Teeth and scales and claws, so fast and vicious that even Manon held her breath. Chained as he was, the bait beast didn’t stand a chance and was pinned within a second, massive jaws holding down his neck. One command, one whistle, and the wyvern would snap it.

   But the man let out a lower-­note whistle, and the bull backed off. Another whistle and he sat on his haunches. Two more sentinels stepped forward. Five in the running. Cresseida held out a fistful of twigs to the contenders.

   It went to the Blueblood sentinel, who grinned at the others, then down at her wyvern as it was led back into the tunnel. The bait beast, bleeding from his side, heaved himself into the shadows by the wall, waiting for the next assault.

   One after another, the wyverns ­were brought out, attacking with swift, wicked force. And one by one, the sentinels claimed them. No Titus, not yet. She had a feeling the Matrons ­were drawing this out as some test—­to see how well the heirs could control themselves while waiting for the best mounts, to see who would hold out longest. Manon kept one eye on the beasts and another on the other heirs, who watched her in turn as each wyvern was paraded.

   Yet the first truly enormous female had Petrah, the Blueblood heir, stepping forward. The female was nearly Titus’s size, and wound up taking a chunk out of the bait beast’s flank before the trainers could get her to stop. Wild, unpredictable, lethal. Magnificent.

   No one challenged the Blueblood heir. Petrah’s mother only gave her a nod, as though they had already known what mount she desired.

   Asterin took the fiercest stealth wyvern that came along, a cunning-­eyed female. Her cousin had always been the best at scouting, and after a talk with Manon and the other sentinels that went long into the night, it had been decided that Asterin would continue that role in the Thirteen’s new duties.

   So when the pale blue female was presented, Asterin claimed her, her eyes promising such brutality to anyone who got in her way that they practically glowed. No one dared challenge her.

   Manon was watching the tunnel entrance when she smelled the myrrh and rosemary scent of the Blueblood heir beside her. Asterin snarled a soft warning.

   “Waiting for Titus, aren’t you?” Petrah murmured, eyes also on the tunnel.

   “And if I am?” Manon asked.

   “I’d rather you have him than Iskra.”

   The witch’s serene face was unreadable. “So would I.” She ­wasn’t sure what, exactly, but the conversation meant something.

   Clearly, seeing them quietly talking meant something to everyone ­else, too. Especially Iskra, who sauntered over to Manon’s other side. “Plotting already?”

   The Blueblood heir lifted her chin. “I think Titus would make a good mount for Manon.”

   A line in the sand, Manon thought. What had the Blueblood Matron told Petrah about her? What schemes was she hatching?

   Iskra’s mouth twisted into a half grin. “We’ll see what the Three-­Faced Mother has to say.”

   Manon might have said something back, but then Titus thundered out.

   As it had every other time, the breath went out of her at his sheer size and viciousness. The men had barely scrambled back through the gate before Titus whirled, snapping for them. They’d made only a few successful runs with him, she’d been told. Yet under the right rider, he’d fully break.

   Titus didn’t wait for the whistle before he wheeled on the bait beast, striking with his barbed tail. The chained beast ducked with surprising swiftness, as if he’d sensed the bull’s attack, and Titus’s tail imbedded itself in the stone.

   Debris rained on the bait beast, and as he cringed back, Titus struck again. And again.

   Chained to the wall, the bait beast could do nothing. The man whistled, but Titus kept at it. He moved with the fluid grace of untamed savagery.

   The bait beast yelped, and Manon could have sworn the Blueblood heir flinched. She’d never heard a cry of pain from any of the wyverns, yet as Titus sank back on his haunches, she saw where he’d struck—­right atop the earlier wound in the bait beast’s flank.

   As if Titus knew where to hit to inflict the most agony. She knew they ­were intelligent, but how intelligent? The man whistled again, and a whip sounded. Titus just kept pacing in front of the bait beast, contemplating how he would strike. Not out of strategy. No, he wanted to savor it. To taunt.

   A shiver of delight went down Manon’s spine. Riding a beast like Titus, ripping apart her enemies with him . . .

   “If you want him so badly,” Iskra whispered, and Manon realized she was still standing beside her, now only a step away, “why don’t you go get him?”

   And before Manon could move—­before anyone could, because they ­were all enthralled by that glorious beast—­iron claws shoved into her back.

   Asterin’s shout echoed, but Manon was falling, plunging the forty feet right into the stone pit. She twisted, colliding with a small, crumbling ledge jutting from the wall. It slowed her fall and saved her life, but she kept going until—

   She slammed into the ground, her ankle wrenching. Cries came from above, but Manon didn’t look up. If she had, she might have seen Asterin tackle Iskra, claws and teeth out. She might have seen her grandmother give the order that no one was to jump into the pit.

   But Manon ­wasn’t looking at them.

   Titus turned toward her.

   The wyvern stood between her and the gate, where the men ­were rushing to and fro, as if trying to decide whether they should risk saving her or wait until she was carrion.

   Titus’s tail lashed back and forth, his dark eyes pinned on her. Manon drew Wind-­Cleaver. It was a dagger compared to the mass of him. She had to get to that gate.

   She stared him down. Titus settled onto his haunches, preparing to attack. He knew where the gate was, too, and what it meant for her. His prey.

   Not rider or mistress, but prey.

   The witches had gone silent. The men at the gate and upper ­platforms had gone silent.

   Manon rotated her sword. Titus lunged.

   She had to roll to avoid his mouth, and was up in a second, sprinting like hell for that gate. Her ankle throbbed, and she limped, swallowing her scream of pain. Titus turned, fast as a spring stream down a mountainside, and as she hurtled for the gate, he struck with his tail.

   Manon had enough sense to whirl to avoid the venomous barbs, but she caught an upper edge of the tail in the side and went flying, Wind-­Cleaver wrenching from her grip. She hit the dirt near the opposite wall and slid, face scraping on the rocks. Her ribs bleated in agony as she scrambled into a sitting position and gauged the distance between herself and the sword and Titus.

   But Titus was hesitating, his eyes lifted behind her, above her, to—