—just the boy they’d paired her with. Though his body was powerful, his form was wrong. He held the spear as if he were afraid of it, his grip so weak it was a wonder he hadn’t dropped it already. Was her master—Hrildr—trying to get her killed?

He’d put her with the most inept rylak to ever walk on two hind legs.

The wildcat finally had enough of things, it seemed. It bolted, jumping right at her, massive claws outstretched. But Lysa was quick—she ducked, feeling the hot wind of the big cat’s passing, a strand of hair catching in one claw and tearing painfully away.

Then she was running, moving behind a tree, glancing back to see Jascyn’s spear sail through the air where the kabul cat had been.

As always, it was a terrible shot.

The spear went wide, but the cat was gone. It didn’t care to kill them there that day. Maybe it wasn’t hungry, or maybe it was disgusted at their incompetence. Lysa felt adrenaline begin to leave her as she finally let out the breath she’d been holding. She’d faced death seven times and lived to tell the tale.

The only problem was, they’d failed the hunt.

Well, Jascyn had failed.

Lysa was just the bait, and bait didn’t kill.

She wanted to laugh at him, to jeer the way the other rylak did. But that would only invite pain she didn’t need. So instead she swallowed hard, preparing to spit the growls of the horrid rylak language.

“Your throw is improving, Jascyn.”

The lie twisted in her throat.

For a long moment he just stared, silver whiskers gleaming.

Then he erupted into howls of laughter, muscular chest shaking as he did. “You are a poor liar,” he growled, the words coming almost as a bark. “Moons—your arm is better than mine.”

It was. But she didn’t need to tell him that.

“Should we try again?”

Hrildr had sent them out there for a reason, after all. If they returned empty-handed, there was no telling what his rage might do. If Lysa didn’t do her job as bait, bring fresh meat back to the pack for the evening meal, she would feel the razor’s edge of her master’s claws.

“We need to try again.” The words burned even as she said them. She wanted nothing more than to simply run, to be free of all of this, to never again know the anger of the rylak pack. But running would do no good.

The jungle was far too fierce to face alone.

There were far worse things than kabul cats lurking in the Wilds.

“Very well,” Jascyn growled, trudging through the undergrowth to find his spear. The kabul was long gone, off for a better—or perhaps less clumsy—meal.

Lysa followed silently. Jascyn was one of the weakest packmembers, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t kill her in an instant. It was better if she bit her tongue, doing what any good slave would do. It was better if she played along.

The wilderness cleared as they crested the top of the hill. A vast swathe of vivid blue sky cut through the leafy canopy, offering a view of the jungle around them. Endless treetops glistened in the light, vines and ferns reaching for the sunbeams in pops of red and yellow heliconia flowers. Mice skittered on the moist dirt and crunched beneath a layer of dead leaves, stirring bekal flies that buzzed in swarms. The Kojo River curved its way through the jungle in the distance, gray and turgid water marking the border of her world. She could see the faint outline of the blue moon Geija above her in the daytime sky, but she did not take it for the sign of peace that it was meant to be.

She would never find peace in the Kalmansa Wilds.

She shivered despite the intense jungle heat. Once a slave, always a slave. She couldn’t make it across the river—no one could swim that well. She wouldn’t last a week in the jungle on her own—finding food was hard enough, but the endless stream of predators would surely do her in. Life in the Wilds required strength, required claws. Life in a pack was the only proven way to survive.

Some day, perhaps she’d risk it.

Today was not that day.

Today she would play along.

A memory stirred, unbidden. It was a fleeting image of a city, flashing metal, dark faces, and she strained to pull it into focus. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, with no sense of what or where it was. There had been some kind of power there, lurking in the scene. Some kind of magic.

But magic was long, long gone.

She was about to continue on, about to follow Jascyn back into the jungle when it appeared: the thing she had been most dreading to see. There were many dangerous creatures in the Kalmansa Wilds, after all. Many things that could kill her with hardly any effort. The list of horrors in the jungle was endless, but this was the worst of them. This was what kept her up at night, praying to the Three Moons to keep her safe.

This was a dragon.

It soared in from overhead, effortlessly flying in from somewhere to the south, irridescent scales shimmering in the sunlight as it flew. It was a brilliant purple color, widespread wings held taut to catch the wind. Four arms emerged from its body, sharp claws grasping the air as it winged its way closer to them.

She felt a chill freeze her blood as she realized it was looking at her. It stopped, hovering above the trees just a hundred feet away, lips curled to reveal sharp teeth.

She’d never had a dragon look at her before.

“Angels,” she said, the curse slipping from her lips. She should run. She should hide. She should at least hold her spear at the ready, at least try to fight. But all she could do was freeze, and falter, and hope to all the Moons that she would live to see another day.

Suddenly Jascyn didn’t seem so bad.

The dragon kept on staring, eyes piercing directly to her soul, and it was all Lysa could do to avoid fainting right there.

“Ba ad wen ud la,” the dragon said, its voice deep and rich, rolling off the trees. Then it seemed to smile, sharp teeth shining, and wheeled its way into the sky and flew away.

She was sure it had been speaking to her.

Lysa let out the breath she had been holding. “Angels,” she cursed again. “That was close.”

“Stop using the ellr language,” Jascyn growled. “What did you say?”

“I was scared,” she said, turning to him, switching to the rylak growls. “That dragon was looking at me.”

“It was looking at us.” The quaver in his growl betrayed his fear.

There were very few things in the Wilds that could scare a rylak, but dragons were definitely one of them.

“Did you understand what it said?” Jascyn asked.

Lysa shook her head. “I didn’t even know dragons could speak.”

Jascyn chuffed, whiskers quivering. “We’re lucky it didn’t kill us.”

He was right, Lysa knew. They were lucky to be alive. Her adrenaline was through the roof, legs all shaky where she stood. She wasn’t cut out for this. She couldn’t live life out in the jungle.

That was her eighth time facing death that day.

“We have to go,” she said. “We still have a hunt to make.”

But an arm took her suddenly, a thick arm covered with thick brown fur, muscles taut, claws digging into her skin. She caught a musky scent as it came up behind her, muscular body thrusting up against her as it jerked her to the side, whirling her around, and then she was staring into the eyes of a monster. Another wolf, held upright like a man.

A rylak, and a far worse one than Jascyn.

It was her master.

Hrildr was standing in front of her, and he looked mad. “Your test period is over,” he growled. “You have failed the hunt.”