BOOK THREE: FLIGHT OF DRAGONS

SIRANA

The dragons were flying in defensive formation, patrolling Requiem's southern coast, when the sea erupted and death emerged.

Sirana Oldnale, commander of Requiem's Starlit Army, stared at the churning water. She felt like the sky turned to stone around her.

Stars save us, she thought, unable to breathe.

She had not expected this. Not now. Not so soon. She had assumed command of Requiem's military only days ago. She had barely found her bearings. And already—an attack!

The past few days of madness all seemed like a haze now. Durian Eleison, aging master of the City Guard, dying in the war with the valkyries. The Guard and Royal Army, both devastated by losses, joining to form the Starlit Army, a united military force to defend what remained of Requiem, this ravaged kingdom of dragons. And she—Lady Sirana Oldnale, scion of a legendary dynasty—thrust into command, tasked with leading Requiem's last warriors.

A hundred dragons were flying with her on patrol. Some were grizzled old warriors, their scales chipped, their horns cracked, their eyes weary with war. Many were young recruits, enlisted mere days ago to replace the fallen. Boys. Girls. Some as young as thirteen. Some of the youngsters were eager for war. They had been blasting fire all morning, sneering, antsy to fight. Most looked around with darting eyes, their scales clattering. All wore dented old breastplates to protect their underbellies where no scales grew, and blades sprouted from their helmets like steel horns.

My soldiers are either too young or too old, Sirana thought. Most soldiers like her—Vir Requis in their prime, trained and battle hardened—had perished in the flames of hydras or under the blades of valkyries.

"We are those who remain!" she had told her soldiers when assuming command. "We are the last few warriors. We are the defenders of Requiem. The Starlit Army will keep Requiem safe. Never again will our kingdom fall!"

And so she had risen here, with these hundred dragons, to patrol the coast. And so, across Requiem's borders, thousands of other dragons—too old, too young, too scared—flew in vigil. And so now, here along the southern border, did Sirana see the sea split open.

And the terrors emerged.

Sirana stared, scales chinking, barely able to beat her wings. For a moment she could not breathe.

Dear stars. What are those things?

Finally Sirana found her voice.

"Dragons!" she cried. "Battle formations! Flights of three! Fly out and meet them!"

She had drilled this with them over and over. Even now, with terror pounding through her, Sirana swelled with pride to see her dragons. Even as they clattered with fear, they formed ranks flawlessly. Within instants, they arranged themselves into battle flights, three dragons each. One dragon flew at the lead, prepared to attack. Two others took support positions—one above the attacker's right wing, the other farther back below the left wing.

"Dragons, fly!" Sirana shouted and beat her wings, leading the flight. "Send these beasts back into the sea!"

The dragons charged, leaving the beach behind, flying over the water. The beasts rose from the maelstrom, dripping seawater, like ancient gods rising from slumber. Sirana struggled for breath, struggled to believe what she saw.

By the stars, they're massive.

Their heads emerged first, dripping, bloated, the size of temples. Their hair clung to their pasty cheeks, black and shimmering with indigo and deep green. Their jaws opened wide, revealing teeth the size of dragons, yellowing and chipped. Their eyes stared ahead, bloodshot, bulging. As the dragons of Requiem charged toward them, the creatures kept rising from the sea, revealing massive chests and arms. Their skin was raw, covered in sores, brittle, clinging to their ribs. They were cadaverous, their bones pushing against that papery flesh, as if there was not enough food in this world to fill their frames, and hunger blazed in their eyes. A stench wafted from them, a sickening blend of sweat, algae, and rot.

Sirana knew them. Only days ago, the dragons had hidden in the fossilized innards of such a beast.

Titans.

But all the titans were supposed to be dead. Mere fossils. Corpses almost indistinguishable from mountains. The creatures ahead were desiccated, perhaps. Maybe even ancient. But very much alive.

Sirana had heard stories of the ancient days when the titans had roamed the world, crushing villages, draining rivers, flattening forests. In the tales, armies had tried to slay them, only to shatter before them.

A single titan could destroy the world. Now three rose from the sea.

Fear flooded Sirana.

This evil is beyond us.

"Hear me, titans!" she cried. "Turn back! This land is forbidden to you. Turn back now or burn!"

The titans ignored her. They kept walking, rising from the depths. They were still a few miles from the shore. The water rose up to their waists.

Two were male. One had a long white beard that dripped rot and algae, and stringy hair swayed across his eyes. The other titan was missing his lower jaw. A massive metal contraption replaced it, filled with iron teeth like a portcullis. The third titan was female. Her eyes were milky white, coated with cataracts, and her teeth were sharpened to points.

Flying toward them, the dragons seemed as small as bees.

"Blow your fire!" Sirana cried and blasted a flaming stream.

Around her, her army charged. A hundred jets of dragonfire slammed into the titans.

The creatures howled. But they sounded more annoyed than hurt.

The bearded titan swung his hand. Each finger was like a temple's column. The hand slammed into dragons, scattering a dozen of them. A few managed to keep flying. The others lost their magic, became humans again, and fell toward the sea.

Sirana soared, dodging a blow from the cadaverous titan with the rusty metal jaw. She rose higher, then spun around and swooped, the sun at her back, raining fire onto the giant.

The beast roared, a sound that pounded against Sirana with physical force. She tumbled through the sky. As the world spun, she glimpsed a flight of three dragons charging toward the titan, trying to burn its eyes. The giant caught all three dragons in his massive hand. He shoved them into his mouth and chewed, crushing them between his upper teeth and his lower metal jaw.

Sirana charged again. She blew more fire. The flames sprayed against the titan's cheek, leaving a black mark. Dragonfire could topple castles, could reduce cities to ash. The blaze barely fazed the titan, no more than a matchstick could hurt a man.

The titan bellowed and swung his hand.

Sirana tried to rise, to dodge the blow, and—

Pain. Pain exploded through her. Sirana tumbled, seeing nothing but white light.

She tried to flap her wings. They were bent, crumpled. She managed to unfurl one.

She slammed into the sea.

Water engulfed her.

It felt like slamming onto concrete. In the shock, she lost her magic. She sank as a woman, heavy in her armor. She flailed, opened her eyes in the stinging saltwater, and saw corpses sinking around her. Her blood rose like crimson ghosts.

She clenched her jaw, grabbed her magic again, and swam upward as a dragon. She burst out of the water and soared.

Ahead of her, dragons were still falling. The three titans were moving forward, dragging their feet through the shallow water. Dragonfire had scarred a few of them. It seemed no more serious than bee stings on a man. One dragon managed to kindle a strand of a titan's hair, but the fire soon died. The hair was too wet.

The female titan reached the shore first. She emerged onto the beach, her feet crushing palm trees. She raised her arms and roared, and the land shook. Sirana could not guess her height, but the world's tallest palace wouldn't reach her knees.

The other two titans soon followed. The bearded giant swung his arms, knocking dragons down. Human corpses fell to the beach, only to be crushed by titan feet.

Dripping and grunting, the three titans walked along the shore.

They were heading toward the city a league away.

Toward Lynport, the ancient southernmost city of Requiem.

Sirana hovered, staring, and her throat tightened.

Stars, no. Her chest shook. Twenty thousand people live there.

In the distance, Sirana could see the city's towers, domes, and archways. She could hear the cries of fear. The titans trudged onward, crushing trees beneath their feet.

"Warriors of Requiem!" Sirana cried. "Rally around me!"

The surviving soldiers flew toward her. Only about fifty remained. Half her original patrol force. The others lay dead on the beaches and under the sea.

"We cannot kill them!" said a blue dragon—a young boy, once a farmhand.

"These beasts are unstoppable," muttered another warrior, an older, gruff soldier who had survived the hydras and valkyries.

Sirana nodded. "Then we evacuate the city. Come!"

Fifty dragons in armor, they flew.

The three titans lumbered onward, leaving the dragons behind, focused on the prize ahead. Sirana flew higher, leading her warriors.

"Fly higher!" she cried. "Fly over their heads!"

They soared even higher. Higher than dragons normally flew. Dragons were heavy beasts, requiring thick air for their wings and lungs, and they struggled at high altitudes. Some birds could fly higher than mountains, but dragons almost always flew close to the surface. Up here the air was cold and thin. Sirana could barely breathe.

"Fly over them!" she managed to cry, her voice reedy.

The dragons stormed forward, flying over the towering beasts. One titan waved his massive arm, and the dragons scattered, dodging the assault, then regrouped. Another titan leaped up. A massive hand grabbed a dragon by the tail. The dragon's roar died in the crushing grip. The titan landed back on the shore, cracking the earth, sending trees falling. The beast licked his fingers, feasting on the dead Vir Requis.

Sirana sneered, ignoring the terror. She led her remaining warriors onward, over the titans' heads, and toward the city.

Lynport was thousands of years old. It took its name from Queen Lyana Aeternum, among Requiem's greatest leaders, who fought the wyverns on this coast. Generations later, the heroes Rune Brewer and Tilla Roper lived here, fighting to reclaim Requiem from the cruel General Cadigus. It was Rune who had become the legendary Prince Relesar, wielder of Amerath the Amber Sword, whose shards had been reforged into Arinor, blade of Princess Fira.

Today Lynport was smaller than in its glory days, but still fair. Sailing ships docked in its port. Columns lined its boardwalk, and its gardens bloomed. Graceful towers, domes, and archways rose along cobbled streets.

Some dragons were already rising from the city, crying out in fear. Other Vir Requis clogged the streets in human form, pointing at the titans who trudged toward their city. With every titan footstep, the earth shook. Walls cracked. A tower crashed down.

"People of Lynport!" Sirana cried, diving over the city. "Rise as dragons! Rise and fly with me! Ri—"

The titans roared, drowning out her words.

The bearded giant's foot slammed down, shattering the city's defensive wall.

The titan's other foot rose. People screamed and scattered. The foot fell, crushing a home. The other two titans tore through the walls too, scattering bricks, uprooting trees, and sending people fleeing.

"Requiem, rise!" Sirana shouted. "Fly as dragons! Rally to me!"

Across the city, the Vir Requis shifted into dragons and rose to fly with her. Some were too young or too old to shift. Their relatives carried them.

More and more dragons rose. Vir Requis ran out from their homes, shifted into dragons, and soared. The female titan rumbled forward, lashed her arm, and sent a group of dragons tumbling. The iron-jawed titan kicked down a tower, crushing several dragons who were still rising, and swatted others who were trying to escape. They were like cruel boys who had wandered into a field of butterflies, determined to slay as many of their prey as possible. And still more dragons rose from the crumbling city.

"Citizens of Lynport, fly north!" Sirana cried. "Fly north to the forests!" She turned toward her fellow warriors, the few who still lived. "Starlit Army, we'll cover them. Fly with me! Attack!"

The warriors roared and flew at the titans.

We have no hope of slaying these creatures, Sirana thought. But perhaps we can distract them long enough to let the others flee.

Once more dragonfire streamed toward the titans. Once more massive hands swatted them, knocking dragons down. The titans trudged through the city, shattering buildings, destroying roads. Finally they smashed the northern walls and began lumbering through the forest, crushing trees as if they were merely blades of grass.

Sirana panted in the sky.

"They're going after the dragons of Lynport," she whispered to herself. "They want to kill them all."

Thousands of dragons were fleeing their crumbling city over the forest. The bearded titan reached out, grabbed a handful, and shoved them into his mouth. The female titan gripped a whip that hung from her hip, the lash as wide as a city boulevard. She swung the massive whip through the sky, and it cracked the air. A sonic boom shook the sky. The thong tore through the crowd of fleeing dragons. Bodies rained.

Sirana gathered her remaining warriors and flew around the titans, blasting down dragonfire, but the beasts kept swatting at them, knocking them down until barely any soldiers remained. Sirana growled, dived, and blew dragonfire onto a titan's head. Its hair caught fire, and Sirana soared in triumph, but the titan patted out the flames with his massive palm and trudged onward.

The city's dragons were still fleeing, wailing in fear. Some were already distant specks on the horizon, but many were too old or too young for speed. The whip lashed again, longer than the entire city that lay in ruins behind them. The thong tore through more dragons, and more bodies tumbled to the forest.

Sirana stared in horror as dozens, maybe hundreds died.

Was there no way to stop these creatures?

More bodies fell to the forest, and the titans kept tramping forward, chasing the thousands of dragons who still fled. Their swollen, callused feet shattered trees and flattened hills.

I know what I must do.

Sirana inhaled sharply. Her chest constricted.

No. Stars, no, she did not want to take this path.

The iron-jawed titan swung his arm, felling more dragons, and Sirana knew that she must.

Forgive me, Requiem, she thought.

She flew toward her remaining soldiers. Twenty dragons, no more.

"Fly with me," she told them. "Blow your fire with mine."

With a deep breath and heavy heart, she dived down. She shot between the legs of a titan, plunged toward the forest canopy, then leveled off several feet above the trees. She rained down her fire.

The flames bathed the trees, roared, and spread.

Around her, her fellow soldiers rained their own dragonfire. More trees kindled. A few of Lynport's fleeing dragons understood. They joined the soldiers, diving and blasting down flames.

The forest burned.

Sirana flew above the flames, the smoke stinging her eyes, and her chest felt full of stones.

These trees were ancient. This forest had rustled, full of life and secrets, when Queen Lyana reigned in Requiem thousands of years ago. The legendary Prince Relesar had flown over these woods. Sirana's own ancestor, the noble Roen Oldnale, had been a ranger among these trees, tending to the forest and its animals.

And I burned it. Her eyes dampened. Now this ancient life fades.

The flames spread, fast as dragons, crackling, casting up smoke. The forest became a sea of fire.

The titans roared. The flames rose around their feet. They kept trudging forward, but they wailed with every step. The bearded titan bellowed, a rumbling sound that shook the sky. The female screamed, a sound like ripping leather. The titan with the iron jaw let out a metallic screech. The giants were running, trying to escape the flames, when the iron-jawed titan slammed his foot into a hill and pitched forward.

With a howl that seemed to shatter the world, with a boom that sent trees falling, the titan slammed facedown down into the fire.

The ground cracked open in a canyon.

The fires blazed with new fury.

Sirana flew high above the devastation. She sneered.

Die, you bastard.

The other two titans helped their fallen comrade rise. The creature was screaming, hair aflame, skin burning. His iron jaw hung loose.

The burning titan turned back south.

He ran, footfalls cracking the earth, and plowed through the ruins of the city. Wailing, the burning titan waded through the harbor, smashing ships, and dipped into the sea.

His comrades joined him soon after, their soles burnt, their legs sooty. The water doused the flames, and clouds of smoke and steam filled the sky.

As Lynport's dragons kept fleeing north, Sirana hovered in the sky, staring south toward the sea. The three titans stared at her from the water, their blank white eyes piercing her. As one, they opened their jaws and shrieked—sounds of fury, a vow for vengeance.

But not today, Sirana thought. Today I held you back.

She spun around. Last of an ancient family, commander of a crumbling kingdom's army, Sirana Oldnale flew north. She had to return to her capital. She had to see her king.

BERINOR

They took my daughter.

As Berinor stood in the fortress, staring at the wheelbarrow of bronze shards, his heart raced, his breath sawed at his lungs, and he couldn't stop the grief, the terror.

They kidnapped Miya.

He stood in a wide, crumbling hall lined with chipped columns. Torches crackled in iron sconces, illuminating obsidian statues of dragons. Their wings were cracked, and roaming thieves had stripped the gilt off their horns and claws. Cobwebs draped an ancient throne, and shadows cloaked the vaulted ceiling, obscuring peeling frescos. The great fireplace, large enough for a man to stand in, roared with flames again after centuries of housing rats and spiders.

Here were the ruins of Draco Murus, once a great fortress, a home to legendary heroes. It rose upon a snowy mountaintop, defending the kingdom's northern border.

The fortress—along with the rest of Requiem—had fallen to ruin long ago. The seraphim had destroyed this kingdom, had collared the Vir Requis to contain their magic, and had enslaved them in a searing cruel desert. A century ago, after generations of slavery, the Vir Requis had returned home, and they had rebuilt the fabled Draco Murus. But few had lived here since, only a handful of eccentric lords and their staff. They all ended up fleeing south to warmer climes, speaking of ghosts haunting these basalt halls.

Today thousands of new lives filled the fortress and the crumbling, ancient town on the mountainside. Berinor had led them here: the refugees of Nova Vita. The capital of Requiem had fallen to Nemoria and her hosts. Little but King's Column now rose from that rubble. Draco Murus was a place of drafty halls, of cobwebs and rats, and perhaps—if the stories were true—of ghosts. But it was also a place of shelter, of warmth by the hearth, of some sense of home and safety in a burning world.

Yet what home and safety is there for Miya? Berinor thought. His eyes stung, and his breath shuddered. I'm sorry, my daughter. I will bring you home. I promise.

Visions flashed before his eyes in the darkness. He could see Miya in a different fortress—in the Hall of Shadows, the realm of the cruel goddess Nemoria. Chained. Tortured. Screaming.

No.

Berinor forced himself to take a deep breath.

Do not succumb to fear, he told himself. You cannot bring Miya home if the terror cripples you.

Fira approached him, stared at the wheelbarrow, and spoke in a low voice.

"This is it." The firelight danced in her eyes. "All the shards of mirror we found. If any more existed, they're lost."

Berinor stared at the pieces. The shards of the Mirror of Many Worlds. A magical artifact that could lead one anywhere—in this world or worlds beyond.

Berinor thought back to the battle with the valkyries, and fresh pain stabbed him. He remembered his oldest, dearest friend—Durian Eleison, that stubborn, squat, marvelous bastard. The bronze old dragon had flown through the mirror, taking the valkyries with him, vanishing into the land of the dead. Only for the mirror to shatter. To leave Durian dead in a distant land. To destroy any hope of reaching Nemoria in her astral realm.

Berinor spoke, staring at the wheelbarrow, but directing his voice to the dozens who stood in this hall with him. Fira, his oldest daughter. Lenora, librarian of Requiem, who sat in her wheelchair, her spectacles perched on her nose. Oryn, young thief-turned-warrior. And several bellators, knights of Requiem.

"Lintari, my youngest daughter, shattered this mirror." Berinor's voice was low, but it still echoed in the cavern. "And she took Miya, her older sister, captive. We will fix the Mirror of Many Worlds. We will open a portal to Icelos, realm of the gods. We will confront Nemoria again. We will bring Miya home." He inhaled deeply. "And if we can, we will bring Lintari back too."

The crowd erupted with gasps, mutterings, even cries of dismay. All which Berinor had expected.

"Bring the serpent back here?" cried a lord, a commander in the Starlit Army.

"That creature will kill us all!" Oryn said. "Berinor, did you forget all those she murdered?"

Even Lenora looked concerned. "Father, this is a bad idea. Lintari is a demigoddess, murderous, impossible to control, and far too dangerous to bring here."

Berinor spoke softly, but everyone hushed to hear him. "Yet she is my daughter. And there is goodness to her still."

They all stared at him, eyes dark.

"Berinor—" Oryn began.

"She healed Fira," Berinor said.

He turned to look at his daughter, and some of the pain in his heart melted. Fira stood tall at his side, no longer scarred. For years, she had carried the wounds of war—half her face burnt, her hand bloated and curled, her finger missing. She had returned from the Maze of Roses unblemished, speaking of Lintari healing her wounds, erasing her scars.

Fira smiled thinly. She nodded. "Yes. She healed me. There is some goodness to Lintari."

Oryn stepped closer, fists clenched. "Do you forget how Lintari shattered the stone titan, allowing the valkyries to butcher us? How she devoured our children in King's Forest? Maybe Lintari had a moment of weakness in the maze. Or maybe she just wanted us to lower our guard. I don't forget Lintari's crimes! How she murdered so many. How … how she …" Tears filled Oryn's green eyes. "She took Miya." He snarled and gripped the daggers that hung from his belt. "Lintari must die."

Berinor stared at the thief. "Release your weapons."

"I will not—" Oryn began.

"Release them!" Berinor said. "Enough have died. My son died." His voice rasped. "Ramiel died. He was evil, yes. A murderer. But he was my son. I will not lose Lintari too. There is goodness to all my children. Nemoria corrupted them, tortured them, made them evil. But there is still goodness even Nemoria could not touch. I could not save my son. I will save both my daughters."

Oryn stared at him, fire in his eyes. "You choose your monstrous spawn over Requiem. You're an old fool."

The thief spat, spun around, and trudged out of the hall. A few guards made to grab him, but Berinor waved them down.

"Let him go!" Berinor said. "The boy is right to hate me now. And to fear Lintari. You're all right to fear her. You're all right to think my judgment impaired. Do not fear to tell me I'm a fool. Not now, not ever. But in this case, I believe that I do right. I believe there's still a role for Lintari to play in this war, and not the role of a murderess. Now let's fix this mirror, and let's open a portal, and the dragons of Requiem will storm the halls of Icelos."

He lifted a shard of mirror from the wheelbarrow, collected from the battlefield. Fira lifted another piece. For a long time, they labored, placing the pieces on an oak tabletop, struggling to fit them together. Some of the pieces were misshapen, partially melted by dragonfire. Others were no larger than pebbles. The biggest shard was the size of Berinor's palm.

Finally they assembled the shards into what roughly resembled a tall bronze mirror, complete with its frame—a coiling serpent.

"There are still pieces missing," Fira said.

Berinor stared at the serpentine frame and suppressed a shudder. He looked at the bronze shards within it. There were several gaping holes.

"Some of the shards might have sunken into the flesh of the dead," Berinor said. "And were buried with them. Others might have burned so hot they melted into the soil." He sighed. "This mirror shattered high above the earth, then fell through a battle of dragonfire. We're lucky to have anything left at all."

"What if we forge new bronze pieces?" Fira said.

Lenora wheeled closer. She shook her head. "That won't work. This is no ordinary bronze. This is a magical artifact. Any bronze we forge on our own would just be regular metal."

Fira gently pressed a few of the loose pieces closer together. "Will it do anything like this? In pieces?"

"Can't hurt to try," Berinor said.

He leaned over the tabletop. In the shards, he could see his reflection a hundred times—but murky, smudged. The smaller pieces reflected nothing.

He took a deep breath.

"Araf," he said. The name of the realm beyond. An afterlife of shadow. The place where Durian had fallen.

Nothing happened.

Fira tried next. She spoke in Osannan, the dead language the mirror had once understood, naming several more locations. One time, it seemed like the largest shard flickered, but it might have just been Berinor's imagination.

"Nothing," he said. Astral claws seemed to clutch him, and he imagined that he could hear Miya scream.

I will get you back, daughter. Somehow. I promise you. I will not rest until you're home.

"We'll reforge it," Berinor said. "Not with new bronze but from these very shards. We're missing a few pieces, yes. So the new mirror will just be a little thinner. Help me load the pieces back into a wheelbarrow. We'll find a smith. Come. Tonight."

He pushed the wheelbarrow out of the hall, the pieces clinking inside. Fira walked at his right side, hand resting on the pommel of Arinor, itself forged from shards—pieces of steel found in the ruins of ancient Requiem. Her long brown hair cascaded across her shoulders, and she wore a breastplate engraved with the Draco constellation. For the first time in years, Fira seemed like a true princess of Requiem, fierce and determined, no longer the scarred, lost girl who had fled into the wilderness.

At Berinor's left side, Lenora rolled in her wheelchair. It was a new wheelchair, her third one, following the two lost in the wars. This new seat was elaborately carved, its armrests shaped as snarling dragons. Since returning from her journey underwater, Lenora had barely left Berinor's side, for which he was grateful. In all matters of lore, geography, medicine, even military tactics, Lenora—this woman who had hidden in her library for nearly two decades—was a wealth of knowledge. She too had changed in the war. She still wore her necklace of printing press letters. Scroll earrings still dangled from her ears. Her yellow hair kept falling from under her feathered cap, covering her oversized glasses. But if she hadn't changed physically, everything else about her was different. The librarian sat straighter. She gazed ahead bravely, chin raised. She spoke without mumbling.

Fira and Lenora are both blooming, Berinor thought. But I feel crushed.

He would not rest until Miya was home, until Nemoria was defeated, until he could save this nation. Every last Vir Requis was now like a child to him—in danger, banished from home. Needing him. Every one of these souls weighed upon his shoulders.

Lenora reached out from her wheelchair and touched his thigh. Her hand was warm, her touch soft, as if she knew he needed comfort. The librarian smiled up at him, a sad smile, her eyes kind.

I'm with you, her eyes said. We all are.

Outside the fortress, they beheld a landscape of ruins, basalt, and scattered campfires under a cloudy night sky. Centuries ago, this had been a thriving city, Requiem's jewel of the north. In recent years, a few hundred stalwart Vir Requis had eked out a living here, raising new homes among the ruins upon the mountainside. And now thousands of refugees had descended upon this mountain, fleeing the devastation in Nova Vita. They found shelter in the shells of ancient homes, no roofs above their heads, their only warmth from campfires. They crowded in ancient temples. The buildings' domes were pocked full of holes, but their hearths blazed again for the first time since Ishtafel, the prince of seraphim, had ravaged these mountains in generations past.

Beyond the mountainside, the foothills spread toward shadows and silence. Berinor stared eastward. Beyond the leagues of wilderness lay the sea. Somewhere beyond that horizon rose a mountain on the clouds. A realm so far no ship could reach it. A mountain so high no dragon could fly to its crest. There, beyond the reach of mortals, Miya was held captive. Maybe tortured. Waiting for him.

A lump filled Berinor's throat, and in the darkness, he allowed tears to fill his eyes. He thought back to better days, to that year of bliss. Miya had been a beautiful baby, happy, laughing and squealing. Berinor had spent so many hours holding her, playing with her, racing through the palace with her in his arms, letting her pretend she could fly as a dragon.

Nemoria had shattered that joy.

Miya had never been the same. None of them had.

We all broke that winter solstice nineteen years ago. But I will find you, Miya. I will bring you home. And you will heal. I promise you. We all will heal.

As Berinor walked through the city, Fira and Lenora at his sides, his people bowed to him, reached out to touch his armor, and whispered prayers.

"May you find her swiftly, my king," said an old woman with damp eyes.

"May the blessed princess return to us, I pray to the stars," said a dour man, his arms bandaged.

A soldier hopped forward on crutches, one leg gone. "We pray for the princess, my king. We are with you. Always."

The hard lump wouldn't leave Berinor's throat. These people had lost so much—their homes, their loved ones, sometimes their own limbs. Yet now they all prayed for him? For Miya?

"Bless you, children of Requiem," he said. "And know this: I care for you as much as for my daughters. I will do everything to protect everyone here. Our wings will find the sky."

But not everyone prayed. A few young men in the back muttered. One made sure to raise his voice just loud enough for Berinor to hear.

"The goddess destroyed our homes because of him. All this war—just a lovers' quarrel between Berinor and Nemoria."

Another man snickered. "Our homes fell. Our families died. Because our king couldn't keep his britches on, and—"

"Treasonous scum!" Fira shouted, drawing her sword. The princess made to leap into the crowd, to swing her blade at the men, but Berinor held her back.

"Let them be!" he said. "Let them speak. They too deserve their voices heard."

Fira panted, eyes flashing. "Did you hear them? I'll have their heads for this."

"No," said Berinor. "Enough have died. I'll not have men executed for mere words." He turned toward the people on the mountainside. They stared at him from among the shadowy ruins. "Hear me, Requiem! Nemoria did not invade these lands to slay just one king or capture one princess. Nemoria invaded Requiem with one purpose: to slay every last dragon. For thousands of years, enemies have risen to destroy us, to see King's Column fall. For thousands of years, we suffered death, loss, destruction. Yet we survived. We rebuilt. We rose again and again, stronger every time. We still found our sky. I vow to you, Requiem: We will always fly as dragons."

Yet as Berinor walked away, delving deeper into the ruins, he thought of Oryn storming out of the hall. He listened to the mutters that still rose behind him. And he wondered if here, in these ruins, in a fallen world, he still had a hope. He wondered if Requiem was dying. If the entire kingdom would soon shatter like the city of Nova Vita. If he would die fighting the enemy—or die with a knife his back.

You're still out there, Nemoria, he thought. And you're planning your next assault.

He wondered if, when Nemoria next attacked, she would still encounter civilization, a united nation—or merely a few last survivors hiding in ruins and holes. Turning against one another. Broken and afraid.

They traveled along the mountaintop. Most of the buildings they passed were the ancient ruins left from the seraphim's invasion, but some were the homes and workshops of those who had settled this place in recent generations. In the shadows, it was hard to tell them apart. The newer dwellings had been constructed from basalt bricks, lumpy and black, salvaged from the ruins, the old reformed into the new. Perhaps no place was more symbolic of Requiem's perseverance than Draco Murus—here, on one mountain, were ancient ruins, newer settlers, and refugees. Destruction, rebirth, and war. The eternal cycle of Requiem. Perhaps of all life and death.

Finally they reached a smithy, a small round building constructed of the same dark, rugged stones. Berinor stood in the room, watching as the blacksmith melted the bronze shards, as he poured them into a new mold, forming a new mirror. It was dawn by the time the work was complete.

As the sunlight streamed through the window, Berinor stood facing a reformed, polished mirror.

"Does it look like it did?" he asked Fira.

His daughter stood beside him, staring at the bronze. "It's not as reflective as it was, even with all the polishing we did." She chewed her lip. "But otherwise, yes, it looks the same."

Lenora rolled up her wheelchair toward them. "Only one way to know. Let's name a place." She looked up at Berinor. "My king? Would you like to try it?"

Berinor stared at the mirror, silent. Their reflections stared back at them, smudged and slightly distorted.

Berinor took a deep breath.

"Araf," he said.

They stared for a long moment in silence.

Fira lowered her head. "Nothing."

Berinor stood silently for a long time. Slowly, his fingers curled into fists. He forced himself to breathe. Just to focus on his breath, to let the rage and terror pass.

I will find you, Miya. I promise.

Finally he spoke, voice low, strained.

"Then we will fly," he said. "We will fly farther and higher than any dragon ever did. We will reach Icelos the hard way. If this mirror is truly broken beyond repair, we will use our wings. The sky has ever been our ally."

Fira tightened her lips and nodded, but Lenora shook her head.

"We cannot, my king!" the librarian said, looking up from her wheelchair. "You don't understand. Icelos isn't just very far or very high. It exists in a different plane of existence. Even if we could fly a million leagues east, a million leagues high, we wouldn't reach it. It would be like reaching the realm of the afterlife simply by digging deep. Nemoria can reach her land using magic we don't possess." Lenora sighed. "The mirror was our only hope."

Berinor closed his eyes.

He saw Miya chained, the whips cutting her.

He heard her scream.

Father! Father, help, please!

He forced in a deep breath, opened his eyes, and looked at Lenora. The librarian stared into his eyes and touched his arm. Like before, her touch soothed him. His anxiety faded, and he found comfort in Lenora's wise eyes, her warm fingers.

"There's another way," the librarian said. "I don't have the book with me. I'd really, really like to go back to Nova Vita, to find a way back into the library, and do some research." She sighed. "But I remember the gist of it. After all, I spent almost twenty years doing nothing but reading."

Berinor knelt at her side, and she reached out absentmindedly and held his hand. His hand dwarfed hers—wide, callused, tanned, while hers was dainty and white. Fira knelt at her other side.

"What is it, Lenora?" Fira whispered.

Lenora closed her eyes, lost in thought, and spoke softly. "The dustmen, an order of monks, were those who forged this mirror. It was many eras ago in Tiranor, a hot desert land south of the sea. In their temple of sandstone, the dustmen created many magical artifacts, but the Mirror of Many Worlds was their grandest creation." She opened her eyes and looked at Berinor. "I suppose that when you live in the middle of the desert, stuck in a place called the Temple of Dust, you'd want a magical portal. If we can find this temple, find the dustmen … they might be able to repair the mirror. Or have another one."

"Or they might try to kill us for stealing, then breaking, their artifact," Fira muttered. "Do they even still exist, these dustmen? These are ancient stories."

"I don't know," Lenora said. "That's why I need my library. But one thing is certain—the Temple of Dust itself is still there. Or at least, it was there only two hundred years ago. I remember reading the story of a runaway slave who hid there from the seraphim."

"Two hundred years ago," Fira said. "Practically yesterday."

Lenora nodded excitedly, the cynicism lost on her. "Exactly! When you consider how ancient the temple is!" She grinned. "So let's fly there! If we leave now, we can be there in …" She furrowed her brow. "Maybe a week to the southern coast, if we take shifts riding each other, and fly continuously. Then another three or four days to cross the Tiran Sea, then maybe another few days searching the desert for the lost temple … two weeks, and we're there. If we leave now. If we fly really fast and get a good map."

Two weeks, Berinor thought, belly twisting. Then another two weeks to fly back here to the others. A month of Miya in chains.

He stepped out of the smithy. The town of Draco Murus looked different in the morning light, somehow smaller, more fragile. The ruins spread across the mountainside. The fortress, the oldest building here, rose upon the mountaintop, craggy on one side, smooth on the other where the wind had been blowing for eras. At night the fort had seemed imposing, an edifice of clawlike towers, looming walls, windows like flaming eyes. Now, in the daylight, it looked to Berinor like just more ruins. Crumbling, ready to fall under a gust of wind.

He turned to look south. The mountainside sloped toward distant grasslands and scattered farms. Did he dare spend a full month chasing an old legend, seeking a temple that might not even exist?

As he was looking south, Berinor saw several dragons flying toward him. He squinted. As they flew closer, Berinor saw that the dragons wore armor, that they flew in a military formation. He counted ten of them. At their lead flew a silver dragon.

Lady Sirana!

The silver dragon wobbled in the sky, rose higher, then finally dived toward the mountaintop ruins. Wreathed in smoke, she all but crashed down at Berinor's feet, then became human again.

Sirana managed to stand, her legs swaying. Dust and soot covered her dented armor. Her short red hair clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, and weariness filled her eyes.

"Sirana!" Berinor held her arms. "Tell me."

"Titans," she said, gasping for air. "Like the one we hid in. Three of them. Live ones." She shuddered and stared into his eyes. "They destroyed Lynport. And they're coming here."

And so, Berinor thought, you strike at me again, Nemoria.

A month to find a new mirror.

They might not even have a month before all of Requiem fell.

MIYA

She hung, chained to the boulder, above stone and clouds and all the horrors of the world.

"Be strong, Miya," she whispered to herself. "You are a princess of Requiem. You are a warrior of starlight. No fear."

Yet this very place seemed woven of fear, this world of shadows, of shrieking wind, of wretchedness. Of those things that slithered, clattered, hissed. Of things that should never be.

They crawled across the rocky mountainsides that sloped below Miya's feet. Naked, quivering creatures. Pale. Eyeless. Humanoid. They squirmed, opening toothless mouths, smacking wet lips, reaching out to her with webbed hands. Creatures like dripping wax, like dripping skin, hairless, wrinkled, crying out wordlessly. Miya couldn't shake the thought that they were human—or had been long ago, deformed, perhaps burned as Fira had been burned, until their faces and humanity had melted away.

Strange vultures filled the sky and landed on the rocks, cawing. Instead of talons, they had human hands, wrinkled and callused, the fingernails long and chipped. Their beaks were fleshy, covered with dangling red waddles, but those beaks were still sharp. Every few moments, one of the birds shrieked and swooped, dripping oil, and tore into one of the crawling, pale figures. Soon other birds joined, and those damn pale things always took so long to die, always kept screaming even as their organs were consumed, as the vultures cracked open the skulls.

As Miya hung from the boulder, three of those birds raised their heads from a victim. They stared at her across the rocky mountainside, and their beaks opened in what looked like smiles. Meat filled their gullets, still quivering.

Soon, the vultures seemed to tell Miya. Soon you will fill our bellies.

Miya shuddered, her chains clanking, and looked away. Beyond the mountain rolled a sea of clouds, but here too Miya found no comfort. Shadows stirred and roiled in those clouds, and fins and spikes rose from them, trailing, sinking. A distant behemoth emerged, reptilian, gazing with round white eyes that protruded from its glassy head, and its organs glowed and quivered within transparent skin and bones like crystal. It vanished back into the clouds, only for another creature to emerge in the distance, tentacles rising like funnels of cloud, vanishing again.

Miya looked up at the sky, seeking again the Draco constellation. Seeing the stars from home would comfort her. And yet here was a strange sky, the constellations unfamiliar to her, and the stars seemed too bright, searing, mocking her. Moons shone and moved in the sky, bloated like boils, splotched with color—distant worlds that hung above.

I'm in Icelos, Miya thought.

The land of Nemoria.

She turned her head, pressing her cheek against the boulder she was chained to. There in the distance, high upon a mountaintop, rose a black temple. A strange white flame burned atop its crest, not dancing like regular fire, remaining still like a leafless tree in winter, and it seemed to Miya as if that flame was watching her, mocking her, burning her. She shuddered and looked away.

Once more Miya tugged at her chains. She had been trying to shatter them for … How long had it been? She felt as if she'd been hanging here for eras. She groaned, pulling, straining, desperate to break the chains. Finally she hung limply, all her strength sapped, and took ragged breaths.

The birds cawed. One of the creatures hopped toward her on its human hands, pecked at her foot, and hissed as she kicked at it—at least, as much as she could kick with her ankle chained to the boulder. The bizarre vulture opened its beak wide, emitted a piercing caw, and hopped back to its comrades.

The first few days here, the birds had kept their distance, unfamiliar with this strange creature on the boulder—this woman with a face, with hair, with clothes, unlike any of the dripping humanoids on the mountainside, those pathetic, featureless creatures who lived to beg and feed hungry beaks. Yet every day, the vultures grew more brazen. Drawing nearer. Cackling. Pecking at her clothes. Several more now approached.

"Go away!" Miya shouted. "Go!"

One of the birds took flight, abandoning the corpse it was consuming. It flew high, then dived and landed on Miya's head. It had no talons, only human hands that gripped and pulled her hair.

"Get off!"

Its fingernails scratched her temples and forehead. Its long neck craned down, it flipped its head around, and it stared at her, curious, cawing. Its eyes bulged out, fleshy white marbles, and its breath assailed her, so foul and rotten that Miya gagged. She would have thrown up were there any food in her belly.

"Go away!" she shouted, thrashing her head from side to side, but the bird clung to her.

Its beak pecked her forehead, drawing blood.

Miya inhaled sharply.

She would have to try again—to try what she knew would fill her with agony, might even kill her.

She reached deep inside and summoned her magic.

Even here, under these strange skies, the magic of Requiem filled her. She clung to it, and she began to shift.

Blue scales rose on her body. Her fingernails began lengthening into claws, and her canines grew into fangs. On her head, she could feel the horns begin to sprout.

The demonic vulture screeched and fled. But Miya did not release her magic.

Keep shifting, she told herself. Break these chains.

Her body began to grow, and wings began to push out from her back against the boulder. As her limbs lengthened and widened, the chains dug deep, cutting her skin, creaking her joints.

Miya screamed.

The pain of the chains was intolerable. She felt like they would rip off her hands and feet. But she kept shifting, determined to break these chains. Howling, she clung to her magic, even as her wrists and ankles began to bleed, as the chains dug deeper, and—

The pain was too great. It washed over her, knocking the magic from her grasp.

She shrank. Her scales vanished. She hung on the boulder, a human again, blood dripping down her arms. She took ragged breaths.

It was no use. She had tried this three times already, each time earning more agony. So long as she remained chained here, she could not become a dragon.

But at least, she thought with a sliver of satisfaction, I sent those damn birds fleeing.

Miya hung, her chin against her chest, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She would die here, she knew. She would suffer, cower, scream, weep … and finally die.

"You finally came back to us, Fira," she whispered. "We were finally a family again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I let you down. I'm not a warrior like you. I'm so sorry."

She thought back to Requiem, to the palace she had grown up in, to her garden, her dolls, her friend Sirana, her wise father. All her life, Miya had lived in fear. Fear of the shadows under her bed. Fear of her servants. Fear of the darkness under Requiem. What she wouldn't give to have those old fears back! Now she lived in a nightmare. Now she was dying in a realm of monsters.

"I miss you, Fira," she whispered. "I miss you, Father. I want to go home."

A mocking voice answered her.

"And not a thought for your other sister. And not a prayer for your dead brother."

Miya gasped, raised her head, and saw the serpent slithering toward her.

Miya sucked in breath and instinctively pressed herself against the boulder, cowering.

"Lintari," she whispered.

As the snake coiled up the mountainside, the miserable, pale creatures recoiled and crawled away, wailing in agony. They had no eyes or nostrils, and only slits for ears, but apparently they could hear Lintari, and they feared her. They scrambled away, dripping slime, slipping, grasping at stones, clearing a path for their mistress. The serpent kept slithering forth until she came to Miya's feet.

There Lintari returned to her human form.

The demigoddess was beautiful. Even as she hung here, bleeding, starving, Miya marveled at her half sister's beauty. Lintari's hair flowed down to her waist, the color of honey, glinting with highlights of gold, and her eyes shone like two sapphires. She wore black armor, and she held her katana, the blade drawn and gleaming. In her other hand, she held a golden box.

"Yes, it's me. Your sister." Lintari tilted her head, and her eyes narrowed. "Yet you yearn for Fira—she who murdered our brother. You yearn for Berinor—the man who shunned my mother, who murdered countless innocents. Even as you hang here, a wretch, bleeding, dying, you remain cruel. Still, after everything, you hate me."

Miya forced herself to stare into her younger sister's eyes.

She's so young, Miya thought. Only nineteen. So hurt. So confused.

"Did you come here to mock me?" Miya said. Her voice was raspy. She had drunk nothing since the last rain. "Perhaps to gloat?"

Lintari snorted. "I came here to tend to you. And you assume again that I'm a monster." She shook her head sadly. "Your father has corrupted you beyond redemption. And yet still I will tend to you. Because I am merciful."

Lintari stepped closer and placed her hands on Miya's shoulders.

Miya turned her head aside, thrashing in her chains. "Don't touch me."

But Lintari would not remove her hands, and Miya felt it—a warmth flowing into her, soothing, thrumming. And stars, it felt good. Stars, it was the best thing Miya had ever felt—healing her, taking away her pain, her hunger. She closed her eyes and couldn't help but sigh. When she opened them again, the wounds on her wrists and ankles were gone. Her lips were no longer chafed, her tongue no longer dry, and no more hunger filled her belly.

"You … healed me," Miya whispered. "Why?"

Lintari grinned. A wide, toothy grin that tapered to points, that kept growing, reaching her ears, splitting her face in two. Though she was still in her human form, Lintari's face seemed serpentine.

"Because I want this to last," Lintari hissed. "The human body is like a canvas. One can only paint great creations of pain upon a clean canvas—a healed body, free of pain. And oh, sweet Miya … I will paint upon your canvas many times. You will become my palimpsest of such exquisite pain. Pain like your family caused mine. Like you caused me." Her smile vanished. "Father always loved you and scorned me. Now you'll know how I hurt."

Lintari opened her golden box.

Miya grimaced.

"Lintari, please," she said. "Listen to me. Berinor didn't even know that you were alive. He—"

"Such sweet pets, are they not?" Lintari reached into the box and pulled out a little creature. "Wishworms, we call them. These are my personal companions."

The creature squirmed in her grasp, emitting shrill shrieks. It looked like a leech, but claws lined its body, and mandibles protruded from its wet head. More of the little monsters squirmed in the box.

"Lintari, listen to me! You're wrong. You—"

"If you hold them like this, by the neck, they're perfectly safe." Lintari held the creature out. "See? Just like a mother holding her cub. You want to be extra careful, though, not to let a wishworm's claws touch you. You see, the claws grip onto anything like hooks, almost impossible to remove. And their underbellies release such exquisite venom. Oh … don't worry, Miya." Lintari's eyes softened with mock concern. "The venom isn't lethal. Though many who feel its fire wish it were."

Miya trembled in her chains. "Lintari, just listen. There is goodness in you. I saw that in the maze of roses. Your mother lied to you."

Lintari ignored her, examining her pet. "Do you know why they're called wishworms? Many of their victims, it's said, scream out their dearest wish. To die. To let the pain end." Lintari grinned and licked her teeth. "Let us see if the name is justified."

Lintari brought the leech closer … and placed it on Miya's body.

As Miya screamed, as Lintari kept placing on more leeches, the demigoddess nodded.

"Yes, quite justified, I think. Goodbye for now, Miya. Enjoy the companionship of my pets. And if you can still think through the agony, try to think of how you hurt me … and how your dear family will soon scream with you."

With that, Lintari became a serpent again and slithered away, and Miya was falling, falling into darkness, into agony, and all she could hear was her own screams.

ORYN

He stood outside on the mountain, fists clenched, head lowered, teeth grinding. Tears stung his eyes.

Damn it. Oryn never cried. Never! He was the Prince of Shadows. He was the Terror of Altus Mare. He was a legendary outlaw. The thief who had ruled dens of glittering gold and luscious flesh and endless pleasures. The rogue whom every lord feared and every maiden loved. He was sharper than steel, faster than falcons, deadlier than darkness. He did not cry.

And yet now the tears stung. Now his knees shook.

"I'm sorry, Miya," he said. "Be strong. I will come for you. I promise. I will bring you home."

As he stood here, staring at the ruins of Draco Murus, Oryn didn't understand this pain. Many women had filled his life before—wild, seductive, adoring. Women whose kisses and caresses were intoxicating like wine. Women who wept and yearned whenever he left them, off on another heist.

All those women had died in Altus Mare.

And yet his heart had not ached for those women like it did now for Miya. For a young, fragile princess. A woman whom Oryn had never kissed, who was not his lover, whom he had never courted, or flirted with, or stolen kisses from in the night. He had known Miya for under a year, and yet now his heart ached for her, and he could not bear the thought of her in captivity, in pain.

He thought back to first meeting Miya. He had tried to steal her jewels, and she had forgiven him, seen goodness in him. After the war with the hydras, they had shared several blessed months in the east, rebuilding the coast—laboring, laughing, living without fear.

"Those were the best months of my life, Miya," he said softly. "Months spent building instead of taking. Months with you."

He thought back to Miya's smile, her bright blue eyes, the joy she brought him. She was his dearest friend.

Wheels creaked behind him, and Oryn turned around. He saw Lenora rolling through the ruins in her wheelchair. Her glasses slipped down her nose, and she paused to push them back up before wheeling onward. She rolled to a stop beside him, and they stared together at the ruins, silent for long moments.

"I'm sorry, Oryn," the librarian finally said. "I know how much it hurts. How much you miss her. How close you and Miya were—are."

Oryn looked at the librarian. Lenora was staring into the distance, a wistful look on her face. The hard, cold anguish in Oryn melted.

I traveled with you to Tinkers' Palace, Lenora, he thought. I swam with you underwater to explore the ruins of a sunken city of wonders. I kissed you in the forest, held you in my arms all night. And now I yearn for another woman. He lowered his head. How must that make you feel?

And how did he himself feel? Oryn didn't know. When he looked at Lenora now, all those feelings toward her returned. He wanted to hold Lenora in his arms again, to kiss her, to let their affection—maybe even love—warm them, envelop them with comfort and joy in this cold world.

Did his heart now belong to two women, torn between them—the librarian at his side, and the princess captive in a distant land?

Lenora turned to look at him, and her eyes shone damply. She touched his hand.

"There is turmoil inside you," she said. "And there is love for Miya. What happened between us in the forest, when we kissed …"

Oryn knelt and squeezed her hand. "That meant something to me, Lenora. Don't think that it didn't. It still means something to me."

A tear flowed down her cheek, and she placed a finger against his lips.

"Hush," she whispered. "I know. But I know that you love Miya. And I know that I can't replace her. What happened between us, Oryn, will always be a sweet memory for me." Her eyes hardened. "But right now, we have two tasks. We must save Princess Miya. And we must defend Requiem from the new terror that rises from the sea."

Oryn stiffened. He stared into Lenora's eyes.

"What new terror?"

"Sirana came back with news while you were out flying." Fear flooded Lenora's eyes now, freezing her tears. "Titans rampage through Requiem. Like the one we hid in—but living creatures, crushing cities and forests."

"Stars." Oryn took a step back, and his heart pounded. "If they're as big as the dead one …" He shuddered. "Oh stars."

She wheeled her chair around. "Come, Oryn. Berinor has summoned a council in his hall, and he wants all of us there. You too." She looked back at him. "The king respects you, Oryn. More than you realize. And he knows how much you love his daughter. He's very wise, and he's not yet lost hope. Neither must we."

Oryn couldn't suppress a shudder. He looked back east, torn between his desire to fly out now, to seek Miya past sea and sky. Finally he turned around.

I'm sorry, Miya. Just hang on a little longer, sweetheart. I'll be there soon.

He followed Lenora through the ruins, heading back toward the fortress on the mountaintop.

Shadows fell. Scales clattered and wings beat. Oryn turned to see thousands of dragons flying in from the south. A few were soldiers in armor. Most were civilians, carrying toddlers and elders and others too young, old, or weak to shift into dragons. Many of them were wounded. The thousands began to descend toward the ruins. They landed and shifted into human form, praying and weeping.

Refugees, Oryn thought. Refugees from the south. He walked after Lenora, throat tight. War. War flares again. But I do not forget you, Miya. I promise.

BERINOR

A hundred leaders of Requiem gathered—king, princess, generals, knights. The echelon of a fading kingdom. They crowded inside the crumbling fortress hall, come to discuss the fate of their nation. Its survival. Perhaps its fall into myth, legend, and finally endless shadows.

Lady Sirana stood before them, still wearing her dented armor. Her cheeks were flushed, and ash caked her short red hair. The young general was speaking to the crowd.

"We attacked the titans with a hundred dragons, among Requiem's greatest warriors," she said. "They tore through us like boys swatting flies. We had to burn the forests to stop them from slaying every one of Lynport's refugees, but that didn't stop them for long. The titans simply traveled through the water until they reached a rocky shore, and there they reemerged and walked across barren hills with no trees to burn." Sirana took a deep breath. "There we faced them again, this time with five hundred dragons, every soldier in the south. But we could not cast them back into the sea. Many Vir Requis died."

Sirana lowered her head, silent. Across the hall, the crowd mumbled among themselves, speaking of Nemoria, of doom, or of vengeance.

All but Berinor. The king stood silently, looking at Sirana. Requiem's new general was so young, only in her twenties. She stood straight and tall, shoulders squared, a mighty soldier in bright steel armor. But Berinor saw the fear in her. He heard the faint shudder in her breath, the subtle tremble to her voice, saw the way her fingers curled as if itching to form fists.

I placed her in command of our army after Durian died, Berinor thought, looking at Sirana. But she's too young. Not ready for this. She's an Oldnale, and her father once commanded the City Guard, and many of her forebears led armies in battle. But she's too green. I made a mistake.

As he looked at Sirana now, her armor seemed to vanish, and he saw again the orphan he had carried in his arms two decades ago. He saw again the girl who stood in the cemetery over her parents' grave. He saw the young noblewoman overseeing an empty manor, the last leaf in a great family tree. Yes, young Lady Sirana had become a soldier, a general, but perhaps beneath all that steel and soot, she was still that trembling orphan.

So much of the old guard has fallen, Berinor thought. Now the young rise as heroes.

"For now, the refugees will find some shelter here," Sirana continued, raising her head again. "But the titans are moving fast across the land. They will be here soon. Maybe within a few days. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. They move with purpose, as if a hidden compass directs them."

"Nemoria drives them onward," Berinor said. All eyes turned toward him. "This I don't doubt. She has raised hydras and valkyries to slay us. These titans are more of her pets. She saw us hiding in a dead titan, so she decided to destroy us with three living ones."

Across the hall, armor clanked as people shifted their weight, looked from one to another, and grumbled.

"We'll strike Nemoria!" Fira said, stepping forward. "We'll find the Temple of Dust. The dustmen will fix our mirror. Then we'll fly right into Nemoria's palace and burn her."

"We have no time for that," said Sirana, shaking her head; she had learned of the mirror and dustmen from Lenora only moments ago. "That could take a month at least. A full month! The titans will be here long before that."

"What else can we do?" Fira said. "We can't fight those titans. You said so yourself! We're like bees to them. Mere bugs they can swat away."

"Then thousands of us will fly out," said Berinor. "All of us, soldiers and civilians. Even the strongest man cannot withstand the sting of a thousand bees."

"Hundreds will die," Sirana said. "Maybe thousands. Their whip will tear through us. Their hands will crush us."

"And what of Miya?" Oryn shouted, barreling forward through the crowd. "You're all talking of giants while Miya languishes. Forget about those damn titans and let's fly to find the mirror! It's the only way to save Miya!"

"I won't forget about the thousands of Vir Requis who still live!" Sirana said.

"Thousands who'll die unless we stop those titans!" shouted one of her officers, a gruff man with a bushy mustache.

Soon everyone in the hall was talking at once, arguing about whether they should flee, fight, the how, and the where. Berinor stood among them, trying to listen to everyone, hearing nobody. And in the din, he imagined that he could hear Miya screaming, Miya calling to him.

Father! Please. Father, help!

The faces all blurred around him. The room spun. Berinor's ribs seemed to press against his lungs, and it was too hot in here, and he needed to get out. To fly. To find her. He couldn't bear another moment with her gone, and it felt as if this hall, this kingdom, all their lives were crumbling. And he—king of Requiem—felt powerless to stop it.

And through the ruckus—a small voice. Soft. High. A voice like a ray of light through storm clouds.

Berinor turned to see that Lenora was speaking. Sitting in her wheelchair, she nearly vanished in the crowd. Her voice was too soft to be heard. Nobody else seemed to acknowledge the little librarian, even notice her.

"Everyone, silence!" Berinor said. "Enough!" He glared at them all as they fell silent, then looked back at Lenora, and his voice softened. "Talk to me, Lenora. What are you thinking?"

The librarian gulped and seemed to shrink back in her chair, fearful of so many eyes upon her. But with a deep breath, she raised her chin and spoke clearly.

"We can fight them. We can beat the titans. I read in a book—"

"How did I know that was coming, bookworm?" Oryn interjected.

Lenora groaned and rolled her eyes. "Oh hush, Oryn. Maybe if you read books you'd learn a thing or two as well." She seemed to remember that a crowd was watching, and her cheeks flushed. She looked back at Berinor. "Are you familiar with animating stones, my king?"

Berinor nodded. "Yes. Red gemstones that can bring inanimate objects—anything from statues to furniture and even the dead—to life."

"We saw an animating stone in the Maze of Thorns," Fira said. "Miya and I. An old witch used one to move the walls of the labyrinth. They're so powerful they cancel all magic around them. We could not shift near the stone. Neither could Lintari. She was still able to use her divine powers, but not her magical ones, like shifting into a snake."

Lenora nodded and hopped in her chair, gaining confidence. "And that was just a small one! Most animating stones are small. Many generations ago, the tyrant Dies Irae mined them, cut them into many gemstones, and used them to animate an army of corpses to fight Requiem." She shuddered. "One of my books tells the story of a giant animating stone, a crystal the size of a boulder. The Blood Shard, they called it. It's so large it cancels the magic of Vir Requis for miles around. To stop its devastating power, ancient kings left it deep in the mountain where it was originally found. They placed an enchanted doorway which blocks access to the mine—a doorway only the king of Requiem can open. At least, if you believe the legends. Which I always do." Lenora took a deep breath. "My king, you can open this door. You can lead us to the Blood Shard."

Berinor felt a chill. "Where are you going with this, Lenora?"

Lenora shoved her glasses up her nose. "It'll work. I know it. We're going to get the Blood Shard, you and I. And we're going to animate a corpse. But not any old corpse. We're going to take the Blood Shard to the ancient dead titan. We're going to give him a new heart … and make him our soldier."

FIRA

She moved about her bedchamber, this crumbling cell in the old fortress of Draco Murus, stuffing the remnants of her life into her leather pack. A sharpening stone. A bottle of oil and a rag for polishing her blade. A box of salt, a bar of soap, a few candles, and a tinderbox. An acorn she had once found in the forest on a night of despair, a good luck charm. There was not much else Fira owned.

Here in this pack she couldn't even fill—a life.

A life shattered.

A life barely still there.

"But we'll rebuild our lives, Miya," she said softly, wishing her sister could hear. "I'll fix the mirror. I'll bring you home."

She looked at the bronze mirror which leaned against the wall. A mirror broken and reforged, its magic lost. Her reflection stared back at her. A tall, dour woman. Joyless.

I shattered like this mirror, she thought, and she did not know if she could ever be mended. Perhaps, like this mirror, she took on the appearance of one healed, but inside she was still in pieces.

She knew her father wanted to go with her, to seek the Temple of Dust far in the south, to find a way to fix the mirror. The titans had changed that. Now Berinor would travel with Lenora, seeking the Blood Shard in the ancient mines—a weapon to defeat the titans. Only the king of Requiem could open the door to the mines. But Fira thought it was more than that. As king, Berinor's priority was to save what he could of this kingdom, even as his own daughter languished in captivity.

"But I'm not yet queen, Miya. I'll focus on you. On bringing you home." Fira's eyes stung. "We'll be together again, and we will heal. I promise you. We will heal."

Fira grabbed her armor and began to put on the pieces. Sometimes she felt that her armor was all that was holding her together, that she wore it less for defense against an enemy's blows, more to contain her own shards. She strapped greaves onto her shins, covering her leggings. Vambraces on her arms—arms now healed, as strong as ever. She grabbed her breastplate, its steel engraved with the Draco constellation. She slapped it against her chest, reached behind her, and struggled to grasp the straps. It was always so difficult to put the damn thing on.

"Need some help?"

Fira spun toward the door, hissing. She reached for her sword, which lay on the bed.

"Calm down!" Oryn stepped into the room. "It's only me."

Fira grabbed her sword, holding her breastplate up with her other hand. "I know."

"Only here to help!" Oryn said, walking forward with open hands. "No need for any stabbing or decapitating or anything now, is there?" He reached toward her breastplate straps and raised his eyebrows. "May I?"

She groaned and spun sideways. "Fine. Be quick about it."

He fastened the straps. "Ugh, barely fits! Have you been hitting the ale too hard? Or was it cake?"

She shoved him. "I'm still undecided about stabbing you, so watch it." She pointed at the door. "You helped. Now leave."

"Oh, I'm not done helping." Oryn paced the room. "First of all, you need some help decorating in here. Some tapestries, maybe some golden statues, a few concubines …"

"I'm not getting concubines!" Fira glared. "Out!"

He continued as if he hadn't heard. "And also, you need help fixing this mirror." He paused to gaze at his reflection and passed a hand through his hair. "It's not nearly reflective enough to capture my beauty. And last I heard, it can't even open portals anymore. Little detail, that." He turned back toward Fira, and his eyes softened. "Don't go alone, cavewoman. I'll help. We'll fix this together."

She growled and drew her sword. "Don't call me cavewoman! I told you that."

"All right, Fira." He nodded. "I won't. But I think you should let me join you. I talked to your old man, and he agreed. I did all right helping the bookworm—I mean Lenora—on our last quest."

Fira raised an eyebrow. "She told me that you nearly got the tinkers to kill you both, and that you were more interested in stealing rubies from Lemuria than retrieving Aldur's Conch."

He bristled. "Well, it's not like anyone was using those rubies! They were just lying there. Look, Fira, I could tell you about how I killed a bunch of valkyries and seriously injured at least one hydra. I could tell you that I'm an excellent thief, and that you need a sneaky thief on this sort of quest. But what's more important is …" His face grew solemn. "I would do anything to save Miya. And I can't just go off fighting titans—even though I could probably kill them easily!—when she needs us. Let's fix this mirror together. Let's bring your sister home." He looked around him. "Well, not to this home. Your room is like a prison cell. Ever heard of artwork?"

Fira grabbed the mirror. It was heavy. She walked out of the room, leaning backward, struggling under the weight, but refused to let Oryn help. She walked down a corridor lined with columns. Between the pillars, she could see the ruins of Draco Murus and the thousands of refugees who crowded them. She walked, not bothering to turn back toward Oryn.

"I travel alone."

She didn't need that thief. She didn't need anyone. Getting close to others only meant pain, meant loss.

I've always traveled alone. I want nobody but Miya.

She walked to the edge of the hallway, her pack slung across her shoulders, and through an archway onto the mountainside. Here she shifted into a dragon, her scales red as dawn over a battlefield. She took flight, holding the bronze mirror in her claws.

No sooner had Fira risen above the fortress than she saw them in the distance.

She growled and filled her jaws with fire, and her heart burst into a gallop.

They were rising from the southern horizon, blurry from here, wreathed in cloud. Their forms were human, but they were massive, larger than this fortress, perhaps larger than this very mountain. They emerged from behind the distant hills, their footsteps crushing the forests.

"Titans!" Fira cried, rising higher. "Requiem, rise! The titans approach!"

Sirana and her soldiers were already rising. The dragon army fanned out across the sky. Many civilian dragons rose too, crying out in fear. King Berinor flew among them, a large green dragon with rows of silver scales on his back.

"Sirana!" the king called. "Lead the people west! Get them out of here!"

The armored silver dragon spun toward him. "What about those titans?"

"Don't engage them yet!" Berinor said. "Lead our people to safety. Lead them to Salvandos. You'll find shelter inside the golden mountain. I'll join you when I can!"

Sirana nodded. Salvandos. A distant realm featured in many epic tales. No living dragon had been there. But all knew the tales of Har Zahav, a hollow mountain of gold. Thousands of years ago, the salvanae had lived inside that mountain—true dragons. Now perhaps the Vir Requis could find shelter in that fabled sanctuary.

Sirana swerved in the sky, rallying her troops, and began to herd dragons westward.

Berinor turned in the sky, saw Fira, and glided toward her.

"Father, I'm going south," Fira said. "I'll find the Temple of Dust. I'll find a way to fix this mirror." She gazed southward. The titans were moving fast. Fira could hardly believe such creatures could be real. Their footfalls cracked the earth and shook the world. "And you must find the Blood Shard, Father."

Berinor nodded, and suddenly such pain filled his eyes that Fira wanted to weep. Hovering in the sky, Berinor reached out and caressed her cheek with his wingtip.

"We'll meet in Har Zahav," he said. "The golden mountain of Salvandos, a blessed place for dragons. Fly well, Fira. I love you."

She couldn't stop the tears from falling. "I love you, Father."

The dragons of Requiem covered the sky, carrying their meager supplies, their young, their old. Refugees. Survivors. Sirana led the way, her warriors forming a ring around the civilians. Once they had been millions, a proud empire that ruled this land. Now the nation of Requiem fled, a meager few thousand. Once more evil had risen. Once more the monsters were loose.

Every generation, must we fall? Fira thought, watching the dragons fly. From Queen Laira, founder of our nation, to me, heiress of this ancient land—must every generation bring us death and despair?

Laira had grown up hearing tales of her forebears. She was an Aeternum, heiress to the dynasty that had ruled Requiem since its founding. It was her ancestors, King Jeid and Queen Laira, who first raised King's Column and forged this kingdom. It was King Benedictus Aeternum who fought the griffins, and his daughter, Gloriae the Gilded, who restored Requiem from ruin. Prince Relesar Aeternum had fought Frey the usurper, and Meliora Aeternum had freed the Vir Requis from captivity in Saraph. A long line of ancestors. Of heroes who had faced enemies and saved Requiem.

And one day, Fira thought, the crown of Requiem will pass to me.

Would she be the last leaf of this ancient tree? Would this kingdom, which had survived griffins and phoenixes and demons and countless other enemies, now fall? Would other nations remember Fira Aeternum as the last of her kind, she who had seen Requiem fall?

But no, Fira thought. I'm not the last. There is another Aeternum. There is Miya. Fira shuddered. And there is Lintari.

She beat her wings mightily. She flew south along the mountainside, leaving the ruins behind, leaving the other dragons. Soon she was flying over fields and forests. And ahead, the titans roamed.

By the stars, the size of them, Fira thought.

She clutched the mirror tightly in her claws, rising higher. Yet as the titans walked nearer, she wondered if she could even fly high enough to glide over their heads. These were not merely large creatures. They were colossal, as tall as mountains. Their steps shook the earth, opening canyons. Their skin was pale, pasty, covered with boils and blemishes, and their hair was long and white and scraggly. Two were male, one with a long beard, the other with an artificial jaw made of rusted iron. A female walked here too, cadaverous, her ribs pressing against her white skin, her eyes pale orbs.

Bloody stars.

Fira now understood what Sirana had talked about. Dragons would be nothing but bees to them. Bees? More like flies.

"Fira!" The voice rose behind her, distant and small. "Fira, wait up, for pity's sake!"

She looked over her shoulder. A black dragon was flying her way, snorting out smoke. Fira rolled her eyes.

"I told you, Oryn, go away!"

He shook his head, still racing toward her. "I'm coming with you. Did you see those titans ahead?"

Fira groaned. She spun back toward the titans. Their enormous pale eyes stared at her. They stomped their feet, tearing open canyons. Trees shattered. Hills slid into gorges. Their shrieks shook the sky, so loud Fira nearly dropped her mirror. She struggled to rise higher. Soon she was flying so high the air was thin and cold and she gasped for breath. When she glanced behind her, she saw that Oryn still followed, puffing and grunting as he soared.

Soon Fira was flying directly over the titans.

"Stars damn it!" Oryn said, out of breath as he finally caught up with her. "Those bastards are larger than the chip on your shoulder."

"Did you spend the whole flight here thinking up that line?"

"Actually, I've been crafting it since Sirana told us about the titans." Oryn grinned. "And I'm quite proud of it. It was either big chip or big bottom. I thought chip suits you better."

Fira was about to snap her jaws at him when a titan below, the female one, cracked an enormous whip.

Fira swerved.

The lash rumbled skyward, as long and wide as a city boulevard.

With a scream, Fira banked hard and swooped. The whip sliced the air, pulverizing clouds. A thunderous crack shook the sky. The sonic boom rattled Fira's scales.

She glanced aside to see Oryn flying the other way. The female titan bellowed, lips peeled back to reveal yellow teeth the size of houses. The whip rose again.

Fira cursed and banked the other way. The whip tore the air only inches away. Another boom slammed into her like invisible hammers. Fira tumbled through the sky, righted herself, and tried to rise even higher.

Another titan, the bearded old one, leaped into the air and reached up toward her. Fira soared higher and higher. His fingers grazed her tail, and she cried out.

The titan leaped again, and Fira tried to swerve. With the air so thin up here, there wasn't much for her wings to work with. One of the fingers—it was as big as Fira—slammed against her.

Fira lost her magic.

She fell as a woman, the mirror freed from her grasp.

Another titanic hand reached toward her.

She yowled, grabbed her magic, and soared again as a dragon.

The mirror tumbled down below her.

"Damn it!"

Fira swooped in pursuit.

"Fira, for stars' sake, what are you doing?" Oryn shouted somewhere above.

"The mirror!"

The mirror spun madly below her, falling toward the ground. Fira swooped faster, reached out her claws, prepared to grab it.

A titan's hand grabbed her.

Fira screamed.

The hand enveloped her, large as a fort, malodorous, crushing her. She screamed and flailed. She tried to blow her fire but couldn't even open her jaws. Her magic slipped away again, leaving her a human. The hand squeezed, bending her armor, and—

Fire crackled. The hand loosened.

Fira shifted back into dragon form and flew free.

She glimpsed Oryn blasting dragonfire at the hand. In his claws, he held the mirror.

"Fly, cavewoman!" he shouted. "Let's get the abyss out of here!"

The two dragons blasted more fire at the massive hand, then soared.

Another titan tried to grab them—the one with the iron jaw. The two dragons split up, soared left and right, then regrouped and rained fire. Iron Jaw roared, a metallic sound, and rust rained. The dragons kept flying higher.

The whip cracked again. But this time both dragons were flying above its reach.

The air was too thin up here. Fira found no currents to glide on, and her head ached. When she looked down at the titans, she saw them sneering, spitting, and finally lumbering onward. Abandoning the two dragons, the titans moved toward the ruins of Draco Murus.

"Yeah, that's right, keep running!" Oryn cried after them. "Cowards!"

Fira and Oryn dived lower and glided in friendlier skies.

"I don't think they're scared of us," Fira said. "We're not even worth the trouble."

Below, they could see the devastation of the titans: shattered patches of forest, smashed farms and barns, crushed animals, and canyons. When she looked back north, Fira could just make the distant swarm of Requiem's dragons fleeing west. The three titans pursued.

Oryn panted. "Well, cavewoman, I must say—flying directly over the titans? That was incredibly stupid."

"I didn't see that one had a whip," Fira muttered. "If I had seen the whip, I'd have taken a detour."

Oryn nodded. "Well, you're most welcome, my dear! It really wasn't a big deal for me, flying between a bunch of rancid, giant monsters to save your backside."

She groaned. "Thank you. All right?" She glared at him, but looking at that stupid, silly black dragon, her anger faded, and her voice softened. "Thank you. You're a bit less stinky than a titan."

He grinned toothily. "That's the spirit, cavewoman!"

She blasted fire at him. "Call me that again, and I'll roast your bollocks off."

Oryn still held the mirror in his claws. "So given that I'm now the mirror bearer, I suppose I'll let you tag along on my quest. But only if you're helpful! No stealing rubies or enraging tinkers or anything, all right?"

Fira sighed. "I'll try to control myself."

They flew in silence for a long time. Fira stared across the ravaged land.

"I almost died," she finally said. "I came so close to losing the mirror … to losing all hope for Miya." She looked at Oryn. "I'm scared, Oryn. I'm scared that this won't work. That we won't find any temple. That Miya … Oh stars. I'm so scared."

She saw the same fear in Oryn's eyes. He flew a little closer and patted her with his wing.

"Your sister is one tough little princess. Wherever she is now, she's fighting. There's still hope."

Fira nodded and blinked tears out of her eyes. "I'm glad you're with me, Oryn."

They flew onward. It would be a journey of many long days to the sea, the desert, and a lost legend.

LENORA

She flew with her king, leaving their nation behind. Seeking a crystal buried in a mine. Seeking a heart for a champion of stone.

Lenora wanted to feel like a heroine again. To feel free. To feel blessed to be flying with her king, a man she loved.

But as she flew here, leaving the rest of her people, she felt shame.

Our nation flees the titans, flees into the wilderness. And we—their king and librarian, their wells of strength and knowledge—abandoned them.

Berinor looked at her, his eyes warm. The green-and-silver dragon was flying beside her, twice her size. He seemed to read her thoughts.

"Lady Sirana will lead them onward," he said. "She'll keep them safe. We'll be with them again soon. We'll bring them hope."

So why does this feel like a betrayal? Lenora thought.

Berinor was king of Requiem—and a king needed to be with his people, especially at their time of need. She was their librarian, and in her mind, this position was just as lofty, if not loftier. She was the custodian of Requiem's lore and knowledge and wisdom, and never had Requiem needed these more.

Lenora sighed.

It was my idea to fly here, she reminded herself.

Only the king of Requiem could open the door to the mines, if the legends were correct. Berinor had to be here. As for herself, well … Lenora wondered. Had she truly come here to advise Berinor, to help him solve any riddles along the road? Or could she simply not bear to part from him?

She looked at him again. The large green dragon glided at her side, silent, staring into the distance. His presence comforted Lenora. Again she thought back to the library, how he had carried her away from the dead valkyrie, how she had felt so safe. Titans roamed the land, and the dark goddess still vowed vengeance, but with her king, Lenora felt safe again. He was a great king, wise and strong, and she imagined that he could defeat any enemy.

Yet there was pain in him too. Lenora saw it in his eyes, had been seeing it for days now. He ached for Miya, a pain that consumed him, that Lenora couldn't hope to understand. But there were older shadows there too. Ghosts that had gathered during long years. The death of his wife still haunted him, the terror from that night in the library long ago.

The same night that took my parents from me, that shattered my legs, Lenora thought. That night still haunts all of us. We still haven't woken up from that nightmare.

She glided even closer to him, close enough to feel his warmth and to let him feel hers.

He smiled at her. His tail reached out and tapped her own tail, just a quick pat, but it comforted Lenora like a warm embrace.

He makes me feel safe, Lenora thought. And perhaps I make him feel safe too. Perhaps I can be more than just a well of wisdom for him—but a source of warmth and comfort too.

They flew on in silence, two broken souls, leaving Draco Murus and the rest of their nation far behind.

They had crossed several leagues of wilderness when they saw the ravaged farm below and heard the screams.

Lenora gasped.

"By the stars," she whispered, and flames crackled in her jaws.

Berinor sneered at her side, and smoke blasted from his nostrils.

Lenora's snout crinkled in disgust. "What are they?"

"Parasites," Berinor muttered. "We saw them inside the stone titan. The living titans must have shed these ones like men shedding fleas."

Hundreds of the creatures rustled across the farm below, large as cows. Some were bloated, oozing, and slug-like, moving with pudgy limbs. Others looked more like beetles, lined with horns, their mandibles clacking. Some reminded Lenora of centipedes, only these centipedes were ten feet long. A stench rose from them, so powerful Lenora could smell it even here in the sky.

More of the creatures—shed from the skin, hair, and mouths of the titans—were converging on the farm. They swept across the countryside like ants after a morsel. Most of the parasites busied themselves in the barley field and vegetable garden, ravaging the crops. Their translucent skin revealed the food sliding into their bellies. Other parasites had managed to shatter the barn, and they were feasting upon cows, sheep, and pigs. One pig was still moving, mewling miserably as the parasites devoured it alive.

A scream rose again—coming from the farmhouse. Parasites were climbing the walls, crawling through the windows, and eating holes into the roof.

"That was a human scream," Lenora said.

Berinor nodded. "Wait here for me."

The king pulled his wings inward and swooped. A dozen feet aboveground, he leveled off and rained down dragonfire. The flames bathed the parasites in the garden. The creatures squealed and thrashed. A few sprouted wings and rose toward Berinor.

"Wait here?" Lenora said. "Are you kidding?"

No. She had done her share of waiting—years of waiting in the library. With a howl, Lenora swooped too and blasted her dragonfire.

Her flames roared across more parasites. They screeched, turned their heads toward her, and flapped their translucent wings. The creatures rose toward her, jaws open, mandibles clacking.

Lenora blew more fire, torching a few quivering blobs—the largest targets. One of the centipedes reached her and wrapped around her leg. An instant later, a massive mite slammed into Lenora and bit her underbelly. Mandibles grabbed her tail.

The creatures were smaller than dragons—about the size of wolves—but they were fast and outnumbered her.

Roaring, Lenora flailed in the sky and clawed at the creatures. She managed to tear the beetle off, but the other parasites weighed her down. She slammed onto the ground, crushing a bloated, wormlike creature. At once, more parasites leaped onto her, tugging her wings.

Lenora had never been a warrior. She had never fought anyone before the valkyrie had invaded her library. But she was a dragon of Requiem. She was descended from Fidelity herself, the great librarian-queen who had fought the firedrakes.

I'm no longer that scared little cripple. I am a dragon of Requiem.

Lenora roared out her rage, blasted her fire, lashed her tail, and clawed and bit the parasites. They blazed. They tore apart. Their mandibles grabbed her scales, and Lenora clawed the creatures open, spilling their innards across the farm. Flames crackled around her.

Berinor was fighting at her side, ripping off parasites and roasting them.

"Lenora, wait for me in the sky!" he said.

She shook her head. "I won't leave you to fight alone!" She pointed at the farmhouse. "They're breaking in!"

She beat her wings, rose above the flaming field, and flew toward the farmhouse. The parasites had shattered holes in the walls. They were swarming into the house.

In dragon form, Lenora was too large to enter after them. She briefly considered torching the whole damn house with dragonfire. But a scream sounded inside. A human scream. It seemed to be coming from the second floor.

She flew toward a hole in the wall, then released her magic.

She shifted back into human form—a woman in a wheelchair, her earrings and necklace jangling madly. She fell between parasites, hit the floor, and rolled forward.

She had spent many hours learning, practicing, and finally mastering how to shift with her wheelchair, to absorb it into her dragon form like her clothes and jewelry. And to have it reappear in one piece when she shifted back into a human. The first few attempts had been disastrous. But it now worked like a charm.

Lenora was proud of this newfound ability. But she had little time for self-congratulations now. Parasites swarmed through the farmhouse. They dangled from the overhead lamps, clung to the walls, and crawled up the staircase to the second floor. When they saw her—a mere human now, powerless to burn them—the parasites screeched and scuttled toward her.

Lenora gulped. Back in Draco Murus, Fira had given her a sword. It now hung across the back of the wheelchair. With a shaking hand, Lenora reached behind her, grabbed the hilt, and drew the blade.

A centipede leaped toward her, longer than her. Lenora swung her sword. The blade sliced the parasite in two, and its halves fell around her.

With a scream, Lenora rolled her wheelchair forward and swung her blade again, cutting down another creature.

"Lenora!" Berinor shouted. "For stars' sake, stay back!"

He ran into the house, back in human form—tall, beefy, covered in armor. The king drew his own weapon, a mighty bastard sword called Relesar's Claw, named after the fabled king who fought the Cadigus usurper. The blade was made from iron found in a fallen meteor, forged in dragonfire into glimmering steel. It sliced through a leaping blob of slime and horns.

"Lenora, wait outside—as a dragon!" Berinor said. "I'm going upstairs."

A human scream rose from the second floor again. Berinor took a step toward the staircase when a centipede wrapped around his legs. The king hacked at it. A giant mite scuttled toward him, and Berinor soon was fighting both creatures at once.

Above him, a third parasite swung on a lamp, then vaulted toward the king.

Lenora wheeled forward. The parasite flew through the air. Lenora leaped from her seat and raised her blade. It sliced the flying parasite instants before it could slam into Berinor's back.

Lenora landed back in her wheelchair, coated with parasite juices.

"I'm staying!" she said. "I've got your back—literally." She climbed onto Berinor's back. She clung on with one hand, still holding her sword. "I'll piggyback. We go together."

They walked upstairs, swords swinging together, carving a path forward. As Berinor cut through parasites on the staircase, Lenora hacked at the creatures scuttling along the wall and banister.

A corridor rustling with parasites awaited them upstairs. As Berinor and Lenora cut their way forward, a cry rose from a bedroom down the hall. A baby's cry.

They entered the room. Lenora gasped and struggled not to gag.

Several corpses lay in the bedroom. A family. Two parasites were busy consuming the father. The man was already gone up to the ribs. The mother was in worse shape, consumed up to her head, the rest of her nothing but bones and bits of meat. A child floated inside a blobby parasite. The creature's stomach acids were digesting him or her. A centipede was wrapped around another child, devouring him bite by bite. The head was already gone.

Only one person still lived—a baby in a cradle, too small a morsel for the parasites to have bothered with.

Berinor and Lenora swung their blades, slicing the parasites, and by the stars—the things stank. Lenora swallowed hard, trembling, and finally she couldn't help it. She turned her head aside and vomited.

"I'm sorry, my king," she said. "I got some on your armor." She looked around her and grimaced. "Why didn't the parents become dragons?"

"The room was too small," Berinor said. "The creatures must have swarmed too quickly, blocking the exits, like a wildfire spreading through a house."

He slogged through the dead parasites toward the cradle and lifted the baby. The little boy was still crying, face red. Berinor left the chamber, the baby in his arms and Lenora riding on his back. When they were outside the house, and Lenora was back in her wheelchair, a few last parasites turned toward them. Lenora became a dragon, burned them, then returned to human form.

"Let me try soothing him," Lenora said. The baby was still crying.

Berinor gave her a small, sad smile. "You proved that you can fight today, Lenora. Let me prove that I can tend to babies." He rocked the child gently until the boy indeed soothed, closed his eyes, and slept.

Lenora sat in her wheelchair, head lowered. "We were too late. We could have saved the family. I heard the rest of them screaming from outside. If I were a little bit faster …"

"We saved a life here," Berinor said. "We saved a child. Do you know what the old priests of Requiem would teach?"

Lenora nodded. "That every life is a world entire."

"That's true." Berinor rocked the sleeping baby. "A unique world exists within each soul. When a person dies, an entire world dies. When you save just a single life, you're saving a world. In this child, we saved Requiem—one version of Requiem, one seen through his eyes."

Lenora caressed the sleeping baby's hair. "I wonder what his name is."

"There's a village a league away," Berinor said. "They might know his name, might tend to him." His face hardened. "And they might need our help."

They rose as dragons. As they flew, Berinor carried the baby gently in his claws. They headed over fields rife with more parasites. As Berinor flew with the sleeping baby, Lenora dived low and clawed the creatures, loath to blow more fire and burn whatever crops remained. After a few moments of flight, they saw the village, a collection of twenty-odd cottages.

The settlement was small enough that, it seemed, the hydras and valkyries had missed it. The parasites had found it, but were faring poorly. Several villagers flew as dragons, killing the creatures.

Berinor landed, shifted into human form, and walked into the village with the baby in his arms. Lenora shifted too and followed in her wheelchair. The villagers came to greet them, most as humans, a few still in dragon form.

"We found this babe outside the village," Berinor said and described the ordeal. The villagers listened gravely.

"We'll return to bury his family," Lenora said when Berinor had completed his tale. "We've come here first to see if a kind family would adopt this child."

A woman stepped forward. She had the hardy look of a peasant: wind-burned cheeks, eyes used to squinting in the sun, dry yellow hair, and callused hands.

"I lost my son to war last winter, milord," she said to Berinor. "He fought in the Royal Army. This little one is named Idan. Idan son of Pel. I'll give him a good home."

Another peasant stepped forward. The balding man gasped and pointed at Berinor. "I know you! I served in your Royal Army ten years ago!" The farmer knelt. "King Berinor Aeternum stands before us!"

Across the village, the people knelt, but Berinor motioned for them to rise.

"My friends," he said. "Worse creatures than these parasites roam Requiem. Nova Vita and Lynport have been evacuated. Their people travel west to find shelter in the mountains of Salvandos. Join them. Leave today!"

The peasant woman stepped forward and took the baby from him. She kissed the child's forehead and rocked him. "I'm staying, Your Highness. Me and this child. This has been my home for generations. Our village is small enough that enemies pass over it. We've survived so far, even as hydras and valkyries ravaged the lands around us. Yes, my king, we know of the titans who march in Requiem. They're a little hard to miss. But still I'll stay. This is my home. I won't flee it."

The other villagers gathered around her, nodding. "We'll stay."

Berinor pulled a ring off his finger. It was made of pure gold, and an emerald shone on it, green like the banners of Requiem. He handed it to the villagers.

"I don't know what value gemstones and gold have in a land of devastation," Berinor said. "But I hope this helps a little. Until the war is over, until we can rebuild. If these creatures who have ravaged our land are ever defeated, I will send true aid—plows, cattle, mules, surplus grain, and strong hands to farm and build. For now accept this gift. For whatever little it's worth. And if it's worth nothing, consider this ring a promise of true aid to come."

And there he is, Lenora thought, looking at him. My king. A man I would follow anywhere, even into the pits of the abyss.

She unhooked her silver earrings, rolled forward, and handed them to the village woman. "And take these. They're worth less than gold, but they're all I have to give."

They kept flying. One green-and-silver dragon, king of a crumbling kingdom. One dragon of many colors, her body broken, a guardian of stories, now writing her own tale. They left the village behind, glided over forests until sunset, then landed in a valley. Berinor caught a deer, and they built a campfire and cooked the meat. The stars shone above, and for a long time, they ate in silence, watching the campfire.

As the fire burned down to embers, as crickets sang and the grass rustled, Lenora looked at her king. Berinor sat on a log, staring at the flames. The weight on his shoulders, the grief in his eyes seemed so heavy. Lenora rolled her wheelchair toward him, hopped out, and sat beside him on the log.

"My king." She hesitated for a moment, then leaned against him. "I can't imagine the grief, the fear you feel. I can't imagine how difficult every moment must be with your daughter away. We saved one life today, one child. And we'll save your child too." She took his hand. "Whatever you need of me, tell me. However I can comfort you, I will."

For a long time, he was silent, gazing at the flames. When finally he spoke, his voice was low. "I am a king. This is a title I did not ask for. This is a burden I inherited. To always be strong, to always lead. All my life, I tried to be a source of comfort, of wisdom, of strength to others. To my wife. To my daughters. To my people. And yet my wife fell. My family shattered. My people suffer in a ruined land. How can I be strong for them—for you, Lenora—when I feel broken?"

Lenora gazed at the crackling campfire. "We all broke that night the goddess entered the library. She broke my legs, but she did far worse. She broke something inside me. Something that kept me in the shadows, afraid, so afraid for so long. But I learned something on this quest, my king. It's the broken people, afraid and grieving, who find the greatest strength." She touched his cheek and looked into his eyes. "We will find the Blood Shard. And we will find Miya. And we will rebuild this kingdom. The broken will be healed."

It seemed to her that the grief lessened in his eyes. She slept curled against him that night, and in the dawn they flew again—until in the distance they saw it. A gray mountain rose from a misty forest of pines. Within it, they would find a heart.

ORYN

The two dragons, black and red, flew over a weeping landscape.

The scars of war covered Requiem. Parasites, shed off the bodies of the titans, swept across farms and fields, consuming, bloating, breeding. Villages, towns, and fortresses lay crumbled, destroyed by the hydras, valkyries, and titans. As the dragons flew farther south, they glided over burnt forests, vast wastelands of ash. Here was Requiem's scorched earth, burned intentionally, a desperate attempt to hold back the onslaught.

"It's like in the old stories I heard as a child," Fira said, gliding on an air current. "The stories of the wars against the griffins and phoenixes and the undead."

Flying at her side, Oryn raised his scaly brow. "When I was kid, they told me the tales of Red Dog, Blue Dog and Little Boy Bam. Your nurse must have been more morbid than my mother."

The red dragon smiled thinly. "I'm a princess of Requiem. I wasn't told fairy tales. I was told the history of Requiem. I grew up hearing from my nurse, my parents, and my tutors about all the old pain we endured. How the demons hunted us in the early days. How the griffins killed all but seven of us. How the phoenixes burned Nova Vita, and how the tyrant Frey Cadigus plunged us into darkness, and how the Cured Temple stole our magic, and how the seraphim—"

"I got it, cavewoman," Oryn said. "Our history stinks. Stars, you capital folk are a barrel of laughs."

Fira sighed and gazed across the ruined landscape. "And here we are. Again, Requiem lies in ruin. And now I suppose we're like those old heroes and heroines. Like King Benedictus and his daughter, Gloriae. Like the legendary Laira. Like all the others from the stories. Now we too struggle in war, struggle to survive against a ruthless enemy."

"I'm only here to help Miya." Oryn considered for a moment, then sighed. "All right, maybe to help Requiem a little bit, while I'm at it."

Fira looked at him, gliding closer. "Sometimes I wonder, Oryn. Why do we even fight? For years in my cave, I asked that question. Why did those old heroes struggle so much to save Requiem? Each time our nation rose again, each time we defeated a tyrant, another rose to destroy us. We defeated Raem, the Demon King, only for Dies Irae to lead the griffins against us. We defeated the griffins, only to face the phoenixes. And so on and so forth, for thousands of years, until this day—like a hydra wounded over and over, regrowing, only to suffer again. That is what I wondered in my cave, what I wonder now. Why do we fight for a kingdom that knows only suffering? Why do we cling to a dream that has become a nightmare? Why do we fight instead of giving up?"

Oryn flew in silence for a moment. The sun was low in the sky now, painting the land gold and orange. Somehow the devastation didn't seem as bad in the twilight.

Finally Oryn spoke again, gazing at the sunset.

"I often felt that way about my own life."

Fira frowned. "Your life? The life of the Prince of Shadows? I thought yours was a life of fine wines, glittering jewels, and a veritable harem in the underworld of Altus Mare."

"It wasn't always," said Oryn, voice softer now. "I wasn't always a prince. I was once the son of a dockside prostitute. She abandoned me when I was just a child. Drowned herself in the sea. Suicide. Then I was just an orphan who stole from fishermen, slept on the beach, and drank from puddles. For years I was just a street urchin, eating from trash cans before I learned how to pick pockets."

"I bet you learned that skill pretty quickly," Fira said.

Oryn nodded. "Oh, I did. And many other skills too. How to punch back when other thieves attacked you. How to sleep with one eye open on the street—in case someone tried to slit your throat at night and steal your few coins. How to turn away the hookahs with their sweet drugs, and the disease-ridden prostitutes when they offered you comfort in a world of cold and hunger and loneliness. I learned to sneak up on nobles, to slice their purses off their belts, and to vanish down the alleyways. I learned to hop from roof to roof, scurry through tunnels, sneak through windows and pick locks. I learned how to breathe again after a city guard once knocked my jaw halfway around my skull. I learned to piss again after one night of loneliness, when I took a woman into my bed—a cold night when it was either the comfort of a whore or a blade to my own wrists—a night that left me with sores on my groin hotter than dragonfire. I learned about loneliness. I learned about despair. I learned all those things in Altus Mare."

Fira cocked her head at him. "And what of the tales? Of the great outlaw prince who lived in dens of splendor and inequity?"

"He was there," Oryn said. "At the end. After years of struggle, I became that prince. I had wealth, fame, women. Only to lose them all when the hydras destroyed the whole damn city. So, Fira my dear, I think I know a little about how those old heroes felt. How Requiem has lasted this long. Because I lived that life. We both did. A life of pain, tragedy, struggle, but also hope and rebirth. Requiem's story is our story. The story of anyone who's ever struggled against despair. Why does Requiem still fight? For the same reason that you and I still fight."

"And what's that reason?" Fira asked, her voice suddenly hoarse.

Oryn spoke in a soft voice, so soft he wasn't sure she could hear. "The goodness in life."

Fira lowered her scaly head, and smoke plumed from her nostrils. "Tonight it's hard to imagine that any goodness can still exist."

"It always seems that way when life is darkest," said Oryn. "There were nights when I lay in some gutter, afraid, alone, when the hintan spice called me so powerfully I could not resist. Nights when I prayed to the stars—not for salvation but for death. But these times pass. The storm flows by. We emerge stronger, and the light—when we finally see it—seems all the brighter. I think those old heroes—Laira and Kyrie and Relesar and the lot of them—they had lots of nights like this one, nights of fear and despair, when they thought the world could never be good again. But it was. And it will be." Oryn nodded. "I believe it. I fly onward because I know that someday these forests will bloom again, that someday Requiem will rise from ruin, and that Miya will be back with us. When you're flying through a storm, just keep flying. That's always been my motto."

Fira gazed at him, the last light of the setting sun blazing against her red scales. "There's more to you than most people know, isn't there?"

Oryn nodded. "You'll find that I'm full of surprises. I'm not all that bad. You'll probably even fall madly in love with me someday."

Fira smiled thinly. "That I think we're safe from." She sighed. "You're right, Oryn. Sometimes a storm is dark and cold, and you don't think it'll ever end. And sometimes we hurt so much. We lose so much. We suffer and weep and shout and see others fall from the sky. But the storms always blow over. There is always light after darkness. That is something we learn from Requiem's story. That is something you and I learned from our lives." She took a deep breath. "I just hope Miya survives her storm."

That night, neither of them wanted to rest. It was a long flight south, and every hour that they tarried, Miya was languishing in captivity. Fira slept first, lying on Oryn's scaly back. He flew onward as a dragon, carrying her. Halfway through the night, Oryn roused her and they switched. Fira flew onward, a red dragon, while Oryn slept on her back. He used his rope—he always carried a rope and grapple, remnants of his outlaw years—to fasten himself into place.

They flew through the night and through the next day. The wilderness of Requiem spread below them. Most was simply forests and hills and mountains, but every few hours, they flew by a ravaged farm or village. In the afternoon, they spotted a town of perhaps a hundred homes. They landed in the cobbled town square, returned to human form, and found the homes abandoned.

Headed west, read a crude wooden sign nailed into an elm. Beware the hydras.

Around the tree rose fresh graves.

"Most of Requiem is like this," Fira said softly, walking through the deserted village. "We forget that sometimes in the capital, among our palaces and temples and libraries and theaters. Most Vir Requis just live—lived—in places like this. Little hamlets. Farms. Working the land." She smiled thinly. "It's funny, isn't it? How a race of people who can become flying predators with fangs like swords spend so much time farming."

Oryn's stomach rumbled. "I'm not surprised. Hunting is hard. It's been hours since we saw a deer, and I'm famished. You don't suppose we'll find any food in this town, do you?"

Fira chewed her lip. "Steal from refugees?"

"The refugees are long gone," Oryn said. "And judging by how you've been chewing your lip, you seem hungry enough to steal food from a baby, let alone a few abandoned houses. Come on. That one looks like a tavern. We might find some grub."

They walked across the square, passing by a discarded leather ball, an abandoned crib (Oryn breathed a sigh of relief to find only a doll inside), and a counter squares board on a tree stump. The wooden pieces—cannons, horses, dragons—were still arranged midgame.

Oryn cringed to see a massive skeleton rising in the dirt, as large as a house. It couldn't be a dragon. Vir Requis returned to human form after death. These were the bones of a hydra, picked clean by scavengers. Hydras normally had five heads, but this skeleton only had two skulls. The other three skulls were missing, perhaps decapitated in a battle and hurled aside.

Oryn reached the tavern first. It rose three stories tall, built of waddle and daub, its roof coated with green tiles. The window shutters were closed, the chimney cold. The front door was banded with iron strips shaped like a three-headed dragon. The ironwork most likely predated Nemoria and was simply decorative. But the unfortunate coincidence still made Oryn shiver.

He sniffed. "Smells a bit."

Fira winced. "Smells a lot. But not like rotten food. Almost like … like rain and mud. That smell is familiar." She reached for her sword.

Oryn shrugged. "So long as the food's not rotten." He opened the doors and stepped into the tavern.

"Oryn, wait—" Fira began.

He froze.

He stared ahead.

"Stars," he whispered.

Fira entered the tavern behind him and let out a strangled groan. "What the abyss is that!"

Oryn felt sick. "I'm no longer hungry, Fira."

The taverns' tables and chairs had been shoved against the walls. Human bones lay on the bar, and blood stained casks of ale.

They had found the three missing hydra heads.

They were in the common room. And they were still alive.

It was not even their salivating jaws, baleful eyes, or clammy skin that sickened Oryn. It was how these severed heads had survived.

Presumably, the heads had once grown from the hydra carcass outside. Swords or dragon claws must have cut them off. The heads had somehow … grafted themselves onto three living humans.

The hydra necks grew across the human bodies like tree roots enveloping boulders. Green, oozing tendrils spread out from the monstrous necks, sinking and melting into the human flesh.

Balanced atop their human hosts, the hydra heads hissed, snapped their teeth, and glared at Oryn and Fira. Beneath them, the human bodies writhed. Two humans were almost completely enveloped. Only their legs and lower abdomens were visible. Another human's abdomen was wrapped in the green tendrils, sprouting the hydra's parasitic head. This man's own head was still free, and he whispered, voice weak.

"Kill me. Please. Please."

Oryn covered his mouth, struggling not to gag.

Poor bastards.

"Back outside, Fira," he whispered. He couldn't speak any louder. "I'll shift into a dragon on the porch, stick my snout through the door, and bathe this whole damn place with dragonfire."

He made to step back outside, but Fira shook her head.

"No," she whispered. "We can't kill them."

Oryn grimaced. The hydras heads were hissing and dragging themselves across the floor. The human bodies wriggled beneath them, slug-like, covered with slime. The hydras snapped their teeth but did not blow fire. Perhaps they couldn't breathe fire without their old bodies, or perhaps they were smart enough to avoid burning their own hideaway.

"Please," rasped the man with the free head. That head kept banging against the floor as the hydra wriggled its neck, dragging its host forward. "Please. Kill us. Please."

Fira raised her sword. "No dragonfire. Steel."

Oryn cringed and drew his own weapon—a curved blade the length of his forearm, one he had found in the armory of Draco Murus. "This'll get messy."

One hydra head dipped down, grabbed the floorboards with its teeth, and dragged itself toward Oryn. The thief stepped back, and his back hit the wall. The hydra head rose from the floor, hissing. The jaws opened wide, revealing a gaping hellmouth, the teeth as long as swords.

With a miasma of rancid breath, the creature attacked.

Oryn shouted and swung his blade. The steel slammed into the hydra's head and chipped a tooth, but the blow couldn't stop the assault. The jaws closed around Oryn's arm.

He screamed. He swung his blade down—again, again—cutting through the hydra's rubbery skin and into the soft, gooey meat. Black blood spurted, and the jaws released him.

Oryn stumbled aside, groaning. His arm was a bloody mess.

The hydra head was wounded, but still very much alive. It hissed at Oryn again, dragging its human host across the bloodstained floorboards.

"Fira, a little help!" Oryn shouted as he waved his blade, trying to hold the creature back.

But the princess was busy battling two other hydra heads. She swung her sword in arcs as the creatures approached her, their jaws snapping and hungry for her flesh.

The first hydra, teeth bloody, lashed toward Oryn again.

He stepped back, blade swinging. The hydra thrust its jaws forward, and Oryn leaped back again, narrowly dogging the teeth. The jaws snapped shut before him, catching his blade. The hydra yanked its head back, tugging the weapon free from Oryn's hand.

"Dragon balls!" Oryn spat.

The hydra slithered closer, grinning, snapping its teeth. Oryn drew his dagger, took another step backward, and his back hit a chair. He tried to steady himself. When the hydra thrust its neck toward him, Oryn reacted instinctively, leaning back to avoid the teeth, and tumbled over the chair.

His back slammed against the floor, knocking the breath out of him. Oryn raised his dagger as the hydra's head plunged down. His blade entered the creature's mouth and sank into its palate.

The hydra screeched, spat out the blade, and licked the blood off its chops. It dived again toward Oryn.

Wincing, he grabbed the fallen chair and swung it. It shattered against the hydra's skull. The creature blinked and shook its head, scattering chips of wood.

While the hydra was dazed, Oryn leaped up. He reached toward a tabletop, grabbed a breadknife, and thrust the puny weapon with all his strength. It sank into the hydra's left eye.

The creature squealed. Its head thrashed so madly the neck ripped, and several inches detached from the human beneath it, revealing rancid, bleeding flesh.

Gods, the stench of it, Oryn thought.

He took a few steps, lifted his fallen sword, and swung the curved blade into the creature. It sank deep. The hydra's head gave a last cry, then thumped onto the ground.

The hydra's head was dead, but the human host still lived. The poor man was barely visible. The hydra's green neck still engulfed most of him, tentacles wrapping around him tightly, revealing only half the torso, the legs, and one arm.

Leaving the wretched creature, Oryn leaped over the shattered chair toward Fira. She had managed to slay one of the hydras, slicing its lower jaw clean off. The other beast was dragging its human host toward the princess, jaws snapping. Fira's shoulder bled, a hydra tooth embedded into it.

"You see what happens?" Oryn drove his blade down with both hands, cracking open the hydra's skull. "See what happens without dragonfire?" He put a boot against the hydra, yanked his blade free, then swung it again into the creature's neck. "We get hurt. We get teeth cutting us. We get stinky blood spraying us. Next time, we burn them from the sky."

Fira ignored him. She yanked the tooth out of her shoulder, jaw clenched and face pale, and tossed it aside. Pressing a hand against the wound, she knelt by the slain hydra head, the one whose skull Oryn had cleaved. The human host lay on the floor, the hydra's neck still attached, green tendrils morphing with his torso. The man's head emerged from the twisted chimera, blinking, gasping for air.

"It's all right now," Fira said to the man. "We'll get this thing off you."

"Poor bugger," Oryn said. He glanced at his own wound and winced; two ugly gashes bled on his forearm. "Hurry up, will you? I want to shift into a dragon before I bleed to death. I always heal a lot faster as a dragon."

Fira nodded. "Soon. Help me cut off the parasite. Do you have a dagger I can use?"

"I'm a thief. I have about a hundred daggers." Oryn knelt at her side and handed her a blade.

They spent a while working with the daggers, cutting the hydra's neck off. It wasn't easy. The tissues had morphed together, and it was hard to tell where hydra ended and man began. As they worked, the other two human bodies—these ones with their heads completely engulfed by hydra tendrils—still twitched.

Finally, Oryn sliced through what looked like an umbilical cord, and the neck fully detached and fell off the human host.

It left a mess.

Gaping wounds covered the man, pumping fresh blood. Fira pressed her cloak against the wound, but Oryn knew the man was a goner.

"Thank you," the man whispered, looking into Fira's eyes. "Thank …"

His breath stopped. It was over.

Oryn sighed. "Come on, Fira. Let's free the other two. We'll let them die as men. Then bury the poor buggers."

By the time the other two hydra necks were removed, the hosts had died. Oryn shifted into a dragon outside and dug three graves, and they buried the men. They burned the hydra heads.

Oryn drew a bucket of water from the town well and began washing. "Disgusting." He shook guck off his hands. "Filthy work, this. Cavewoman, you want some water? We're going to need a new bucket here. Cavewoman?"

He turned toward her. Fira stood by the graves, weeping silently.

Oryn hurried toward her. "Fira!"

She looked away, tears falling. Oryn had always known her to be strong, gruff, cold—a warrior with a heart of iron. Seeing her so vulnerable shocked him almost as much as the hydra parasites.

"Fira," he said softly.

"Don't look at me." She turned her back to him.

"All right." He nodded. "Horrible shame, tears. Really, you always want to hide any emotion. Fira. I'm joking. Bloody stars, I cried for about a week after Miya … after what happened. At the stone titan. We saw something horrible here. It's normal to cry."

She turned back toward him, eyes still wet, her hand still covered in blood. "It wasn't what we saw. It's what I don't see. What I imagine. What I fear." She looked back at the tavern. "If just one hydra did that … Oh Oryn. What are they doing to Miya? You wanted to burn this tavern with dragonfire, to kill the poor souls there. And I'm ashamed, Oryn. I'm ashamed because every day, I pray that Miya is dead. Because deep in my heart, I know that she's better off dead." She sniffed. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to say that to you."

Oryn felt something tight in his throat, something stinging in his eyes. Yes. He too had been thinking this, ashamed of the thought, ashamed that on dark, deep nights he had prayed: Please, stars, please, let Miya be dead. Don't let her suffer.

"I want to comfort you," Oryn said. "I want to hug you, to tell you that Miya will be all right, to tell you that we'll bring her back home soon and forget about all this. But I'm going to do something else. And I want you to join me."

He shifted into a dragon, took a few steps closer to the tavern, and blasted dragonfire. Fira joined him, roaring as she spewed her flames. The tavern blazed.

They both kept blowing their flames long after the tavern collapsed, when there was nothing left to burn. Finally, when all their fire was depleted, they stood panting before the inferno. Their scales reflected the firelight.

"You know," Fira said, "we probably burned all the food in the pantries."

"Good," Oryn said. "I wouldn't eat anything from that tavern. Or this village. Or this forest for a mile around. Let's fly. Maybe we'll inhale some birds on the way."

Fira gave him a wan smile. They rose together, and they flew southward, leaving the desolation and the graves, but not the memories.

Those, Oryn knew, he would be fleeing forever.

SIRANA

Her king was gone. Her parents were gone. Her lord and guiding star, Durian Eleison, was gone. Her dearest friend, Princess Miya, was gone.

All she had ever had. A home, people who loved her, souls of comfort and guidance. All gone.

Here in this cold sky, Lady Sirana Oldnale flew alone, leading a nation.

She inhaled shakily. The sky was icy and thin here. A strange sky she had never flown in. They were west of the Aranath Mountains now—beyond Requiem's borders.

I'm ready for this, she told herself. This happened too soon, and I'm too young, and I'm afraid. But I'm ready. I can do this. I will lead them onward.

She looked over her shoulder. The survivors of Requiem flew there, myriads covering the sky—refugees from Nova Vita, from Lynport in the south, and from scattered farmlands. Some were large, burly dragons with scales like dinner plates and underbellies like worn leather. Some were elders, missing horns and fangs, their wings tattered and whistling with holes. Other dragons were youngsters, just old enough to shift, slender dragons the size of horses, their scales bright and colorful.

Not every Vir Requis could shift into a dragon. Some were too young or weak. Some were too wounded or sick. Others had simply never developed the magic, the way some boys simply never grew beards. But they were part of Requiem too, no less important. They rode on the backs of the flyers.

An entire nation in the air, Sirana thought.

Lord Durian was gone. King Berinor and Princess Fira were away on quests. Princess Miya was captive. And so the chain of command led to her. To Lady Sirana Oldnale.

The nation now looked to her for salvation. To the scion of House Oldnale. Here in the sky, she led Requiem.

They don't know how scared I am.

And in the distance, behind them—the enemy still pursued.

In the sunset, Sirana saw them. Three towering monoliths beyond the haze, never falling too far behind, their footsteps like thunder. For two days now, the titans had not slowed, and the whip ever lashed toward them, booming like thunder, and their hands ever reached out, cutting down those dragons who straggled.

"The people need food," said Pherion, a general in the Starlit Army. The aging copper dragon flew at her side. "They need rest. These are not soldiers. They won't be able to keep this pace forever."

"There will be no rest so long as those titans pursue," said Sirana.

Pherion nodded. "We'll do what you did in the south. Burn the forests. Create a carpet of fire for the titans. That'll slow 'em down."

Sirana winced to remember that. She was an Oldnale. For thousands of years, her family had ruled over farmlands and forests, rangers who protected nature. Her father used to joke that Oldnales had sap for blood. The guilt over what Sirana had done would never leave her.

"There's a better way," she said. "We'll find the fastest flyers. The top twenty-fifth percentile. The rest will ride them in human form, three humans per dragon. That'll increase our speed. We might just be able to outfly those titans. Meanwhile, we'll employ hunters—hundreds of them—to swoop into the forest, hunt whatever they can, and bring the meat back. We'll eat in the sky."

Pherion looked down at the forest of pines, elms, and maples that covered the hills. "They won't find much."

"Not much is better than nothing," Sirana said. "Many of the refugees brought food from home. They'll have enough for the next three days. The hungry will eat what we hunt." She looked at the old copper dragon. "Can you do this?"

She wanted to sound commanding. To sound like a true leader, not just a young, frightened woman thrust into command, one who trembled inside. Pherion stared at her silently. For a moment, she worried that the general would scoff, would challenge her leadership, would usurp her.

But finally the bronze dragon nodded. "I'll get my officers on it. We'll see what extra speed we can squeeze out of this host. But it that fails, we have to burn."

Sirana nodded.

Soon the soldiers of Requiem were flying through the camp, choosing the fastest dragons. The slower flyers became humans and rode on the backs of the speedy.

Meanwhile, the landscape changed below. The forest thinned. Within a few miles, the last few trees gave way to barren plains. The land sloped westward, rocky and dry. In this new terrain, without trees to snag at their feet, the titans were gaining speed.

The female titan swung her whip, hitting several of the slower dragons. Men and women fell. The iron-jawed titan ran, cracking the earth with every step. The colossal beast leaped forward and reached out. He caught several dragons, stuffed them to his mouth, and feasted.

Sirana flew to the rear of the camp, fire in her jaws.

"Warriors of Requiem!" she cried. "With me! Burn them! Hold them back!"

As the rest of the dragons flew forward, the Starlit Army charged backward, racing toward the three titans. They roared out their dragonfire.

The flames hit the titans like a thousand tiny needles of fire. The giants roared.

The bearded titan carried a massive chunk of stone. It was the size of a fortress, carved out of a mountainside. He swung the weapon. The monolith slammed into several dragons, snapping their bones. They fell.

The female titan screeched. The whip lashed, long enough to encircle a city. Dragons screamed as the whip sliced off wings, tails, limbs. More dead rained.

"Aim for their eyes!" Sirana shouted. "Blind them! Slow them down!"

She glanced toward the head of the camp. Thousands of dragons were flying with great speed, the stronger flyers carrying their slower comrades, the latter in human form. But much of the camp was still busy organizing, the slower Vir Requis seeking a speedy dragon to ride.

The bearded titan snatched several dragons from the sky—old, frail dragons who hadn't found a faster companion to ride. The titan shoved them into his mouth. Blood dripped down his bloated white lips. The giant reached out, caught more dragons, fed again.

Sirana sneered. "Issari Platoon, with me!" she shouted. "Burn him!"

She stormed toward the bearded brute. A hundred dragons flew with her. The titan raised his weapon, the massive chunk of mountain, and swung the monolithic club.

Sirana dived low, banked hard to the right, and rose again. The mountainside grazed her tail, ripping off a spike. She blew fire, aiming at the titan's fingers, but was too far. Several of her warriors fell, crushed by the stone.

"Squadrons one and two, take the left flank!" she shouted. "Three and four, with me to the right!"

The platoon of dragons split in two, parting before another swing of the monolith. The bearded titan reached out his free hand, grabbed dragons, and crushed them, crumpling their armor, snapping their bones. Sirana flew closer.

"Burn the eyes!" she cried and blasted her dragonfire.

The blaze streamed forward. Forty dragons blasted fire with her. The flames wove into one jet, spinning, wide as a city boulevard, and slammed into the titan's face

This time it hurt.

The brute dropped his stone club and raised his hands to his face. The slab of mountain slammed onto the ground, cracking the earth. The landscape rumbled.

"Burn him!" Sirana cried.

The titan swung one hand, hitting several dragons. They scattered, regrouped, charged again. Their jets of fire roared out, small as bees' stingers by the massive creature. But they aimed those stingers of fire at the creature's scraggly beard.

Each strand of hair was as wide as a man. They did not catch fire. The hand swung again, knocking down more dragons.

"Back!" Sirana cried. "Regroup with me!"

They flew away from the titan. As her dragons rallied behind her, Sirana spared her surroundings a quick glance. Other platoons were harrying the other two titans. More soldiers fell dead. But the thousands of civilians were making their escape.

"With me—blow your dragonfire!" Sirana cried. "Weave your flames together!"

They charged forward again. Their flames braided together, forming a massive jet, shrieking, blazing white and blue. The inferno drove into the titan's beard . . . and finally it caught fire.

The titan roared.

"Fall back!" Sirana cried. "Fall—"

The titan's hand swung too fast. It slammed into Sirana's side, and she saw nothing but—

White—

She gasped.

I can't—

Stars exploded.

The world spun and—

Breathe.

She struggled for air.

Breathe! I can't—

The world roiled. She beat her wings. She tried to steady herself. She tried to breathe. She could not. She beat her wings twice, then slammed into the earth, plowing through soil, cracking stones.

Sirana lay still, barely clinging to her dragon form. She was on the ground, and the battle still raged high above, hundreds of dragons flying rings around the titans, trying to dodge their hands and jaws and lashing whip.

Sirana shook her head madly and examined her body.

Well, burn me.

It looked as if a mountain had fallen onto her side. Half the scales along her right flank had cracked, and several of her dorsal spikes had snapped off. Her head pounded. Miraculously, she could move, even stand up. She hadn't broken a bone. Her armor gave a pitiful creak, then fell off in pieces.

"That was too close," Sirana muttered and stretched out her wings, prepared to fly again.

A shadow fell across her.

She looked up and cringed.

The titan's foot—by the stars, it was the size of an amphitheater—was driving down toward her. Corpses coated the reeking sole.

Sirana beat her wings. She flew along the earth, her belly skimming the soil. The foot came down hard, and Sirana pulled her tail inward, curling it under her belly. The foot slammed against the earth behind her, missing her by inches. An earthquake cracked the land. Gorges opened up, swallowing boulders.

Sirana kept racing forward, skimming the surface. A soldier crashed down before her, legs torn off. Another dragon hit the ground, still alive, only for the titan's foot to crush him. The land rumbled with another earthquake.

Sirana roared dragonfire at a toe—it was larger than her—and soared back into the sky.

Her army was crumbling. Many soldiers lay dead, and more kept falling. But they had managed to slow the titans down. Requiem's civilians were now flying fast, approaching a patch of forested mountains. The titans would have to walk more slowly there. The beasts were impossibly large, yet even they slowed down on rough terrain. Burning the forests would slow them down further.

"Soldiers, rejoin the camp!" Sirana cried. "Join the civilians!"

The whip swung, tearing down another few dragons. The surviving warriors rallied around Sirana, and they charged toward the others, joining the back of the camp.

With every flap of her wings, Sirana's side blazed with new pain. It would be long days before the cracked scales fell off and new ones replaced them, and those long days would be painful. But she was alive, and that was more than she could say for those who remained behind.

She looked back toward the titans. The bearded one had managed to pat out the fire. The other two had suffered mild burns, mere splotches on their skin, hardly enough to slow them down. The three lumbered on. For a horrible moment, Sirana thought they would reach the civilian dragons—even with them flying faster now.

Then they reached the forest.

Bristly pines rose among boulders. The titans' feet crushed the trees and stones. They were barefoot. And they had to slow down. Just a little—but it was enough.

The dragons flew ahead, widening the distance. Sirana breathed a sigh of relief.

We survived, she thought. Most of us.

She grieved for those left behind, the scores, maybe hundreds who had fallen over the plains. And she grieved for those who still lived, for the widows and orphans and hollow places left in her nation.

I knew such loss, she thought. I still grieve.

She flew onward. She had not wanted this, had not asked for this. Some officers in the army dreamed of rising in command. Sirana had never shared their ambition. She was a noblewoman. An extraordinary life was expected of her. Command was her burden. Yet with every death, the thought had grown in Sirana—that her king had made a mistake, should never have given her this horrible task. Every life gone, Sirana knew, would forever haunt her. When she met Berinor again, she would ask him how he bore such a burden. As she flew here, Sirana would have given the world to be a mere guard again, to follow orders, not give them.

But Berinor did not choose his burden either, Sirana thought. None of us chose our family names. Our duties. So I will lead. I will keep these people safe. I will not allow any more orphans.

They flew through the rest of the day, then the night, then dawn again. The titans kept following, never resting. It would be another week of flying before they reached the golden mountain. It would be the longest week in Sirana's life.

BERINOR

The cliff soared before them, craggy and pale like an ancient skull. A gateway loomed like a mouth, gagged with stone doors.

"This is the place." Lenora nodded and adjusted her glasses. "The mine of animating stones. Inside, we'll find the Blood Shard." She scrunched up her lips. "If the tales are true."

Standing before the cliff, Berinor shifted into a dragon, then back into a man. "The magic still works here."

"It would," Lenora said. "The Blood Shard is a powerful animating stone, the mightiest in the world. Out on the surface, it would cancel magic for miles around. But it's buried deep, my king. Deep within the mine, deep within the world, sealed behind much stone."

"Have you spared a thought, Lenora, as to how we'll ever lift such a massive stone?"

She smiled. "Don't worry. This stone is so powerful the land itself bends to its will. Whatever that means." She tilted her head.

Berinor sighed. "Let me guess. Another line from a book."

She smiled. "A scroll, actually. A particularly ancient one that crumbled to dust years ago. Luckily, I still remember every word. Well, most words. Okay, the gist of it." She gave her wheels a spin. "Come on. Time to enter the mine. I need you. Remember what the legends say?"

"That only the king of Requiem can open the gates to the mine." Berinor pointed. "And those seem to be our gates."

"Let's go in." Lenora kept rolling her wheelchair forward.

Berinor walked at her side. The remains of ancient tracks hid in the grass. The iron rails were rusty and full of holes. Closer to the cliff, they found a tilted-over trolley, rusted and overgrown with weeds. The crumbling track led them toward the cliff. Here the track rose along a ramp, leading toward the gateway.

From a distance, Berinor had underestimated the gateway's size. It loomed before him, so large a dragon could walk through it. Limestone columns framed the gateway, topped with an archway. The keystone was engraved into the shape of an animal, but Berinor could not identify the species; eras of wind and rain had smoothed its features. Tree roots crawled below the gates, and oaks rose like sentinels, nearly as tall as the archway, and Berinor imagined faces in their twisting trunks.

Two stone doors stood within the gateway, banded with elaborate ironwork. A heavy, circular shield hung in the center, securing the two doors like a brooch clasping a cloak. Faded runes were engraved into the circular disk, filled with flecks of silver.

Below the shield, seven gears were attached to the doorway. A different letter was engraved onto every gear's tooth. Currently, the teeth were not aligned, but it seemed possible to turn the gears so that the upper teeth could spell a word with seven letters.

"That shield," Berinor said. "It might be the doorknob."

"Careful, it might bite!" Lenora said.

Berinor had to shift into a dragon to reach the metal disk. He grabbed it with his claws, but it wouldn't budge. When he leaned against the stone doors, they remained shut. He might as well have leaned against the cliff.

Lenora shifted into a dragon too, absorbing her wheelchair into her dragon form. She placed her front feet against the doors and stared at the disk in the center.

"These runes." She blew hot air from her nostrils, clearing off grime and dust. "Let me see if I can read them."

Berinor coughed and blinked dust out of his eyes. Pain stabbed him, the same pain that had been haunting him relentlessly for days. Years ago, he might have found this a pleasant adventure—to go exploring the world with an intelligent companion, to solve riddles and seek buried treasures. But so much worry consumed him now—for his people, for Miya—that Berinor felt close to collapsing in despair.

Whenever hopelessness clutched him too tightly, he looked at Lenora—her kind eyes, her smile, her pure soul that shone through. And she soothed him. And he could take another step, another breath, and keep fighting.

Every moment, we're working to bring you home, Miya, Berinor thought. Fira will fix the mirror. I'll find this shard to defeat the titans. We will save Requiem. We will save you.

"I'm not sure …" Lenora squinted at the circular disk pinning the doors shut. "It's some form of ancient Dragontongue. I need my glasses, but if I shift back into human form, I'll be too short to see."

"I can read it," Berinor said. "I may not be a librarian, but I still know some ancient dialects. Long hours as a child with my tutors." He read the ancient letters, translating them into the modern tongue.

Here awaits the mine of tears

Here lies buried ancient blood

Here within stone pulses a heart of light

Here wept the shame of Requiem

Here cried a king's daughter

A dynasty remembers

A dynasty keeps its secrets

Speak her name

And enter her tomb

Berinor stopped speaking and stared, silent, and that pain returned.

"What does it mean?" Lenora frowned. "It's a riddle, obviously. Something to do with ancient lore. A buried daughter … maybe the Lady of the Mist? Or perhaps the Firefly Queen from Eladar's Fables? I—"

"Lenora," Berinor said softly. "Would you please walk back and wait for me? There by the maple tree."

She blinked, confusion suffusing her face, but nodded. Even in dragon form, her back legs didn't work. But Lenora had devised a method of walking using her wingtips as another pair of legs. She took a few steps back.

Berinor inhaled deeply. The pain stabbed between his ribs. How cruel that this tale—of all the hidden knowledge kings held!—should be his riddle. He lowered his head. He knew the answer. He knew of her. All kings of Requiem did.

And only kings did.

Berinor turned the seven gears, bringing the right letters into position, spelling her name.

Above the gears, the circular disk creaked and shed dust. The riddle engraved onto its surface glowed. When Berinor gave the disk a tug, it clanked and turned.

The doors creaked open a few inches, and cold air wafted from within.

Berinor scrambled the letters again and called Lenora back.

Still in dragon form, she limped toward him. Berinor gave the mine doors another shove, and they opened wider, exposing a tunnel.

Lenora turned to look at him. "What was it?" she said. "The riddle."

"A tale only kings and queens in Requiem are told. A sad tale we share only with our heirs, and only on our deathbeds. A tale we inherit with our crown. Don't think of it. What matters is that the door has opened. Let's explore the darkness within."

Lenora nodded, eyes soft. She shifted back into human form, and her wheelchair reappeared.

"The mine's tunnels will be too narrow for dragons. But hey, my wheelchair might just fit onto these tracks like a trolley!" She rolled into the shadows.

With a heavy heart, Berinor followed.

The rusty tracks stretched down a tunnel. The air was musty and cold, as if they had stepped from a land of summer into the heart of winter. The tunnel stretched forward a few feet, then plunged downward into shadows. A draft blew from the depths, moaning, a sound almost organic, like an animal or man in pain. A trolley stood on the tracks, covered in cobwebs and dust. An iron lantern dangled from a rod at its front. A wooden sign hung from a post, painted with a skull. A few actual skulls lay scattered along the tracks.

Lenora and Berinor looked at each other.

"Bit creepy," Lenora said.

"Not the place I'd choose for a vacation home," Berinor said. "But these days, a secret abandoned mine is safer than the outside world."

Lenora nodded. "Fair enough." She approached the tracks and winced. The metal rails were rusty and full of holes. "You know I was kidding about putting my wheelchair on those tracks, right?" She bit her lip. "That seems about as safe as rolling under a titan's foot."

Berinor approached the minecart and found that its lantern still contained oil. He spent a moment with his tinderbox, kindling the lantern. Orange firelight shone behind dusty glass panes. Berinor found a second lantern hanging on the wall, and he lit that one too and held it. There was just enough space to walk alongside the tracks, but not enough room for the wheelchair.

"I'll carry you," Berinor said.

"No." Lenora gazed down the tunnel. "You'll need both hands—one to hold your lantern, the other to draw your sword."

"Expecting trouble?" Berinor said.

"Always," said Lenora. "You can't carry me the whole way. And my arms will grow too tired piggybacking." She wheeled toward the trolley. "My wheelchair might just fit inside this trolley. Let's try."

She hopped out and sat on the ground. Berinor tried to fit her wheelchair into the minecart, but it was too big.

"How about you just wait for me here?" Berinor said.

"I told you!" said Lenora. "I'm not leaving you. We'll just leave my wheelchair."

With surprising agility, she climbed into the minecart. She wiggled around until she found a comfortable position.

"Perfect," she said. "A carriage fit for a queen. We should get one of these tracks installed back home!"

Berinor couldn't suppress a smile. "I'll walk behind you and hold the cart." He took Lenora's sword, which hung across the back of her wheelchair, and placed it into the minecart with her. "Just in case."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, who's expecting trouble now? You're not scared of nasty tunnel-dwelling goblins and ghouls, are you?"

"Spiders," Berinor replied. "Giant spiders is my fear. If you see any, slice them up for me."

She nodded and patted her sword. "Will do. So long as you tackle the giant mice. I'm not partial to mice. We get them in the library sometimes—little ones, that is."

"I like mice," Berinor said.

She shrugged. "Some people like spiders and snakes. People are crazy." She reached toward a lever on the trolley. "Now, let's see what this can . . . whoa!"

When she pulled the lever, rust scattered, and the cart began to roll forward, wheels screeching. Lenora shoved the lever forward again, and the cart halted, knocking her forward inside. She blinked and coughed.

"You all right?" Berinor said.

She nodded. "It's a bit abrupt. Jostled me. Faster than I was expecting. But I'll get the hang of it." She looked back at him. "Better hold the back of the cart just in case. Don't let me go too fast. My idea of a thrill is leaving the tea leaves in the mug."

"That, and exploring underwater cities," he reminded her.

"Oh, underwater exploration is far more soothing than this." She nudged the lever, and the minecart resumed rolling forward, more slowly this time. "Underground mines, full of giant spiders and massive mice—now that's a bit trickier." There was a slight tremble to her voice.

"I'm holding you," Berinor said. "Let's go find that Blood Shard."

With squeaks and clattering, the trolley rolled along the rails, and Berinor walked behind, holding his lamp with one hand, the trolley's rim with the other. The tunnel was level for a while, but soon it sloped downward, and the air grew even thicker and colder. With every spin of the wheels, the minecart creaked and moaned. The sounds echoed in the depths, as if a colony of demons lived below. The shadows danced across the rough walls and ceiling.

"This place could really use a good coat of paint," Lenora said. "Maybe a few chandeliers. Bookshelves would be nice." Her words were lighthearted, but her voice shook.

As they rolled forward, Berinor saw a skeleton along the tracks, still holding a pickaxe. A beetle emerged from the skull's eye socket, then scurried away. Lenora cringed.

"Well, at least it wasn't a spider or mouse," Berinor said.

The track wound, sloping deeper. It became difficult to breathe. The clattering trolley kept echoing through the mines, and Berinor could swear that some echoes sounded almost like voices, like cackles, that some of the dancing shadows were alive. He tried to ignore those fears. He had enough fears already.

The slope steepened. They must be far underground now, perhaps even deeper than the tunnels beneath Requiem. The trolley threatened to plunge down at top speed, and Berinor tightened his grip on the rusty rim. Several times, Lenora nudged the brakes to slow the trolley. Sparks rose from under the wheels.

They must have traveled for a mile, maybe more, when the tunnel opened into a cavern the size of a palace.

Lenora pushed the brakes all the way down. The trolley halted with a clatter and burst of sparks. The librarian gasped.

"Well, I'll be," she whispered.

Berinor nodded with a thin smile. "Lots of room for giant mice."

"Oh hush, or I'll throw a spider at you." She whistled softly. "Just look at it, Berinor. It's beautiful."

It was the first time, he noted, that Lenora had called him by his name. He nodded and looked with her.

The cavern loomed. Lumps of stone like gargoyles thrust out from the walls and ceiling, and moisture dripped to form rivulets below. Strands of silver and gold marbled the walls. Quartz crystals thrust out everywhere, glimmering in the lamplight, as large as men. The rails stretched across the chasm, coiling like a serpent, supported by rods that plunged down into the shadows. A massive carving stared from one wall, as large as a dragon, shaped as a bearded one-eyed man holding a pickaxe and a bucket of ore.

"That's Hothar." Lenora pointed at the carving. "An ancient god of mining."

Berinor stared at the tracks that spanned the chasm. The beams supporting them were no wider than his arm. Rust coated them. It was a long ride across.

"We'll fly across the cavern as dragons," Berinor said. "These tracks look unsteady."

Lenora nodded. "I think that's a good idea. You carry the trolley. I'll lead the way."

She grabbed the sides of the minecart, pulled herself upward, and squinted. She tightened her lips, tilted her head, then sighed.

"Damn it," Lenora said.

Berinor frowned and reached for his magic, trying to shift into a dragon. He could feel the magic there, deep inside him, but he couldn't grasp it. He felt like an insomniac, aware of his weariness but unable to grasp onto sleep. After a few more attempts, he gave up.

"At least we know the Blood Shard is close," he said. "Definitely canceling our magic."

Lenora grimaced. "All right. No choice then. We take the track. Hey, it's been standing here for thousands of years, right? That's a good sign. I think. I hope." She took a shuddering breath. "Let's just take it slowly."

She released the brakes, and the cart rolled onward. Berinor walked behind. Back in the tunnel, he had walked alongside the track on solid stone. Here in the pit he had only a narrow, iron walkway that ran alongside the tracks like a waterspout. Presumably, it had been built for a miner to walk alongside a trolley. The walkway was only a few inches wide, and it creaked with every step. Berinor winced as he walked, holding the side of Lenora's minecart. One time he looked down and instantly regretted it. Nothing but those narrow, rusty beams held the tracks up, and it was a long fall to the rocks below.

"I never knew a Vir Requis could be afraid of heights," Lenora said. "I feel queasy."

"You're in the cart, at least," Berinor said. "I have a full view of the drop. You just keep watching ahead for spiders, and—"

The walkway cracked.

Berinor's heart burst into a gallop.

His right foot touched nothing but air. A piece of the iron walkway plunged down into the darkness. Instinctively, he gripped the minecart more tightly, and it wobbled on the rails. Lenora yelped.

Berinor swung his leg over the gap and found a new foothold. The cart snapped back into place. For a long moment, he simply breathed, legs straddling the missing chunk of iron.

"No spiders yet," Lenora said.

He exhaled slowly. "Good. Wouldn't want any of those around. Sorry for rattling your cart. Almost overturned the damn thing. I gripped tighter by instinct."

"No problem. Grip tight anytime. I understand that if you were to plunge down to your death, you'd want me for company in the afterlife. I'm so charming, after all."

"If I plunge down to my death, you are to continue this quest without me." He took another breath, waiting for his heart to still. "You know that, don't you?"

"Not a chance." She shook her head wildly. "If you die here, I'm going to abandon Requiem, just fly to a nice little island in the Tiran Sea, retire, and spend the rest of my life carving faces into coconuts. So you better not fall. All right?"

"Well, only if you promise to make me a coconut doll once all this is over."

She nodded. "Two of them—one that looks like you, one like me. We'll call them Lenoranut and King Coconor. Now let's keep going."

He bridged the gap on the walkway, and they kept moving across the chasm. Berinor felt like a thief creeping along a waterspout on the tallest roof in the world. He imagined that Oryn would have felt right at home here. A few times, the walkway bent beneath his feet. He considered entering the cart with Lenora, but he didn't want to risk his extra weight upsetting it. The rails were so rusty the cart froze several times, and Berinor had to nudge it forward, shedding rust.

They were halfway across the chasm when he heard clattering below.

Berinor looked down and saw shadows stirring. White eyes blazed.

"Berinor, above us!" Lenora cried and pointed.

Berinor looked up and saw a figure scuttling along the ceiling, humanoid and pale, barely visible in the shadows. Voices cackled and chattered like insects. Berinor saw another creature race along the track ahead, moving underneath the rails, clinging on like a chameleon.

Berinor drew his sword. An instant later, Lenora—still sitting in the minecart—did the same.

With a shriek, the creature on the ceiling leaped down and landed on the tracks before them. The rails rattled. The trolley leaped into the air. Lenora cried out, and Berinor grabbed the trolley and pulled it back into place. The walkway creaked, and the creature scuttled closer, hissing, creaking, drooling. With a deafening shriek, it leaped toward them.

Berinor only had time to see blazing white eyes and fangs. He swung his blade, cutting pale flesh. The creature fell into the shadows.

"Another one!" Lenora pointed.

A pasty creature scuttled under the tracks, swung upward, and landed before them. Another one scrambled up a support beam, quick as a squirrel, and leaped toward the cart. Both creatures were vaguely humanoid but bloated and pale like waterlogged corpses. Sores broke their skin. Their feet were bare, the toes long and tipped with claws. The creatures were missing their hands. Instead, they wore rusty prosthetics: a shovel on the left hand, a pickaxe on the right.

One of those pickaxes thrust toward Berinor.

Wobbling on the walkway, Berinor swung his sword and parried. From inside her minecart, Lenora thrust her blade. It sparked against a creature's shovel.

They're miners, Berinor realized.

A pickaxe swung again. Berinor leaped back, and the pickaxe slammed into the minecart, nearly tipping it over. He grabbed it, pulled it back into place again. The miner ahead hissed. The creature had no lips, and sharp teeth sprouted from his rotting gums. His eyes blazed white, as large as fists, the pupils large enough to fit a finger through. The beast swung his second arm, and the prosthetic shovel slammed into Berinor's side.

He swayed, lost his balance, and fell.

"Berinor!" Lenora screamed.

He caught the walkway with one hand. His body dangled over the pit, and below he saw more miners scurrying and climbing the metal rods. A pickaxe swung from above, and Berinor—still hanging on with one hand—raised his blade. He parried with a clang.

He growled and pulled himself up, slamming his weight into the miner. The creature fell from the tracks, hit one of his climbing comrades, and both tumbled into the darkness. Lenora thrust her blade, knocking another miner off the rails.

But more of the creatures were racing up from below.

"What are they?" Lenora cried.

"Whatever they are, they're angry!" Berinor said. "Loosen the brakes! Go!"

She nodded and yanked the minecart's handle as far as it would go. The trolley raced forward along the tracks. Berinor could not run as fast; he leaped into the minecart with Lenora. He knelt, his knees pressing against her back. The cart clattered forward, raising fountains of sparks and rust.

More of the creatures raced across the mine. One leaped from the ceiling, pickaxe lashing. Berinor's blade sent it tumbling down. Another raced under the tracks like a reptile, then swung upward. The creature howled, fangs bared. The cart slammed into the miner, sending him careening into the darkness. The cart rattled madly and Lenora screamed.

They raced across the chasm. A tunnel gaped open in the far wall, leading deeper into the mine. They were only seconds away.

A miner dived from the ceiling and landed on the tracks before them. His pickaxe hand swung down, cracking a rail. The creature looked directly at Berinor and grinned.

The minecart's wheel hit the crack in the rail.

The miner leaped away, cackling.

The cart flew into the air. Berinor and Lenora screamed.

The minecart slammed back onto the tracks with a shower of rust. The lever came free in Lenora's hand. The cart tilted madly to one side, and Berinor stared down into the pit, saw hundreds of the creatures waiting there, jaws open, ready to feed.

He leaned hard to the other side. With a crack and squeal, the cart slammed back down onto the tracks, scraping and showering rust. Berinor jostled the cart, snapping the wheels back into place.

He exhaled in relief, looked up, and saw the tunnel just ahead. Several miners clung to the wall around it. As the cart raced into the tunnel, leaving the chasm behind, the creatures leaped down.

Three landed in the cart. One's head slammed against the tunnel entrance, coming clean off. The decapitated corpse fell onto the tracks. Another miner clung to the front of the minecart. A third landed on Lenora and clawed her. The librarian shouted and clubbed the creature with her sword's crossguard. Berinor thrust his sword, hitting the miner's shoulder. Black blood spurted. The cart raced on through the darkness.

"At least they're not spiders!" Lenora cried.

"I want spiders now!" Berinor shouted back, ducked, and dodged a blow from a pickaxe. "Spiders would be much better!"

Lenora managed to swing her sword, even in the confines of the minecart, cutting a miner. She cried out as a shovel—one of the prosthetic hands—hit her.

The cart raced out of the tunnel and into a second great pit.

Molten rock gurgled below, filling the hall with heat and red light. Here too the tracks raced across the emptiness, but these ones hung from chains. No miners filled this hall, perhaps fearing the lava, but two still clung to the cart.

A pickaxe hit Berinor's arm, denting his armor. He grabbed the pickaxe, yanked madly, and tried to rip off the prosthetic. But it seemed to be bolted into the creature's bone. The miner hissed, leaned forward, and bit Berinor's shoulder. The sharp teeth pierced his pauldron.

Berinor bellowed, grabbed the creature, and hurled it with all his might. The miner tumbled through the pit, then splashed into the lava below.

Only one miner now remained, clinging to the front of the minecart. It placed a foot on the rim, trying to climb in. Lenora raised her sword.

"Lenora!" Berinor shouted. "A turn ahead! Slow down!"

"I can't!" she cried. The broken lever lay at her feet.

"Hold on!"

The last miner leaped toward Berinor.

The cart hit the turn and swerved madly.

They tilted over the edge, two wheels in the air.

Lenora screamed.

The cart tilted farther, about to fall into the lava.

Berinor grabbed the sickly miner by the prosthetic shovel. He swung the creature in the opposite direction.

The miner's weight pulled them back onto the tracks. They slammed down with screeching, showering sparks. They raced onward. They made the turn.

With a shaky breath, Berinor released the miner—the poor bugger was still dangling off the cart—letting him fall to the inferno below.

The cart left the lava chamber, racing into another tunnel. The tracks were steeper now. They charged downward, plunging into the depths.

Berinor allowed himself only a few short breaths of relief. He hadn't thought it possible—but they were gaining speed. The walls rushed at their sides. The lantern at the front of the cart tore free, shattered, and scattered fire across the tracks. They raced through the flames. Berinor's lantern had fallen into the cart during the battle. It lay overturned, guttering, barely any fire inside. Darkness loomed.

"Lenora, stick the lever back in!" he said.

"I don't think that's how it works!" she said.

"Try it. Jam the brakes!"

She nodded. He could barely see her in the flickering light. The tunnel suddenly curved, and the minecart tilted again. They scraped against a wall, ripping off chunks of stone. The cart's side tore open. Past the turn, they slammed back onto the tracks. Lenora grabbed the broken lever and shoved it back in.

Sparks flew across Berinor. The rails screamed. Bits of metal and rust flew.

But the cart began to slow.

It slowed further.

Soon they were clunking down in the darkness, slowing, slowing, until the tracks leveled off, and they rolled forward at a leisurely pace.

For a few moments, Berinor just allowed himself to breathe.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked Lenora.

She nodded. "You?"

He nodded. Aside from a shovel to the head and teeth to his shoulder, that was. They hurt, but he would have to endure for now. Once all this was over, he would become a dragon again, heal faster than a human could. Until then, he would carry on.

They kept rolling deep underground. Thankfully, no more miners appeared. Berinor heard nothing aside from the clattering wheels.

"So what were those things?" Lenora shivered. "Were they human?"

"I don't know," Berinor said. "They were obviously miners. They had strapped shovels and pickaxes to their limbs. But no, not fully human. They're adapted to life in the darkness. Large eyes. Feet with long, clawed toes to grip and climb."

Lenora gulped. "What if … what if the original miners were sealed here thousands of years ago, unable to open the door and leave? What if these are their descendants?" She lowered her head. "I pity them. I was once like them."

"You are nothing like them," Berinor said.

Tears shone behind the lenses of her glasses. "I was. I was sealed in the library underground—by my own fear, if not stone doors. I could have become as they are, a creature of shadows." She looked ahead. "Let's find this animating stone. I want to leave this place."

They rolled on, delving deeper as the last oil in their lantern burned away, and the light faded to blackness.

ORYN

Miya smiled.

Her fingers brushed his, and she laughed, the sunlight filling her hair.

They worked together by the sea, building the tower, and Oryn was happy—happier than he'd ever been. With sweat, callused fingers, weariness that went down to the bone, he was happy. He was with her.

In the evening, they walked along the beach, just the two of them, and the waves danced with beads of moonlight. He caressed her golden hair, and she kissed him—her lips soft, her body warm against his.

"I love you, Miya," he said, and she held him close.

"I love you," she whispered, and she fell, and she screamed.

The serpent rose from the sand, a snapping worm, a lamprey, teeth, venom—wrapping around her. Rising with her.

"Miya!" Oryn shouted, flying in pursuit, but she was chained to a boulder, screaming, vultures with human hands grabbing her, leeches sucking her, and she cried his name. She needed him. He kept flying, unable to reach her, and he was floating on the sea, floating on waves, trapped on a raft in a darkness that never ended, and—

"Oryn!" Miya said. "Oryn. Oryn."

He blinked. He was back in his den in Altus Mare, a place of glittering jewels, endless wine, endless women. But they were all Miya. They were all Miya in silks, exposed flesh, smoking hintan, covered in leeches.

"Oryn!" A serpent—the one that had captured her—slapped him. "Oryn, wake up."

He opened his eyes, blinking. The dark sky spread around him, and the black sea rolled below. Stars shone and the moon hung above. He was lying on Fira's back. He was in human form while she flew as a dragon, the wind rippling her wings.

"Oryn!" the red dragon said again. Her tail curled up like a scorpion's stinger and slapped him. "It's your shift."

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The dreams faded. Yes. He was still here, riding Fira over the sea. They had been flying over the water for two days now, no land in sight.

"All right, all right!" He shoved her tail away. "Give a man a moment. And your tail stinks."

"You're smelling your own backside," Fira said.

"My backside, I shall have you know, was renowned by the ladies of Altus Mare."

Fira scoffed. "For what, getting kicked around by the city guards?"

Oryn groaned. "You're lucky I'm too thirsty to think of a clever retort."

He reached for his canteen and shook out the last drops. That left only a few drops in Fira's canteen. After that, no more water. Aside from the blasted sea that spread below. That damn sea that had been spreading below for days now.

Oryn shoved a quick meal into his mouth—a few dry crackers and cheese, taken all the way from Draco Murus, and some berries found near the coast. Still chewing, he leaped off Fira's back.

For a moment, he just let himself fall—a strange sensation in the darkness. A few feet over the water, he shifted into a dragon and beat his wings, raising waves below. He blasted a pillar of fire, just for the fun of it, and the flames reflected on the black sea. He rose higher, found an air current, spread out his wings, and glided.

"All right, onto my back you go, cavewoman," he said. He took the bronze mirror from her. He held the broken artifact in his claws.

Fira flew directly above him, lowered herself onto his back, and for an instant the weight of a full, red, grumpy dragon pressed down onto Oryn. He dipped in the sky. Then Fira shifted into a woman, and the weight lightened. She wrapped a rope around her waist, fastening herself to a dorsal spike. Once she was secured, she curled up on his back, yawned, and closed her eyes.

I hope you have better dreams than I've been having, Oryn thought, looking over his shoulder at her. Then he looked back forward, staring across the darkness, seeking land.

He thought back to his dream. Walking with Miya on the beach, kissing her, laughing with her. Losing her. Would he ever see Miya again? And if he did, would she be broken, unable to ever smile again? He didn't know. But one thing Oryn knew: He would not rest until he fixed the Mirror of Many Worlds, flew to Icelos, and burned Nemoria's kingdom to the ground.

"I think about you every day, Miya," he whispered. "Every hour. Every breath. Hang on, little one. I'm coming for you." He dropped his voice to a mere flutter of breath. "I love you. Always."

As he flew through the darkness, guilt twitched inside him. Yes, he felt these feelings toward Miya. And yet, during his underwater quest with Lenora, he had felt similar feelings for the librarian. He had even kissed Lenora on the beach.

By longing for Miya, was he betraying Lenora? How much of his love for Miya was real, and how much was pity? He had never confessed his love to Miya, had never kissed her. He had kissed Lenora. And he cared for the librarian—truly, deeply, and he missed her too.

Mostly, Oryn was confused.

He sighed.

He'd sort out his love life later. Right now just two missions mattered—save Miya and save Requiem. Love could wait.

He kept flying. In the darkness, the fear found so much room to grow, and visions of the dead in Altus Mare, the battle with the valkyries, and Miya in captivity filled him. When the terror felt unbearable, Oryn focused on the small weight on his back, the warmth he felt there. Fira.

The woman was intolerable, of course, always snickering and rolling her eyes at him, and she almost never cracked a smile. But Oryn, the orphan who grew up on the streets, knew something about pain, knew something about wearing armor, even when no iron covered you. He knew that somewhere beneath that armor, Fira—the real Fira—was warmth and kindness, a softness hiding under fear and pain and ghosts. And Oryn knew that he had to save Fira too, had to heal her as well as Miya.

And maybe myself.

He flew until dawn. The light spilled across endless sea. Fira rose on his back, stretched, and leaped off. She flew beside him, yawning, smoke puffing out from her maw.

"Oryn, darling, care to prepare us a breakfast of boiled eggs, fried sausages, and freshly squeezed apple juice?"

Oryn nodded. "But of course, my darling. Right after you brew the tea and butter the biscuits."

She looked down at the sea. "Keep a look out for nice, juicy salmon."

"No point," Oryn said. "Salmon live in rivers. You might find some minnows though."

"I'm hungry enough to eat a whale." Fira licked her lips. "Oryn, what food do you miss most? I miss turkey. A giant roast turkey on a bed of mushrooms and carrots, stuffed with pine nuts and celery and wild rice, steaming, the skin all crunchy and the meat soft, with gravy poured all over it. And strong red wine from Lynport to wash it down."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You had roast turkey in your cave?"

She snorted fire at him. "I didn't only live in a cave." She sighed. "The palace had some benefits to it."

Oryn thought for a moment. "Bread, cheese, and a pickle," he said.

Fira couldn't help but laugh. "Of all the foods in the world, that's what you miss? Bread, cheese, and a pickle?"

He nodded and spoke softly. "When I was just a boy, before I was a thief, I would sweep the boardwalk for a few copper coins. I still stole here and there, but I wasn't very good at it, and picking pockets mostly just earned me a clobbering. Sweeping the boardwalk was how I spent one summer. I'd watch the rich folk walk by, wearing fine silks and cottons, their children plump and spoiled, and I'd be there in a ragged tunic, sweeping around their feet. I used to dream of being like those kids."

"Fat?" Fira said. "Or spoiled?"

"Both," Oryn said. "When you're poor and skinny, fat and spoiled is enviable. At the end of each day, my master paid me a few copper coins. It wasn't enough to buy much—just enough for a loaf of bread, a bit of cheese, and a pickle. With my work done, I'd sit on the sand, watching the waves, eating, dreaming of the man I would become. And you know what, Fira? I was probably happier there, eating that simple fare, than I ever was as a thief of the Crimson Steel Guild, even dining on oysters and truffles and drinking the finest wine."

"I can see how wealth and feasts would be intolerable," Fira said.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, shush. You know what I mean. It's why you escaped to that cave. Because … there's comfort in solitude. In simplicity. In dreaming of better days. There's peace."

Fira sighed. "No. There isn't. Not for me, at least. I found no comfort in my long exile."

He flew a little closer to her. "So what comforts you?"

Her voice was hoarse. "My sisters. My family. I miss them."

Sisters, she had said. Plural. Miya … and Lintari.

Oryn shuddered. He didn't want to even think about that venomous snake—unless it was about burning her to a crisp. Perhaps Fira wanted to redeem that monster, but Oryn vowed: If I see Lintari again, I'll tie her into a knot.

On the third day since leaving Requiem's coast, they finally saw land ahead.

Oryn had never seen anything more beautiful.

"Tiranor," he breathed. "Finally, the legendary land of Tiranor—a land of endless gold, ivory, and diamonds."

Flying beside him, Fira smiled thinly. "Do you know anything about Tiranor, Oryn?"

He nodded. "Sure I do! Every thief in Altus Mare dreamed of Tiranor. Sometimes in the taverns we'd have Tiran-themed nights. The dancers would dress as Lyana, the beautiful Red Queen of Requiem who served in Tiranor as a spy, dancing for Tiran soldiers to learn about their plans to invade Requiem. We'd drink spiced wine, eat figs and dates from distant lands, and mostly we'd dream. Dream of the treasures of the desert—gold that covered temples and obelisks, chests of jewels in desert caves, and golden coins so plentiful the Tiran women wore them on strings around their hips."

Fira nodded. "Oh, yes, certainly that's what Tiranor is like. That is, if you lived here thousands of years ago." She slapped him with her tail. "Oryn, the seraphim destroyed the world centuries ago—Tiranor too. We'll only find ruins here."

He shrugged, scales clinking. "Maybe. Maybe not. Requiem was destroyed by the seraphim too, and it isn't just ruins. Well …" He cringed. "It is now, but that's thanks to our dear old friend Nemoria." He gazed at the distant strip of land. "We'll find jewels here. And coins. And dancing women in silk with gems in their navels. And maybe even a few pickles."

"The first thing we need to find is fresh water," Fira said. "And a good, solid meal would help. We're flying toward the city of Irys. We'll replenish our supplies there, then ask around about the Temple of Dust."

For all his talk of jewels and silks, Oryn hated the thought of lingering in a city—even one of desert wonders. Not while Miya needed him. But unfortunately, Lenora had failed to pinpoint the location of the Temple of Dust, aside from proclaiming it in Tiranor. Somewhere in Tiranor. And Tiranor was quite a large kingdom. Perhaps in the city, along with water and food, they would find information.

Hang in there, Miya, Oryn thought. Just a little longer.

The land grew closer ahead. Oryn saw a golden beach, a few scattered palm trees, rocky hills, and beyond them a rolling desert. They landed on the shore—two weary, panting dragons. Oryn released his magic, fell onto the sand, and spent a moment just lying there, breathing.

"Solid land," he whispered. "Finally, solid land." He sat up, blinked, and looked around. "Hey, cavewoman, where are the oases of water? Where's the spiced wine and dancers with gemstones in their navels? Where are the pickles?"

Fira shifted back into a human. She stood above him, wearing armor and a dusty cloak. Her brown hair was caked with salt and sweat, and her face was gaunt, her eyes ravaged by weariness and worry.

"Half a league west from here," she said. "You'll find your pickles in the city of Irys, ancient capital of Tiranor. Get up. Let's walk."

"Walk?" Oryn groaned. "You do know we can fly."

Fira nodded. "We walk. The Tirans aren't particularly fond of dragons. Makes sense, considering the wars our nations fought in the olden days. Besides, what if Nemoria has spies here? Flying into the city would announce our presence. We walk in as humans."

Oryn's lips were cracked, his tongue parched, his bones weary. He wanted to shift right now, fly the last league, crash into the city's tavern, and drink every last cask of ale. But Fira gave him a stern look, and Oryn sighed and rose to his feet.

"Fine! But there better be a goddamn pickle tree in that city."

They walked along the beach, two weary souls, coated in sand and sweat, carrying their meager supplies in leather packs. Fira wore dented armor. Meanwhile, Oryn carried the bronze mirror strapped across his back like a tortoise shell.

He was ready to drink seawater and eat sand by the time they saw their first sign of civilization. A line of columns rose from the shallow water, their capitals worn down to shapeless lumps. Farther along, a craggy aqueduct ran from the distant hills into the sea. Oryn and Fira walked under one of the aqueduct's arches, where they found scattered bricks on the sand, shattered urns, and a fallen statue coated with moss and crabs.

"Nemoria was already here," Oryn said. "She completely trashed the place."

Fira frowned at him. "Are you completely insane? These ruins are ancient. Look at that tower rising from the water. A city once rose here. Thousands of years ago. The sea has swallowed half of it, and the sand is working on the rest."

Oryn nodded. Of course. Of course these ruins were ancient. He wasn't thinking straight, and the world spun around him. He coughed and nearly tripped over a mossy stone. It looked like the fallen keystone of a lost archway.

As they walked onward, what Oryn had mistaken for a stony hill revealed itself to be a massive head. At first, he thought it the head of a titan, fossilized like the one in Requiem. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a statue, carved from limestone, feminine, smoothed by eras of sandy wind. Nearby, a giant stone hand rose from the shallow water. Pieces of the same colossal statue. Only three fingers remained, coated with barnacles and algae.

"It was a statue of Queen Solina," Fira said. "Ancient queen of Tiranor. Thousands of years ago, she—"

"She lived in Requiem," Oryn said. "A war orphan. Our king killed her parents but spared her life and raised her in Nova Vita. When Solina grew up, she returned to Tiranor, raised an army of phoenixes, and nearly killed every last Vir Requis. It was King Elethor Aeternum, once Solina's lover, who finally stopped her. It was the war Queen Lyana fought in, smiting the evil nephilim, the children of demons and mortal women. The city Lynport is named after her." Oryn smiled wryly at Fira's wide eyes. "Don't look so shocked. I might just be an illiterate thief, but I know something of Requiem's history too." He looked at the giant stone head which lay half-buried in the sand. "She was a pretty woman. I can see why Elethor loved her. She was completely insane, of course. But easy on the eyes."

They walked around the statue, and they saw it.

They paused on the sand, staring.

"Irys," Fira said. "Ancient capital of Tiranor. So much for a city of splendor and endless gold, huh?"

"I don't care," Oryn said. "Water. They have fresh water."

He began to run. The mirror jangled on its straps, nearly falling off his back.

A delta flowed ahead, spreading like a hand with many fingers toward the sea. Ruins lay among the rivulets—the shells of buildings, fallen columns and obelisks, and a handful of statues. Among them rose a new city, humbler than the ancient glory that had once shone here. The knowledge of the ancients was lost to time. No grand towers or palaces rose here anymore, only simple stone dwellings, their roofs domed. A few buildings were two or three stories tall, but most were simpler homes, large enough for single families. Palm trees, fig trees, and pines grew among the buildings, and cranes and ibises filled the air.

When Oryn reached the nearest rivulet, he shoved his way between a few drinking camels. They huffed and spat, but Oryn ignored them. He dunked his head underwater and gulped sweet, sweet water.

Finally he raised his head for air, shuddered in delight, and looked beside him at a confused camel.

"Pardon me," Oryn said, covering a burp.

Fira walked up beside him. "You have camel hair in your mouth."

Oryn spat, expelling chunks of fur. When he looked back at the water, he realized it was murky and full of camel hair. He shrugged, dunked his head back in, and drank again. It was still heavenly.

"Come on." Fira pulled him to his feet. "We're going to find something proper to drink and eat, and directions to the Temple of Dust too. I know just the place."

Oryn spat out more fur and wrapped his cloak tighter around him. "Cavewoman, darling, you might want to bury your armor in the sand. The whole idea of walking here was to avoid extra attention, and you look like you just stepped off a battlefield. Not to mention this is clearly highborn armor. That's costly steel, that is. And aren't Tirans known for their platinum hair and sapphire eyes? We might want to hide our beautiful dusky eyes and lovely dark hair under hoods."

"Again, you're thinking about the golden age of Tiranor." Fira gave him a rare, crooked smile. "Trust me, Oryn. We'll blend in."

They found a stone bridge and crossed a rivulet, entering the delta city.

It was actually two cities. One was a vast, wondrous metropolis—or had been long ago. It now lay in ruins, most of it buried. Only the capitals of columns, the tops of ancient domes, and the heads of colossal statues rose from the ground. Some ruins peeked from shallow water. Over the millennia, the sea and delta had claimed them. The second Irys was newer, smaller, and humbler.

It reminded Oryn of the ruins of Draco Murus, the new and old mingling. He wondered whether someday, maybe a thousand years from now, a new settlement would spring over the ruins of Altus Mare, his hometown. He wondered if anyone would remember him.

At first, Oryn tugged his hood low. Even so, he felt exposed here. He had always been a creature of shadows, and there were barely any shadows in this land of searing sunlight. But soon he realized Fira was correct. In this southern city, nobody spared them a second glance.

Some of the people here were ethnic Tirans. Oryn had seen them before in Altus Mare. Their merchants visited every spring, bringing gifts of the desert into Requiem's port: dried figs and dates, bottles of myrrh, figurines carved from olivewood, and silks and jewels worth Requiem gold. They were a tall people—even the women stood six feet tall—beautiful and noble, with bronze skin, long hair like molten platinum, and glimmering blue eyes.

But most people in Irys were foreigners. Burly men trundled through the city, their beards thick and brown—likely natives of Osanna across the sea. Some people were slender, their skin olive-toned, their eyes green and their hair black. These were natives of distant Terra, the eastern land Oryn's father had come from.

Other people here were even more exotic. Three towering humanoids walked by, their shoulders taller than Oryn's head, their skin shimmering blue and their eyes golden. At a riverside pier, a minotaur—an actual minotaur like in the stories, bull's head and all—was arguing with a group of tattooed pygmies. A barbarian woman sported wild red hair, a necklace of claws, and tiger pelts. She cracked a whip, riding a griffin down a boulevard. Several dour men with long, feathered wings stepped out of the way, hissing and baring fangs.

"Fira." Oryn rolled his eyes. "We could have flown in as dragons. Dragons painted with rainbow colors. Wearing feathered caps. And blowing trumpets. Nobody here would have even batted an eye. Not in this loony bin."

Fira smiled thinly. "Dragons are a bit much. They'll tolerate pretty much anyone but dragons here in Tiranor. Even so long after the war, they remember. Come on, we're almost there. I know a place."

"You've been here before?" Oryn asked.

She nodded. "Many years ago. Before my mother died. I visited here with her. I don't remember much, but I remember enough."

A boardwalk stretched along the delta. They walked over the cobblestones. The air smelled of salt, fish, and thousands of spices. Ships of every kind filled the water, from towering carracks with three masts and many sails to fishermen's dinghies. Gulls circled above, cawed, and dived to grab crumbs from the piers. A peg-legged fisherman was struggling to untangle a net filled with crabs. Dockworkers in loincloths carried cages off a cargo barge. Inside were leopards, monkeys, parrots, and some animals Oryn didn't recognize. Three women leaned against a wall, breasts bare, silver jewelry shining against their indigo skin. They smiled at Oryn, winked, and beckoned him. He could feel Fira glaring at him, and he quickly looked away.

They left the piers and walked through a long, narrow bazaar that spanned a cobbled boulevard. A woman with wrinkled brown skin sold a hundred different spices from a hundred tin dishes. A man with a bristling brown mustache shouted at passersby, peddling religious artifacts, everything from wooden figurines of gods to vials of holy water.

Another man sat on a tasseled cushion upon a dais. The poor soul was hideously deformed, his hands swollen to the size of melons. His face sprouted bloated tumors that dangled down to his navel, forming something akin to a trunk. A dwarf stood by the deformed man's side, holding out a plate and crying, "Copper coin for a blessing! Let the elephant god bless you for a copper!"

Fira approached and gave the deformed man several coins, accepted his mumbled blessing, and rejoined Oryn.

They kept walking, passing by a stall selling fabrics, a shop full of antlers, and finally—Oryn cringed to see it—a roadside slave market. An obese man stood there, clad in saffron robes, selling chained slaves. Shoppers surrounded the stage, crying out their bids. Oryn made brief eye contact with the current slave being auctioned—a young woman with red hair and a bruised lip—before Fira dragged him onward.

"We should do something," Oryn said.

"I'd buy their freedom," Fira said. "But we don't have enough coins."

He glared at her. "Then we burn down the whole place. They're selling slaves, Fira."

"And Miya is a slave," she spat back. "And all the people of Requiem are refugees. And south of here, in the deep desert, tribes battle each other, slaughtering thousands, and in the eastern lands of Terra, warlords raid villages and burn down farms. All the world is full of inequity. We can't save everyone." Her voice softened. "I'm sorry, Oryn. I wish I could help them. I wish I could help everyone in this horrible, blood-soaked world. But we can't."

As they walked by, Oryn looked back toward the slave market. The red-haired slave was looking at him. Her eyes were pleading. A bearded man stepped onto the stage, having won the auction, and grabbed the girl. Then Fira pulled Oryn around a corner, and the slaves vanished from view.

A statue rose among palm trees ahead, as large as a house and half-buried in sand. The statue seemed to depict a sphinx, but its paws were underground. The limestone head emerged from the earth, chin still buried. Doors were set into the statue's mouth, and chimneys rose along its back, pumping out smoke. Laundry hung from the sphinx's chipped tail. The original limestone was ancient and crumbling, but the chimneys, the doorway, and several round windows seemed to be newer additions.

"This is the place," Fira said. "We'll find our answers here."

"What's inside?" Oryn asked.

"A tavern," said Fira. "And two wise women who own it. All the secrets of the desert are known here. The Crab Sisters know. They'll tell us where to find the Temple of Dust." She approached the sphinx's mouth, then paused and looked back at Oryn. "Just … don't stare at them, all right?"

"Me, stare at women?" Oryn bristled. "I have more self-control than that."

"I saw how you were looking at those blue-skinned ladies at the docks," Fira said. "Just behave in here, all right? No staring. No stealing. No jokes. In fact, don't do anything at all. Just let me handle things."

"I'll be busy eating." Oryn's nostrils flared. "I smell food, cavewoman! Real food, not just old crackers and raw fish." He smacked his lips. "You deal with the Crab Sisters, I deal with stuffing my face."

"Good." Fira nodded. "Come on."

She pushed the doors open, and they entered the sphinx.

Oryn's eyes widened.

Fira had told him not to stare. He wouldn't even know where to focus. His eyes nearly fell from their sockets. Here was the most wonderful place he had ever seen, putting to shame even his old thieving dens back in Altus Mare.

Glass lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting glittering, spinning lights. A hundred divans, mattresses, and pillows filled the hall, and upon them lounged the strangest crowd Oryn had ever seen.

An enormous slug of a man reclined on one divan, prodigiously obese, his bald head all but melting into his body. He wore green silk strewn with silver, and he smoked from a hookah full of bubbling purple liquid. At his side lounged three beautiful women, their skin deep purple, their eyes golden and feline, their fingertips clawed. Tails flicked behind them. All three purred at Oryn as he walked by, then lazily licked their paws. Beyond them, Oryn passed by a man with no arms or legs, propped onto a pillow. He was rolling a cigar, using nothing but his lips, as a crowd of sailors applauded. At a nearby table, people cheered, watching an arm wrestling match between a minotaur and a burly man with lobster claws for hands.

"Excuse me!" rumbled a deep voice.

Oryn stepped aside to allow a towering man to lumber by. He must have been a dozen feet tall, walking stooped over, knuckles dragging. The giant sat before a stage, bones creaking, to watch a troupe of dancers with the heads of jackals, owls, and ibises. Oryn had to step aside again, this time making room for a buxom serving girl—and buxom she was, flaunting no fewer than four breasts. The wench flashed him a bright smile, then carried her tray of ales toward gaunt, gray men with furrowed skin and insect eyes. Farther along, several women hung upside down from the rafters. Horns grew from their heads, and leathern wings wrapped around their bodies like cloaks. Their eyes all followed Oryn, and they smiled hungrily, revealing fangs.

"Hello, sweet lover," said one of the women.

Another one of the bat-like creatures licked her fangs. "I'd love to taste you, gorgeous."

A third bat whistled at Fira. "I'll take that one. I bet she tastes like mulled wine."

Fira ignored the bats and walked onward as they hooted and catcalled. Oryn followed, cheeks flushed—and it took a lot to make him blush.

"What the hell kind of tavern is this?" he whispered, moving closer to Fira and clutching her hand. "I feel like I stepped into a dream."

"A place of rejects," Fira said softly. "A place for all those with no other place in the world. Sort of like Requiem in its early days, when we shapeshifters were hunted across the world." She thought for a moment. "Sort of how Requiem is now too, I suppose. Now go get your pickles. I'll speak to the twins."

After seeing the wonders here so far, Oryn wasn't going to miss the Crab Sisters. Not even for pickles. He fully expected them to be marvelous. As he walked through the sphinx, he flagged down a serving girl, handed her a fistful of coins, and bought a turkey leg the size of his head. He chomped on the meal as he followed Fira.

Near the back of the hall, strings of beads curtained a chamber. A guard stood here, blocking the curtain, bare chested and easily seven feet tall. His mouth was wide and toothy, his nose bulbous, and he had only one eye in the center of his forehead. With a hand like a roast ham, he held a spear.

"We've come to see the sisters," said Fira. "We seek their wisdom."

The cyclops grunted. "No. Sisters no more help no one. Go."

Fira refused to back away. "They helped me once, when I was a little girl. I will speak to them again."

The brute stood his ground. "You no pass. You go."

Oryn swallowed the bite of turkey he was chewing. "Do you have any pickles?" he asked the giant.

Fira gave him a glare that could have wilted a tree. She turned back toward the cyclops. She was a tall woman, but she didn't even reach the guard's shoulders.

"The twins are dear old friends," she said softly. She glanced around, then lowered her voice. "I am Fira Aeternum, daughter of Queen Tilania. The Crab Sisters saved my mother's life. Now my sister needs their wisdom."

The guard grunted and took a step closer to Fira, forcing her to take a step back.

"Go!" he rumbled. "Go and—"

"Argos!" rose a grainy voice from behind the curtains. "Let them in. Let me see them."

The cyclops grumbled, clearly displeased with the order. But he bowed his head and stepped aside.

Fira glanced at Oryn. He placed down his turkey leg on a table, his hunger gone. They stepped through the curtains and into the shadows.

FIRA

The curtain of beads clinked. Fira entered the shadowy chamber, and the thief followed.

The room was small and humble. One could almost call it a burrow. A candle burned in an alcove, and a bowl of oatmeal stood on a wooden table. A tasseled pillow and blanket lay on the floor. A few embers glowed in a fireplace.

Before that fireplace, poking at the embers, stood the sisters.

At least, Fira thought of them as standing. In truth, they had no legs. The conjoined twins were attached below the ribs, forming a single, elongated body. They "stood" on their four hands, their shared belly facing upward, their single long spine facing the floor. From each end grew a head, forced to permanently gaze upward. One of their four hands rose, leaving them to balance on three hands, and rustled the embers with a poker.

"Cold in here," said one of the heads. "I always feel so cold in my old age, even here in the south."

"Not me," said the other head. "I'm always sweltering thanks to you."

The sister closer to the fireplace placed down her poker. The sisters walked across the room on their four hands, moving like a crab, their conjoined torso facing the ceiling. They reached the tasseled pillow, settled down, and finally looked at Oryn and Fira.

"Fira Aeternum," said the left head, smiling.

"And with her—Oryn of Altus Mare, Prince of Shadows," said the right head.

The thief gasped. "Wait a moment. How do you know my name?" He squinted and pointed at the Crab Sisters. "Are you sorcesess? I mean—sorcerecesses—I mean, witches?"

The left head sighed. "So this is the fabled thief who terrorized Altus Mare?"

The right head nodded. "He's shorter than in the tales."

If Oryn noticed their dismissive tone, he showed no sign of it. His eyes lit up, and his chest swelled. "See, Fira? I told you. I'm famous around the world! Even here they've heard of me." He frowned and pointed at the sisters again. "But don't think I forgot about the witches part."

Fira glared at him, her eyes shooting daggers. "I told you to be silent." She shook her head sadly, then knelt before the sisters. Suddenly she found tears in her eyes, found all the anger, the harshness, the coldness melting away, and her voice shook. "Sisters … you helped my mother once. Now I need your help."

For a long time, Fira spoke.

She spoke of Queen Tilania, her beloved mother, dying in the library. She spoke of long years of exile, seeking a home with the cambions, fleeing their whips, living for years in a cave. She spoke of the hydras destroying her city, of the valkyries slaughtering her people, and finally of Lintari capturing Miya. All these past years of trauma, the pain she hid beneath her armor—it all spilled out now. And Fira felt like a little girl again. Missing her mother's embrace. Wanting to feel safe instead of strong.

"I'm scared," Fira finally said. "We need to fix the mirror, but we don't know where the Temple of Dust is. We don't know if the dustmen are real or just a legend. I've come for your wisdom. Will you help us find the temple?"

One twin patted Fira's knee. "Your mother loved you dearly, child."

Fira nodded, tears in her eyes. "I know," she whispered.

"She came to us for aid many years ago," said the sisters, shaking their heads sadly. They spoke each sentence in turn. "Such a tragedy. She had taken a life. A life that had frightened the villagers, a life confused, destructive. Yet innocent."

Fira narrowed her eyes. "My mother never took an innocent's life."

The sisters stroked Fira's cheek. "Sweetest child. It's a shame that forever haunted her. The farmers in Requiem had feared him. A strange, quivering child the size of a man. A child of night, a beast who invaded their farms, who slaughtered their animals. Your mother led dragons to slay him. But only after his death, she realized that the monster was a child. The child of a goddess. Nemoria's child."

Fira gasped. She rose to her feet and took a step back.

"No. My mother would never kill a child!" She clenched her fists, trembling. "Nemoria murdered my mother! She ate her! To steal her magic! And to hurt us all. For no other reason!"

Yet even as she trembled, Fira thought back to that night of darkness. She remembered Mother speaking to Nemoria as if the two had met before. She couldn't stop shaking.

Nemoria attacked us for vengeance. She broke our family because we broke hers.

The twins looked at Fira with sadness in their eyes. "Your mother came to us, child, and she asked us to adopt you. To raise you here in the sphinx. She feared that Nemoria would hunt you across Requiem, and she knew that we could keep you safe, keep you hidden."

Fira fell to her knees. She was weeping now. "I remember coming here as a child. Miya hadn't even been born yet. I remember my mother crying. I remember you whispering to her. But I don't remember that."

The sisters' eyes were damp. "We agreed. We told Queen Tilania that we would raise you as a daughter. Your mother turned to leave, and you called to her. Mother! Mother! You reached out to her, and Queen Tilania could not do it. Could not leave you. She took you back into her arms, and you both wept. She vowed to keep you safe herself, to always fight for you, even at the cost of her life. She flew back to Requiem with you that same day."

"And she gave her life for me," Fira whispered. "Not long after."

"And now Nemoria has completed her vengeance," said the sisters. "For she has taken a child from Queen Tilania. A different child."

"Can you help me?" Fira said.

The sisters were silent for a long time. Sadness filled their eyes.

"Fira," one sister finally said, "we built this place, this hideaway in the sphinx, to be a home for misfits, for oddities, for all those who could not find a place in this world."

"We built this to be a place of peace, of safety," said the other head. "We care for the lives of all beings."

"Never have we supported violence and war," said the first head. "Yet if you open a portal to Nemoria's realm … we see battle. We see bloodshed. Either you or she will die that day. How can we support death?"

"To save life," Fira said. "To save Miya. To save Lintari. To save hundreds of thousands of lives in Requiem. Morality is not so simple. Morality is not always a choice between right and wrong, life and death, war and peace. Sometimes morality is about choosing one death over another, one tragedy over another, one soul's blood for another's life. That is the reality all leaders face, the devastating burden of war."

The sisters lowered their heads, silent for a long moment, and Fira thought she saw a tear wet their pillow. Finally they crab-walked toward the wall and reached into a shadowy alcove. They returned to Fira with two items: a scroll and a silver dagger.

"This scroll will show you the way to the Temple of Dust," said the sisters, "where you will find the ancient dustmen, the makers of the Mirror of Many Worlds."

Fira accepted the scroll, unrolled it, and saw a map leading to the eastern desert. She placed it into her pack.

The sisters handed her the silver dagger. "This silver dagger once claimed the lives of twelve children, sacrificed to a cruel god."

Fira winced and pulled her hand back. "Then I don't want it."

"Few wish to wield such a weapon," said the sisters. "But this blade is stained with the blood of innocents. Only innocence can harm Nemoria. Drive this blade into her heart … and that heart will not pump again."

Fira took the dagger. She drew it from its silver scabbard and scraped the blade against the tip of her fingernail. It was sharp as a razor. She hung it from her belt. With a deep breath, she raised her chin.

"Thank you, wise ones," she said. "I will find the mirror. I will open a portal to her realm." She gripped the dagger's hilt. "And I will plunge this blade into her heart."

The sisters gazed at her, sadness in their eyes. "Do not let rage fill your heart. Do not let the quest for vengeance overpower your quest to save life. If you let that monster inside you, it will forever claim you, and you will be as Nemoria is. Taking a life is the greatest sin. Our hands are stained too."

"My hands were stained long ago," Fira said, eyes stinging. "My heart is already hard." She bowed her head. "Thank you, sisters. Thank you."

Oryn placed a hand on her shoulder, and suddenly Fira was glad for his presence. She looked at his earnest, stubbly face, his green eyes, his flop of wild hair, and some of her fear faded. The thief annoyed her to no end, but she remembered his courage, remembered him saving many lives—her own included—in the long wars of Requiem.

She slung her arm around his waist and leaned against him. They exited the sphinx, reemerging into the delta city.

The sun was setting, casting golden beads on the delta's waters. A warm breeze ruffled the palm and fig trees. Rich smells filled the air: ripe fruit, the fishermen's catches, and cooking spices that wafted from the domed houses. A few ibises still flew above, silhouetted against the sunset, and dived down to find shelter for the coming night.

"Let's start flying," Fira said, unrolling her map. "Tonight."

They walked through the city. Glass lanterns hung from poles, illuminating cobbled streets. Fira and Oryn entered a shadowy alleyway. An ancient wall rose to their left—a remnant of the original city. To their right rose smithies, tanneries, and other workshops of New Irys. Stone archways rose above, connecting the old and new cities like giant stitches, forming narrow bridges where doves cooed. Cats hissed in the shadows, and a beggar raised his eyes, then curled up and slept in the shadows.

Oryn nodded. "As much as I'd love to stay overnight in a sphinx full of freaks, I agree. We'll walk out of the city, then fly in the dark. How far is the Dusty Temple?"

"The Temple of Dust. Not far." Fira showed him the map. "We can be there in two—"

"You're not going anywhere, love," hissed a voice above. "You're staying right here."

Fira drew her sword. Oryn drew two daggers, one in each hand.

A shadow stirred. And then Fira saw it. A figure was hanging upside down from an archway, nearly invisible. It dropped from the archway, flipped over, and landed on its feet. When the figure stepped toward them, it revealed itself to be a woman, her skin gray, her eyes white. Leathern wings grew from her back, and claws extended from her fingers and toes. She licked long fangs.

Fira recognized her: the creature that had leered at her in the sphinx.

"Step aside," Fira said. "If you're hungry and have come to rob me, I'll toss you a coin. But if you attack me, you will die."

Thuds sounded behind her, and Fira spun to see three more of the bat-like women landing in the alleyway. They too had hung from the archways, hiding in shadows. When Fira whipped back forward, she saw three more leap down, blocking her passage. More bats crouched on the rooftops like gargoyles, ready to pounce.

Fira and Oryn stood back to back, blades raised, trapped.

"Rob you?" said the first woman. She laughed, revealing her fangs. Her face was barely human—the nose grossly upturned, the nostrils flaring, the eyebrows arched and tufted, the ears long and ridged. A bat face. "No, we don't want to rob you, beautiful."

Another she-bat stepped closer, drawing a curved blade shaped like a claw. "Our mistress doesn't care for your money, only your screams."

One of the creatures leaped off a roof, landed at a crouch, and hissed. "And how you will scream, precious loves. We will make you scream."

"Who is your mistress?" Fira demanded, holding her sword before her.

"You know her," said one, reaching toward Fira.

Fira swung Arinor, driving the claws back. "Stay away!"

"You took her arm!" said one of the creatures. She bent her own arm backward to mimic a stump, gave a cry of mock anguish, then laughed. "Perhaps we'll take both your arms before we bring you to her."

"Soon you'll scream with your little sister," said another. "And oh, how delightfully Miya screams!"

The sun dipped lower and touched the horizon, flaring with its last beams. For the first time, Fira saw the tattoos on the women's arms. Dragons with three heads.

Oryn saw them too. The thief flipped his daggers in his hands, catching the blades between his fingers.

"Let's see who rules the shadows," he said and tossed his daggers.

Two of the women swung their curved blades. They parried the daggers, casting them down to the cobblestones. With shrieks and glinting fangs, they pounced.

Fira swung her blade. A she-bat lunged toward her, wings spread wide, saber glinting. The two blades clanged.

Another creature leaped from above. Fira raised her sword, cutting the twisted woman's leg. The beast fell, laughing, and lunged again. Claws caught Fira's cheek, ripping the skin. She screamed and thrust Arinor, but her enemy parried with ease.

"There are too many!" Oryn said behind her, battling several of the creatures. "Time for fire."

Fira swung her blade in mad arcs. A saber made its way through her defenses and nicked her side. Damn it. She had not wanted to become a dragon here, but their cover was already blown.

Fira nodded. "We burn them. Now!"

She leaped into the air and shifted, growing into a red dragon. Her sides slammed against the alley walls, cracking bricks. She grabbed a stone archway, pushed down with her tail, and climbed out from the alley. Her wings spread above the rooftop. Oryn rose at her side. Both lowered their snouts, gathering flame, prepared to torch the alley.

From the alleyway, fast as arrows, soared the women on their bat wings.

Dragonfire roared, washing across the alley's cobblestones. The creatures dodged the flames. They soared higher, shards of black in the night, laughing, spinning around the dragons.

"Hurt them, sisters!" cried one, circling above. "Rip off their limbs but keep them alive!"

In the darkness, the creatures grew larger. Fur bristled across them. Their ears extended, their wings lengthened. Soon they were the size of dragons—huge demonic bats, no more humanity to them, their faces hideously deformed, all wrinkles and quivering nostrils and crooked fangs. With shrieks, they attacked.

So much for discretion, Fira thought and blew fire.

The jet of flame slammed into one bat, knocking it back. The creature shrieked and fell onto a rooftop, burning.

The bats surrounded Fira. One flew toward her, opened its mouth wide, and spewed out a white, dripping mess. The vomit hit Fira, searing hot, clinging to her, wrapping around her wing. She cried out, tried to flap that wing, could not. Another bat swooped, spraying more of the white goo. The strands wrapped around Fira's other wing and tightened, forming a sticky net.

She plunged like a rock, slammed into a dome, and cracked it. She slid down and hit an archway that spanned the alleyway.

She glimpsed Oryn fighting above, but he quickly vanished into the shadows. Fira couldn't fly; the sticky nets still bound her wings. Bats swooped toward her, fangs ready to tear her apart.

Fira released her magic.

Her wings vanished, and the gooey nets fell to the alleyway. Fira leaped off the archway, shifted into a dragon again, and soared with roaring dragonfire.

She torched another bat. It burst into flames, careened, and drove down toward a marketplace. Stalls and awnings ignited.

Oryn emerged from a cloud of smoke, flamed another bat, and flew closer to Fira.

"Nice little place of safety, this!" he said.

Fira groaned. "Burn them now, mock me later." She spurted more fire.

"Oh, I intend to!" He spun around, whipped his tail, and hit another bat. The creature rolled through the sky, then sprung back toward Oryn and bit. The black dragon bellowed and clawed.

Across the city, people emerged from their homes, stared up at the battle, and raced to extinguish fires. Fira wanted to help. But several giant bats flew toward her. More of the sticky nets flew her way. She torched one net, soared and avoided another, but a third net wrapped around her jaws, sealing them shut. She moaned, a muffled sound, unable to blow fire. The bats cackled and charged toward her. Claws ripped across Fira's side. Fangs tore into her wings.

Moaning, Fira swung her tail in a circle, knocking bats aside. Her claws tore out one's neck. She tried to rise higher, but a net grabbed her left wing. She dipped in the sky. Flying with one wing, she careened downward, skimming the city rooftops. She plowed through a minaret, shattering it. A bat slammed into her, and they tumbled and crashed into an obelisk.

The sandstone pillar cracked, titled, and came falling down. Fira pushed her tail against the ground, banked hard, and the falling pillar grazed her shoulder, cracking scales. She rose higher, and the pillar slammed onto a bat, then onto a rooftop, shattering the building. Dust billowed. Fira whipped around and blasted more dragonfire, torching another attacking bat.

In the distance, she saw three bats spew their nets onto Oryn. The white strands wrapped around him, and the black dragon fell from the sky, crashed through awnings, and vanished into the city market.

Fira flew, two bats in pursuit. A third creature rose from below, and she clawed it open, charged across the sky, and dived into the marketplace. She plunged through awnings, landed on cobblestones, and shook the fabric off her. The market was closed for the night. The stalls and carts had overturned during the battle, and their lids had cracked. Wares rolled across the ground, everything from fruit to wooden figurines.

Oryn ran in human form, pulling off sticky strands. The thief kicked off a wall, lunged toward the opposite building, bounced off that wall too, then leaped skyward and soared again. Two bats flew toward him. Fira torched one, and Oryn clawed the other.

Only one bat remained alive. It hovered in the sky, hissing, bleeding from a deep gash. The creature shifted back into her humanoid form. The fanged woman beat her wings, staring at the two dragons.

"Your quest is hopeless," the creature hissed. "Your sister will scream forever in the hall of my mistress. And soon you will join her, Fira and Oryn."

The two dragons blasted their dragonfire.

The twin jets slammed into the woman. The leathern wings blazed, and a corpse fell onto a roof, burned down to the bones.

Fira and Oryn flew toward a building, landed on its sandstone dome, and looked around. They had done some serious damage. Several buildings had collapsed, scattered fires still blazed, and people cried out in pain. Fira wondered how many innocents had been injured, even killed.

"You all right, thief?" Fira asked.

Oryn looked at bite marks along his flank and winced. "No. You?"

"No," Fira said. And it wasn't just because her wounds ached.

Nemoria knew they were here.

Oryn seemed to have reached the same conclusion. "Let's get out of here, cavewoman. Now."

She looked down at the marketplace—in particular, the largest building there, its dome dwarfing the smaller shops beside it.

"Not yet," she said. "Come with me, Oryn. We've got one last errand here."

She glided over the marketplace and landed before the large building. Oryn landed at her side. The stage they had passed earlier was empty now. A grand archway led indoors. Upon the pediment were engraved letters in the Tiran tongue: SLAVE MARKET.

With a swipe of her tail, Fira shattered the doors. She shifted into a human, drew her sword, and entered a vestibule. Oryn followed, daggers drawn.

A guard rose from a chair and drew his sword. Fira tilted her head, pulled back her cloak to reveal her fine armor, and gave him a crooked smile. The guard gulped, dropped his blade, and leaped out the window. She heard him running down the alleyway.

"Much like your suitors back in Nova Vita, right, cavewoman?" Oryn said.

She rolled her eyes, then crossed the vestibule. She kicked another door open and entered a large, shadowy hall. A score of slaves sat here, chained to the walls, naked and haggard.

A slaver stood here, a heavyset man in leather armor, a whip hanging at his side. He held his sword before him.

"You goddamn monsters." The slaver spat and advanced toward Fira and Oryn. "I know what you are. Weredragons. I'm going to sell you at the market tomorrow and—"

Oryn's dagger flew and sank into the man's thigh. The brute yowled and fell to his knees.

Fira stepped closer. With a swing of her sword, she severed one of the man's fingers. He screamed. His sword clattered across the floor.

Fira kicked the slaver onto his back. He lay, no longer resisting, begging for his life. Fira ripped the keys off his belt and looked at Oryn.

"Keep him lying down," she said. "If he rises, kill him."

"I'd like to kill him now," Oryn said.

"Enough have died," Fira said. "Let him live. He's only a lowly slaver in this operation. His master will punish him more severely than we can."

She moved among the slaves, unlocking their manacles. Many were in poor shape—malnourished, their backs whipped, their eyes sunken. Fira emptied her purse, handing each freed slave a few coins.

"These will buy you passage downriver," Fira said. "And leave enough to start a new life far from here. The coins are real gold. Seek another city. This place is no longer safe for you. Find new lives."

Oryn looked around him, eyes pained. "The slave with the red hair. The one we saw when first walking through the market. She's not here."

One of the freed slaves, a tall man with a red beard, lifted the slaver's fallen sword. He looked at Oryn, eyes aflame. "It was Beras, son of Balar, who bought her. A petty lord who lives by the sea. She's my sister. I will visit Beras tonight."

And I fly to free my sister, Fira thought. How I wish Miya were here at the delta, so close! My journey will be longer, still full of danger and darkness.

Oryn seemed to sense her distress. He slipped his hand into hers and smiled at her—a sad, knowing smile.

They flew through the night, leaving the city, heading toward ancient myths and dreams of dust.

SIRANA

They stormed across the sky, thousands of dragons, and always the titans followed.

The beasts lumbered forth day and night, never tiring. They tore chunks off mountains to devour. They crushed forests and hills. Whenever the dragons slowed, the titans charged with a burst of speed, reaching out to grab the slowest flyers. Even flying high above did not help, for the whip could reach into the sky, plucking down the loftiest dragons.

Sirana led them on. Sometimes she returned to human form, and she napped on a dragon's back. But she never slept for long. Almost always, she flew at the vanguard. Staring ahead. Seeking safety.

Every part of her ached. Weariness filled her bones. She did not know if they would ever reach their destination. Often, flying over sprawling forests or under fields of stars, she wondered if she was flying the wrong way, if she had doomed her people to death in the wilderness.

Another dawn rose, and Sirana gave the signal, raising a pillar of dragonfire. The dragons changed shifts. Those who had ridden through the night as humans, resting on the backs of dragons, shifted into dragons themselves. Those dragons who had flown all night landed on their backs, returned to human form, and slept.

"You should sleep too, Lady Sirana," said Pherion, the gruff copper general. "You've been flying all night."

She looked at him with weary eyes. In his human form, he was a wiry man with a gray mustache and dark eyes, a veteran of many battles. In his dragon form, he was lean, his scales dulled and chipped, his claws sharp. For thirty years, he had served in the Royal Army, had now become a commander in the united Starlit Army of Requiem.

You think I'm weak, Sirana thought. You want me to be weak. You think Berinor should have named you commander of this force. You want to overthrow me.

She looked away, shaking her head. She was so weary she was becoming paranoid. Pherion was a loyal soldier. Perhaps she doubted herself more than anyone in her army did.

"Soon," Sirana said. "I want to fly a little longer. We're almost there, Lord Pherion." She nodded. "We must be close by now."

The old soldier seemed doubtful. She saw that. For days now, he had been insisting that they were flying too far north, that they would miss the mountain range of Salvandos, would reach the sea instead.

And every day, they were hungrier, wearier.

In the dawn's light, the hunters dived toward the forests and rivers—hundreds of dragons trained to capture wild game and fish, to bring back whatever food they could. Sometimes, on lucky days, the dragons spotted a herd of deer, and they ate well. On other days, they hungered, picking at the last of their dwindling supplies. Often Sirana wondered whether hunger and thirst would slay them before the titans could.

"Sirana," said Pherion, voice softer now. "Are you sure we shouldn't send scouts south, that—"

"I am sure!" she snapped. "I know my way, Pherion. Do not doubt me. Watch your tongue around me, and—" She bit down on her own tongue, realizing that the dragons around them were watching. She forced a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I need to … I need to fly higher. I need to scout the land."

Her eyes stinging, Sirana soared higher. As she left the other dragons below, her tears flowed. She rose so high the air thinned and she could barely breathe, and her chest shook.

"I can't do this," she whispered. "I can't lead them. I can't lead an army, a nation. I need you, Berinor. I need you, Durian. I need you, Father. I miss you, Miya. I'm so alone. I'm so scared."

She looked down at them—thousands of Vir Requis, the last of their nation, refugees fleeing a ravaged land. And in the east, Nemoria still lived, still sent enemies after them. Sirana looked over her shoulder, and she saw them on the horizon.

The titans kept charging, shaking the earth. They stared at her from across the distance, and they let out roars that tore the sky.

These beasts will devour us all, Sirana thought.

She looked back west, chest trembling.

Please, stars of Requiem. Show us hope.

The forests rolled on, endless, fading into haze. No sign of the mountains.

And . . .

Wait.

Hope leaped in Sirana.

Three crests rose ahead! Three mountains!

"Mountains!" she cried, still flying high above the others. "The mountains of Salvandos!"

She trembled with relief. She could find shelter there. She could find Har Zahav. She couldn't see the fabled Golden Mountain yet, just regular mountains. But regular mountains meant they were near Salvandos! The legendary realm of the west!

In the legends, Har Zahav was the largest mountain in Salvandos, covered in gold. Magic had raised the mountain. Magic protected it. Inside had lived the salvanae—true dragons with no human form. The salvanae were gone from the world now, mere figures of myth. But Requiem could find shelter in their ancient homestead. Har Zahav had shone since the dawn of time, a beacon for dragons. Even the titans could not break it.

I was right, Sirana thought. I can do this. I can find shelter for my people. I—

Her breath died.

She stared into the distance and her heart seemed to shatter.

"No," she whispered. "Please, stars, no."

Those were not three mountaintops on the horizon.

They were three massive heads. They rose from the west, racing toward the dragons.

Three more titans.

These ones looked different, their skin gray rather than white, their eyes black pits. They held enormous morning stars. The handles were the size of towers. Chains hung from them, each link large enough for a dragon to fly through, ending with spiked balls the size of palaces. The titans charged toward the dragons, swinging the gargantuan flails.

From behind in the east, the original three titans roared a greeting.

Between them, the Vir Requis were trapped.

Sirana could not speak, could not breathe, could barely flap her wings.

Below her, the other dragons saw the enemies, and they cried out in fear. The warriors raced to the front of the camp, leaving the rear undefended. The titans' footsteps shook the earth. Cracks spider-webbed the landscape.

We will die here. I failed, Berinor.

Sirana looked toward the west, toward these new terrors, and—

Just a glint on the horizon, soon gone.

Sirana inhaled with a gasp.

She flew higher, closer.

It glinted again. A speck, that was all. A hint of gold in the sunlight behind the gray titans.

"The golden mountain," she whispered. She took a deep breath and cried down to the others. "Fly onward, Requiem! We're almost there! Fly past them!"

Most dragons could not fly this high, Sirana knew. With their sturdy frames and heavy bones, dragons were built for low altitude, and they struggled in high, thin air. The stronger warriors like her, their lungs powerful—yes. But most dragons would struggle up here.

And many Vir Requis—the old, the young, the injured—could not become dragons at all, had to ride as humans. High altitudes, with the air so cold and thin, would kill them.

We can't fly over these titans, Sirana knew. We have to fly around them.

Sirana flew lower, rejoining the other Vir Requis.

"Fly, Requiem!" she cried. "Fly straight ahead! We're almost there! Warriors—to me! To the vanguard! We'll fly between them!"

Hundreds of armored dragons rallied around her. Breastplates covered their underbellies, and blades thrust out from their helmets. Behind them flew the nation of Requiem, the weak riding the strong.

The gray titans stormed forward, howling, swinging their morning stars. Their stench wafted on the wind, assailing the dragons. Behind the dragons, the three pale titans were charging, finally sensing victory after a long hunt.

"Fly above their heads if you can!" Sirana cried. "Otherwise fly between them! Blow your fire! Charge onward!"

The dragons flew west toward the racing, howling, drooling titans.

The beasts swung their morning stars.

The massive chains, and the iron balls at their ends, swung toward the dragons.

"Fly!" Sirana shouted.

The metal balls plunged down from the sky like falling moons, plowing through dragons. Their spikes were dragon-sized. Vir Requis fell, torn apart.

"Scatter!" Sirana cried. "Fly above and around them!"

She raced toward the titans, gathering fire in her gullet. Another flail arched through the sky, churning clouds. Its spiked ball crashed through the hosts, shattering dragons. The chain tore more dragons from the sky, slicing the camp in half.

Sirana unleashed a stream of dragonfire, scorching a titan's hand. The beast yowled.

"Keep going, dragons!" Sirana cried. "No fear! Forward! Burn them!"

More flails swung. The spiked balls tore through the camp, scattering hundreds of corpses. The chains sliced through them, each link an iron terror, large enough to pulverize the mightiest dragon. Many dragons tried to fly higher, to clear the titans' heads, only for the flails to knock them from the sky.

Sirana flew, banked, and dodged a swinging iron ball. She dived lower, then swerved and soared high, dodging another. She flew onward. A chain swung her way. She had no time to bank. She winced, straightened her body as flat as she could, and pulled her wings close to her sides. She shot through one of the chain's links. The iron shattered her dorsal spikes, and she howled, but she made it through. She charged forth and blasted flame.

Her fire slammed into a titan's arm, leaving a tiny mark, like a single spark singeing a blacksmith. She might as well have thumbed her nose at him. She beat her wings, charging toward the creature's head. The titan's hand swung toward her, a fortress of flesh. She blew fire toward the palm, rose higher, and darted between the fingers.

She charged forth, roared, and blasted more dragonfire. She tried to hit an eye, but the damn thing looked away. Her fire merely singed the titan's cheek.

More dragons joined her, adding their flames, hitting the titan. The beast roared, a sound so loud dragons tumbled in the air. The titan grabbed several dragons, pulled them into his mouth, and chewed. More dragons flew above, and the titan swung his flail, knocking them down. The massive feet stomped on corpses, driving them into the ground.

Sirana flew onward, and she was through. She had flown by.

Other dragons joined her. They had survived the gauntlet.

Far ahead, she saw the golden mountain.

Safety.

Screams rose behind her. She looked back. Thousands of dragons still hadn't passed the gray titans. Farther back, the three pale titans—those who had been pursuing her from the southern coast—had reached the camp. They joined the assault, trapping the dragons.

Sirana roared and charged back to battle.

"Warriors of Requiem, with me! Burn them! Cut them! Help everyone through!"

She flew at a titan, breathed fire, and lashed her tail at the back of its neck. The spikes on her tail couldn't even pierce the skin, but they annoyed the beast. The titan spun toward her, and she dived, dodging its meaty hand. She blew more fire.

Her fellow warriors flew with her, swarming like enraged wasps, blowing fire, lashing tails, swiping claws. They weren't doing much damage. But they could distract the giants, annoy them enough to let the other dragons escape.

And around the titans, they flew—the elders, mothers, youngsters, heading toward the safety of the golden mountain.

By the time the eastern titans met their western brethren, the last dragons had flown by.

Sirana and her warriors rose high, dodging blows from the morning stars and whip. They flew after their people, guarding the rear.

The flails lashed. An iron ball swung near Sirana, shattering several dragons. A titan's whip cracked overhead, slaying several more. The survivors flew onward.

Her scales broken, her spikes shattered, Sirana flew onward. She was no longer leading her people but flying behind them, finally proud, finally feeling some hope.

The mountain range rose ahead across the land. The tallest peak was golden and shimmering.

Sirana had heard of this mountain in the ancient tales. The heroes Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei had found aid here from the salvanae—coiling serpents of the air, limbless, true dragons with no human form. They said that the salvanae had left the world long ago, rising to a realm of clouds, but that the mountain was still hollow. A mountain where the Vir Requis could hide, where they could wait for Berinor and Lenora to return with a champion.

They flew closer, circled the golden mountain, and saw a cave. An opening to the hollow realm inside!

Sirana dived closer. But she hesitated for a moment, not entering.

What if it's just a regular cave? she thought. What if the legends were wrong?

She looked around her at her people. Thousands of dragons flew here, waiting for her. Sirana nodded, dived down, and flew into the cave.

She half expected to slam into a stone wall. Instead, after flying down a short tunnel, she found a massive hall.

Tears sprang into her eyes.

The mountain was hollow. The mountain was safe.

The others joined her, flying into the mountain, dragon after dragon—hundreds, soon thousands, filling Har Zahav.

The mountain shook and dust rained as the titans pounded it. But Har Zahav was tall and mighty, blessed with ancient spells. The mountainsides did not shatter.

"We're safe here!" dragons cried. "We found safety!"

Yet as Sirana flew through the mountain, more doubt, more fear suddenly filled her. The walls kept shaking as the titans pounded at them.

Sooner or later, they will break in, spells or no spells, she thought. Or we will starve. She looked at the beam of sunlight streaming through the cave. Hurry, Berinor. Hurry and bring us a stone giant.

LINTARI

She tossed and turned in her bed, the visions filling her.

She slithered through a maze of roses, a serpent dripping venom, seeking her prey.

She saw them in the mirror, a young girl carrying a baby, fleeing a goddess through darkness.

We are sisters, the princess whispered, blue eyes damp. Sisters. Sisters.

In the mirror—Mother attacking, slaying the queen, stealing Father's seed, fleeing, fleeing …

We are sisters.

Lintari clenched her fists, rolling in bed.

Sisters, Miya said, reaching out to her. It's true. Please.

"I saw him," Lintari whispered to her pillow. "I saw Father. I saw him. I saw him. They killed Ramiel. They killed the one before him. They killed my brothers."

She gasped, struggling to rise from slumber. She was too hot under her blankets. She couldn't breathe, her lips were cracked, and pinpricks ran across her skin like a thousand insects. She pawed at them madly, trying to rip them off, to stop their biting. She kicked off her blankets and lay for long moments, taking deep breaths. Her sweat dampened the mattress, and it was a while before she could rise from bed.

She walked through her chamber. Her childhood bedroom. A place of so many terrible memories. Her toys filled the chamber: hundreds of blades of every kind, skulls of many creatures, desiccated corpses of children in wooden coffins, and books of arcane symbols and spells of power. Girls in Requiem, her mother had told her, played with dolls and ribbons, but she, Lintari, had been raised stronger, fiercer. Raised to kill. To hate. To seek vengeance. In this room, her blood had washed the floor so many times.

She stared out her bedroom window. She beheld the realm of the gods. The dark mountain slopes of Icelos spread toward the sea of clouds. There, on the shore, rose the boulder. There still hung Miya.

We are sisters. We are sisters …

"Can't sleep, sweet daughter?"

The voice rose from behind her. Lintari spun around to face the back of her chamber. In the corner, shadows coalesced, and a form materialized out of darkness. It swayed forward, solidifying, becoming a woman with gray skin, long black hair, and lavender eyes. Her one arm was missing, replaced with a metal prosthetic tipped with steel claws.

"Knock on the door, Mother," Lintari said.

Nemoria stepped closer. She caressed Lintari's cheek, the veins on her hand like purple worms. "I heard you shouting in your sleep. I worried. Shouting about . . . sisters." Nemoria narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. "Were you having a nightmare about sisters, sweet child?"

Lintari thought back to her dream. A dream of meeting Fira and Miya in the maze of roses, of healing Fira, of seeing the girls in the mirror.

Sisters.

They loved me, Lintari thought. They wanted to welcome me back to their family. Even though I hurt them so much.

"I dreamed that they hurt me," Lintari lied.

"You are strong, Lintari," Mother said, stroking her hair. "You are my daughter. You hurt others. Nobody can hurt you."

"But you've hurt me, Mother," Lintari whispered, gazing into her mother's eyes.

So many times in her childhood, Mother had punished her—snapping her bones, severing her limbs, ripping out her ribs and organs, tearing off her face. She could always heal within moments. But the scars remained inside Lintari. Every night, nightmares of those punishments haunted her, and she woke up every hour, drenched in cold sweat.

Nemoria embraced her. "Only to strengthen you, my daughter. Berinor never hurt his own daughters. Berinor did nothing but pamper Miya. Now she's weak. Now she screams at only the slightest touch of a blade. But we will strengthen her, Lintari." Nemoria gazed out the window at the distant boulder. "Ramiel was taken from us. Miya will replace him. We will turn her into a killer. Perhaps someday, it will be Miya who slays Berinor. But first, Lintari … first you must break her."

"She's broken already," Lintari whispered, remembering the leeches she had placed on her sister, the horrible screams.

"Oh, sweet child, still you are innocent. Miya's pain is only beginning. As is yours."

With a lash of her claws, Nemoria tore out Lintari's throat.

Lintari coughed out blood, gurgled, fell to the floor. She convulsed, and stars floated before her eyes. But the wound closed. She healed. Only innocence could permanently damage a dark goddess, and Nemoria was the farthest thing from innocent.

Lintari knelt for a moment, struggling to breathe, and she wanted to scream too. She wanted to hurt her mother. She wanted to be pampered. Loved. Protected. She wanted to be soft like Miya. Not this. No more of this.

She rose to her feet, prepared to shout, to confront her mother, but Nemoria was gone.

Lintari inhaled sharply. She gripped one of her weapons—a nasty, curved blade lined with hooks. Leaving the Hall of Shadows, she walked down the rocky slopes. She moved between the sniveling, slithering creatures that forever infested the stones—Mother's failed attempts to create life, precursors to the hydras. The pale, clammy creatures reached out to her with webbed hands, their toothless gums raw and bleeding, their eyes dangling from the sockets.

"Peeese …" they whispered. "Peeese mistess … kill uss … kill usss …"

Lintari wrinkled her face in disgust. Most of these creatures were made from chunks of Nemoria's own flesh. Some were made from Lintari's flesh, collected during her punishments. Nemoria had spent centuries perfecting her art, finally creating the hydras. She had kept her earlier experiments alive—perhaps as a reminder of her fallibility, perhaps simply because the wretches entertained her. Lintari failed to see their worth. They disgusted her.

"Move!" She kicked them aside and walked down the mountain.

She approached the boulder, and she faced the woman chained to it.

Miya raised her head, blinking feebly. Her eyes were sunken. Her skin was scabby, pecked by the strange vultures of this place. The chains had dug into her ankles and wrists.

"Don't …" Miya whispered. "Don't hurt me again. Kill me. Please just kill me."

Lintari placed her hands on Miya's body, sending healing energy into her. Miya's wounds vanished, her skin cleared, and the weariness and hunger left her eyes. Once more, she was healthy, strong, and ready for more pain. A blank canvas for the torturer's art.

The voices echoed.

The visions lingered.

Lintari stared into her sister's eyes.

"Tell me everything," Lintari said.

"I already told you," Miya whispered, head lowered, voice shaky. Her body was healed, but not her soul. "I told you how many dragons are in Requiem's armies. I told you the names of our commanders. I told you everything." She shuddered. "I betrayed my home. I have nothing left to reveal. Nothing left to live for. Kill me. Please."

"Tell me about our father," Lintari said.

"I told you!" Miya said. "I don't know where he was heading. I don't—"

"Tell me what kind of father he was," Lintari said. "Tell me if he read you bedtime stories."

Miya raised her head, brow furrowed. "What—"

"Tell me how often he hugged you," Lintari said, and her voice softened. "How often he told you that he loves you. Tell me what games he played with you, what toys he bought you. Tell me … Tell me what kind of father he was."

Miya blinked, confused, but then her eyes softened. And she spoke. For a long time, she spoke of growing up without a mother, of Berinor rocking her to bed at night, sitting at her bedside when she was afraid, reading her stories and doing all the voices, exploring the woods with her and teaching her the names of trees and animals. Of loving her—always loving her, keeping her safe, warm.

They made the princess soft! Lintari could hear her mother's voice in her mind. They pampered her, ruined her, turned her into a weakling!

"Tell me more," Lintari said.

She listened silently, trying to imagine it—having those memories inside you, memories of love, of walks in the forest, of hours playing, laughing. Lintari was strong; all her memories were of pain, of rage. But right now, she felt broken. She felt empty. She felt envy.

"Will you hurt me now?" Miya whispered.

Lintari looked behind her. The Hall of Shadows rose there, a dark fortress upon the mountaintop. From its roof rose a three-headed dragon, wings black, covering the sky. Nemoria glided into the darkness to hunt, to gaze upon her realm. She flew like this most nights, often gone for many hours.

Lintari grabbed the manacles that bound Miya to the boulder. With her godlike strength, she tore them free.

Miya fell into her arms.

At once, the girl began trembling, wobbling, grimacing as blood flowed back through her limbs. Lintari grabbed her wrist with a grip as powerful as the manacles.

"Come with me."

They walked up the mountainside. Miya limped, her legs stiff. Lintari kept her grip tight, her fingers like iron, preventing the girl from shifting into a dragon. Across the mountainside, the slithering pale creatures hissed and begged, but they parted before Lintari, leaving trails of slime.

They approached the Hall of Shadows. They walked between black columns, entering a glittering hall full of braziers. Three thrones rose on black marble tiles, monstrous things shaped as oozing, twisting creatures with misshapen teeth. A throne for Nemoria, glittering with rubies. A throne for Lintari, shining with jade and onyx. A golden throne for Ramiel, forever empty.

Here is the home where I trained with swords, Lintari thought. Where I screamed as blades tore into me. Where I nursed hatred from my mother's breast.

A lump filled her throat. She stepped into a corridor, taking Miya with her, and climbed a coiling staircase through mist. She entered her bedchamber.

Between the skulls, blades, and instruments of torture stood Lintari's bed. The bed where she had wept so many times, huddling under her blanket, the nightmares like demons around her. Where she had called for her mother's aid, only for Nemoria to beat her, to scorn her weakness.

Lintari lay down and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She still held Miya's wrist. Her sister stood at the bedside, looking around in fear at the blades, pinchers, hooks, and racks.

"Tell me a story," Lintari said.

Miya looked at her in confusion. "A story?"

"Tell me a story, sister." Lintari was shivering under the blanket, but she refused to cry, refused to reveal the fear. "Tell me a bedtime story, like Father would tell you. Tell me one of those stories. A story about animals and sunshine, not one of blood. A story of love, not hatred. Tell me a bedtime story." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and finally she could not stop a tear from falling. "Please, sister. I'm afraid."

Miya narrowed her eyes as if seeking conceit … but then those eyes softened. She sat on the bedside, hesitated, then stroked Lintari's hair.

"Of course, little sister," Miya said. "I'll tell you a bedtime story."

Miya spoke, telling a tale of adventure and magical forests and talking animals. Lintari's eyes closed, and she listened to her older sister's soothing voice until sleep found her.

BERINOR

The trolley rolled along the tracks, moving into the depths of the mine, a place of deepest, coldest shadows.

"Watch out!" Lenora said.

Berinor grabbed the lever and shoved down on the brakes.

With a shower of sparks, the minecart screeched to a halt.

Berinor and Lenora, sitting pressed together in the cart, stared ahead.

"By the stars," Lenora whispered. "What could have done such a thing?"

"I don't know," Berinor said. "But it was big."

He raised his lantern, trying to see more clearly. The flame flickered, burning the last few drops of oil. The lamp finally went dark. Berinor winced, expecting pitch blackness. And yet he could still see. A dim red glow filled the mines.

Berinor looked ahead. A few feet away, the trolley tracks curled up into a tangled mess of shattered iron. The rails rose into the air, ending with jagged spikes, as if twisted by some giant hand. Beyond the wreckage, the tunnel plunged down into darkness. Icy air wafted from below, and the red light glowed like the heart of a primordial beast.

"I can't even feel my magic anymore," Lenora said. "Higher up in the mine, I couldn't shift into a dragon, but at least I felt my magic, still a part of me—a part buried, but still there, the way my legs are still here, even if I can't use them. Here I feel nothing."

"I feel it too," Berinor said. "Or rather, the lack of feeling. It's like a part of you is missing."

"We're close to the Blood Shard now." Lenora sighed. "But we won't get there by trolley. Time for a piggyback ride, methinks."

Berinor got out of the trolley, and Lenora climbed onto his back.

He took a few steps down the tunnel, Lenora piggybacking, until they reached the shattered rails. The metal rods rose, bending backward, as tall as his shoulders. Berinor saw scratches on the iron, perhaps the work of claws.

"Who the hell could have bent back rails of solid iron?" he muttered.

"Must have been a very, very angry mouse," Lenora said.

"A furious one," Berinor agreed. He squinted, trying to see beyond the broken tracks. But the red light was too dim, revealing only several feet of the tunnel ahead. The walls were craggy, the ground strewn with cracked skulls.

"Berinor, I don't suppose you have any backup Blood Shards lying around back in the palace, do you?" Lenora said.

"Sadly, we just tossed out the last one," Berinor said. "It's into the lair of the giant mice."

Lenora shuddered. "I just hope we don't meet any more of those miners. The deformed descendants of trapped miners don't travel this deep underground, right?"

Berinor raised his sword. "If they do, they'll meet our steel. Ready, Lenora?"

She nodded. "Ready."

He took another step, walking past the shattered rails and into the darkness. The tunnel was so narrow his blade scraped along the wall, so low he had to walk with his head bent. Grooves scarred the walls, perhaps the marks of old claws. A stench filled the air. Acrid. Organic. A few last shards of broken rails snagged at Berinor's feet, but as he walked deeper, they turned to nothing but rust, then vanished.

A moan sounded in the deep distance.

Berinor froze, heart racing.

The sound echoed in the tunnels, then faded.

"Berinor," Lenora whispered, "I suppose it's too much to hope that was your stomach rumbling?"

"Not mine. Yours?"

She shook her head. "Probably just an abandoned puppy in the mines. But keep your sword raised, just in case."

They kept walking, moving deeper. The air grew so cold their breath frosted. Bits of fur and globs of slime covered the floor. A cackle rose ahead, followed by another moan, then a baby's laugh.

Berinor kept walking. He did not know what danger lurked ahead, but he could not stop, not turn back. If Lenora's stories were true, the Blood Shard was buried here, an animating stone large enough to bring the fossilized titan to life.

We must raise this champion for Requiem. Whatever evil waits ahead, I will face it.

He kept walking down the mine. Bones and skulls littered the ground, and the path kept sloping deeper. A stench rose ahead like rancid honey and worms after rain. Hot air wafted from below, and orange light glowed. A clicking, clattering sound rose ahead. An inhuman voice, insect-like. Something sharp scraped against stone.

Berinor kept walking. The tunnel led him into a vast chasm the size of a throne room.

He froze, disgust churning his belly.

"Stars of Requiem," he whispered.

A massive, bloated creature filled most of the chamber, large as a whale. A woman, Berinor realized. She was a woman. Her head, shoulders, and arms were human-sized, the skin sallow and gleaming with sweat. Her abdomen swelled, hideously bloated, taller than Berinor, pulsing and vibrating, covered with bumps and sores.

Several miners, hunched over and gray, were tending to their queen. These ones too wore prosthetic limbs, but instead of shovels or pickaxes, their prosthetics were spoons and bowls. They hovered around the queen's head, feeding her pink gruel.

As Berinor and Lenora watched from the entrance, the bloated woman's abdomen convulsed, dripped ooze, and out slithered a baby.

The child was born with a small pickaxe growing from one arm, a shovel from the other. Berinor realized his mistake. The miners didn't wear prosthetic tools on stumps. They were the creatures' actual limbs.

Two more miners rushed forth, their breasts large and leaking, their limbs long and flappy. They lifted the baby from the floor. One miner's limbs wrapped around the child, forming a swaddle of skin and fat. The other miner nursed the newborn from her engorged teat.

Berinor looked back at the queen.

It's her, Berinor thought. Sadness filled him, and he lowered his head. Our shame. After all these years. She's still here.

"Fascinating," Lenora whispered. "The miners who were trapped in the mine must have, over the millennia, morphed into some kind of hive creatures. Like naked mole rats. They adapted to their environment. Amazing."

Berinor thought it more sickening than amazing. It was hard to believe these poor souls were human—or had been human, back when the door had sealed their ancestors in this mine.

"I should write a book about them!" Lenora said. She wriggled higher on Berinor's back to take a closer look. "Try to remember what they look like so I can sketch them later. I'll finally author my own important work for the library!" Her voice grew louder with excitement. "I think I'll call these beings molers, a portmanteau of miner and mole. Do you like it? I—"

Her voice died with a gulp as the creatures turned their eyes toward them.

The queen hissed, her abdomen convulsed, and another baby slid out with a splash of ooze. The smaller molers, the nurses and feeders, ignored the baby. They hissed at the invaders, baring fangs. These ones were not the diggers, and they lacked pickaxes, but those teeth still seemed sharp. Their bulging white eyes shone.

For the first time, Berinor noticed the source of the orange-red light that filled the chamber. It emanated from the queen's abdomen. When he looked closer, he saw a glowing bulb inside the queen's writhing body, barely visible, like a heart seen through the skin of a baby fish.

"That's not a heart," he whispered, pointing. "Look, Lenora. Inside the queen. The Blood Shard."

Her eyes widened. "Of course!" She gasped. "Berinor, consider it! Thousands of years ago, an ancient king sealed up the mine, leaving a handful of human miners in the darkness. How did they survive here? The Blood Shard's magic! The world's largest animating stone! It … changed one of them. It animated the flesh of a living miner. A woman. She became that queen! That's my hypothesis, at least. I'll have to write this all down in my book, and—wait! Molers, stop!"

The creatures had finally had enough. They opened their mouths and shrieked, and their feet pounded the floor. The queen wailed with them, voice deep, bellowing. A hole shattered open in the wall, and several more molers spilled into the room.

Berinor grimaced.

Two of the molers, the ones leading the charge, were diggers. Their limbs sprouted shovels and pickaxes. Behind them came five larger, burly molers, their limbs tipped with axes.

"Soldiers," Berinor said.

"Fascinating!" Lenora said. "Another class of molers! I wonder what natural enemies they have down here, why soldiers would evolve, and—"

"Figure it out later! Fight now!"

As the soldier molers leaped toward him, Berinor swung his sword.

His blade clanged against a moler's sharp limb. Another one of the gray, hissing creatures leaped toward him. Its eyes were the size of fists, bloodshot, bulging. Berinor had no time to parry. Still riding on his back, Lenora swung her sword, diverting the moler's axe.

More molers leaped toward them, their bladelike limbs swinging. Berinor and Lenora swung their swords, desperately parrying, trying to hold the molers back. But they were outnumbered.

A moler scuttled along the ceiling and leaped down. Lenora cried out and raised her sword, impaling it. Another crawled along the ground, grabbed Berinor's calf, and bit deep. The king roared and slammed down his hilt, cracking the moler's skull. Without missing a beat, he raised his blade to parry another moler's assault.

"Stand down!" Berinor cried. "We mean you no harm!"

The molers ignored him. They kept lashing, biting, slicing. Another hole burst open in the wall, and more molers spilled in, shrieking.

"Protect the queen!" one cried.

"Slay the invaders!" cried another.

Their voices were demonic, voices like metal on stone, like steam in copper pipes.

"Fascinating!" Lenora said, even as she swung her sword. "They still maintain the ability to speak. Language, passed down through the generations, even as their species morphed away from humanity. Oh, my book is going to be a masterpiece! Berinor, step closer to the queen. I want to interview her."

"Not a good time, Lenora!" Berinor said, swinging his blade in arcs. He hit one moler's shoulder, drawing black blood, and the creature skulked backward.

As they fought, more babies kept being born, falling wet and quivering onto the ground. The nurses raced toward them, swaddled them in their ribbonlike arms, and nursed them. Even as swords clanged, the feeders kept scooping gruel into their queen's mouth. Always that huge, bloated abdomen quivered and glowed. The Blood Shard shone bright within it, pulsing, the size and shape of a coffin.

"Hear me!" Berinor said, trying to hold them off. One creature leaped onto his legs, another onto his back, and Lenora screamed as it bit her. "I am King of Requiem! I've come to free you from your long captivity. I come as your friend, not foe!"

But the molers kept attacking. Lenora fell from his back with a thud. She kept swinging her sword from the floor, bleeding. More molers kept flowing into the chamber, writhing, crawling over one another. A hundred or more now surrounded Berinor.

He grimaced, preparing to die here—to die without a hope for Requiem or his daughter.

The creatures leaped onto him, and he fell to his knees, and all he saw was their eyes and fangs, and—

"Wait!"

The voice filled the chamber, raspy and deep.

"Back, children! Let me see him. Bring him to me."

With squeals and spraying saliva, the molers withdrew from Berinor, fangs still bared. They manhandled him and Lenora toward their bloated queen.

They had to squeeze around the queen's abdomen on the way toward her head. The blobby body pressed against Berinor. The queen's skin was bumpy, sticky, hot, and stretched so tightly it was translucent. Through it, he could make out fetuses in different stages of development. Higher up, he got a closer look at the red crystal inside her. It was lodged under her lower ribs, an enormous crystal like a glowing ruby.

"Bring them closer," rasped the queen. "Let me see them."

The molers shoved Berinor onward. They carried Lenora; the librarian squirmed in their grip. Finally, past the mound of the queen's abdomen, they came to her head and arms.

Berinor stood before her, and instead of disgust or fear, pity filled him.

The queen lacked the bulging eyes, gray skin, or fangs of her children. Ignoring the bloated, house-sized abdomen, she appeared human.

She was sickly, however. Moles dotted her face. Her hair was scraggly, slick with sweat and oil. Her eyes were sallow. Weary. Sad eyes. Old eyes.

"Which king are you now?" she said, voice as weary and old as her eyes. "Are you the son of Queen Tarja?" Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him. "Her grandson?"

"I'm her descendant," Berinor said. "Queen Tarja, granddaughter of Luna the Traveler, reigned in Requiem thousands of years ago."

The queen gasped, then wilted. She gave the slightest shake to her head. "Has it really been that long …" She gazed at the chamber, then back at him. "I remember … I remember the old days. Flights of dragons covering the sky. Marble halls in birch forests. And I remember mining here with my husband. I remember soldiers sealing us in. I remember pounding at the stone door, begging for light, for air. And I remember finding such a beautiful gem … oh, so precious, so fair, as beautiful as Queen Tarja." She seemed to gaze inward. "For so long, I guarded my gem, holding it in my sleep. It kept me alive. It let me see in the darkness. And I remember … I remember long years of growing. Changing. Birthing. Feeding on those I birthed." Fear filled her eyes, and she reached out an arm to grab Berinor. "What happened to me?"

"The magic of the Blood Shard," said Lenora, voice soft. "A small animating stone can bring a statue, a table, a bed, even a corpse to life. They say that the Blood Shard, the largest animating stone in the world, could bring even a mountain to life." Tears shone in her eyes. "I never imagined that it could do this, that it could harness a host, that like a parasite, it would pump life out of a human womb."

Berinor clasped the woman's hand. "We might be able to help you. We might be able to remove the shard."

The woman stared at him, eyes wide, and her lips shook. "It's a part of me. It's precious to me. It's life. It's my life."

"It is not life." Berinor stroked her cheek. "Not true life, not your life. You lived without it once. You lived in a world of sunlight. Of grass and trees and blue skies."

The woman shed tears. "I remember. I remember grass. I remember sunlight." Suddenly she was trembling, panting. "Take it out. Take it out of me! Take it. Take it away. Let me see light. Let me feel grass. Take it away. It is false. It is wicked. Take it away."

Berinor nodded. He walked between the molers. The hissing creatures parted before him. He approached the bloated abdomen of the queen, reached high, and pressed his hand just below the sternum. He felt the tip of the crystal, warm through the skin.

Lenora whispered into Berinor's ear, "If you do this, you might kill her."

Yes. Perhaps he would kill her. Perhaps he had to slay one woman to save a nation. Perhaps those were the choices kings had to make. It was not a choice he relished but one he must make.

He looked at the cavern's ceiling.

If you can hear my prayers, stars, let her still live. Let her live whatever life she still has.

He pressed his blade against the woman's skin.

At once, the molers leaped toward him, screeching, but the queen cried out, "Let him be! Let him do it. Let him take it out. Please. Take it out."

Berinor made an incision.

The queen gasped, and her abdomen quivered. Her skin was stretched so tight that Berinor could easily cut it. The tip of the crystal came out willingly, shining bright, filling the chamber with light, as if it knew Berinor was there, as if it wanted to emerge, to find a new host. He guided it with his palms. Like a baby being born, the Blood Shard emerged from the abdomen, glistening wet. Berinor grabbed it, guided it down along the side of the abdomen, and stood the giant crystal on the floor. It rose as tall as him.

He returned to the queen's head. Her breath was shallow, her eyes glassy. Her skin turned ashen. Berinor clasped her hand.

"Can you hear me?" he said.

She blinked. "I … I can hear the waves," she whispered.

"Berinor, her pulse is slowing," said Lenora.

The queen's hand tightened around his. "I can see sunlight." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I can feel grass again, and I can see the birds." Her eyes dampened. "Thank you, my king. Thank you."

The light in her eyes dimmed. Her grip loosened on his hand. She breathed no more.

For a long moment, Berinor and Lenora were silent.

The molers stared, confused, chattering, wailing. Then they began to flee. Cracks raced along the chamber. Dust rained from above. The entire mine shook. Dozens of the molers raced into the tunnel.

Berinor lifted the Blood Shard with both arms, grunting with the effort. Lenora still clung to his back. He could barely move with the weight, but he took step after careful step, exiting the chamber of the queen. He paused at the tunnel, turned around, and saw her lie there, lifelessly. Rocks from above buffeted her.

I am sorry, Berinor thought. Forgive me.

He turned and hurried up the tunnel. Molers were fleeing all around him—scuttling between his feet, along the walls, even on the ceiling. He could hear more molers through the walls, scrambling down hidden tunnels. When he reached the trolley, he placed the Blood Shard inside and pushed the cart along the tracks. As he rushed through the mine, the walls trembled, cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling, and chunks of stone kept falling. A boulder slammed onto the tracks behind him, nearly hitting Lenora. He shoved the trolley onward, running as fast as he could.

Finally he burst out of the mine, back into the world—into the night, into fresh air, into a world of stars and grass and moonlight. Dust and stones spilled from the mine. Boulders slammed down. The cliff cracked and sank, and rocks tumbled. With a cloud of debris, the mine collapsed, and the door vanished.

"We killed her," Lenora whispered, back in her wheelchair.

Berinor placed a hand on her shoulder. "She died thousands of years ago, Lenora. That was not truly her. That was artificial life, given to her by the crystal. We ended her torment. She rests now on green grass under blue sky."

Lenora looked around her. "And what of them? Her children?"

Thousands of molers had escaped the collapsed mine. They stood in the valley around Berinor and Lenora.

Some were nurses with engorged breasts, holding babies. Others were diggers, their limbs ending with pickaxes and shovels. Some were soldiers, some feeders. They all blinked their enlarged eyes, sniffed, and looked around at the midnight sky.

They've never breathed fresh air, Berinor thought. They've never seen the stars.

"We'll give you a home in Requiem," he said to them. "You will not be forgotten."

One of the molers, a female with gray skin, stepped toward him. She placed her hand on her belly. It began to extend.

"Our queen is dead," she said. "Now a new queen will rise. We will live on." She turned toward the others. "Diggers! Dig us a hole. Dig us a tunnel. Dig us a new home."

The diggers moved toward a hill and began to tunnel. The feeders and nurses circled their new queen; her belly was still ballooning. One by one, the molers entered their new tunnel, plunging underground again.

"Fascinating!" Lenora said, eyes wide. "When one queen dies, a nurse becomes the new queen. They're forming a new hive, Berinor!" She tilted her head. "I wonder what triggered the nurse to metamorphose, even without the crystal. How do ants choose new queens? Oh, I'll have to research this for my book!" Her eyes shone. "Can you imagine it, Berinor? My book in the library? I've already thought of a title: The Life and Society of Molers, Secret Dwellers of the Underground, by Lenora the Traveler. Do you like it? It's a bit long. Maybe just The Mines of Molers? Yes, I like that."

"Will it work, Lenora?" Berinor said, looking at the Blood Shard in the trolley. "Will it animate the stone titan?"

Below the shard, the trolley began to roll on its own through the grass. Berinor had to grab and hold it back.

"It'll work." Lenora nodded, then sighed. "I suppose there's no way we can fly back now." She crinkled her face, concentrating hard, then sighed. "No use. I still can't shift around it."

"Let's go," Berinor said. "It's a long walk."

Lenora began to wheel her chair away from the mine, then paused and looked back at the crumbled cliff. She frowned, then looked back at Berinor.

"Berinor." She tilted her head. "The riddle on the doorway. It spoke of Requiem's shame. And … somebody buried. Who …?"

Berinor felt an invisible weight on his shoulders.

"An old story told in my family." His voice was low. "A story that doesn't appear in your library. One the Aeternum family isn't proud of."

"Will you tell me?" Lenora said softly.

He stared at what remained of the mine. "When my father told me the story, I thought it just a myth. Thousands of years ago, an ancient king of Requiem sealed up this mine, and he left his daughter buried within. The girl, the stories say, was born without the magic to become a dragon. Her father deemed her impure, crippled. Perhaps he thought it appropriate to bury her with the Blood Shard, which steals the magic of dragons. A sort of twisted irony." Berinor shook his head sadly. "Requiem's history is not always noble. We have had many proud, honorable rulers, but also tyrants. This is one of our shameful chapters."

Lenora gasped. She looked at the cliff, then back at him. She covered her mouth. "You don't think that … that the moler queen was …"

"I don't know," Berinor said. "I'm just as happy never knowing."

Lenora nodded, then scrunched up her lips. "I might still have to write about this in my book. I'm not sure I can keep this a secret."

"I'm not sure I want you to," said Berinor. "It's a cruel kingdom that hides its sins. A noble society faces its crimes. But that is for another day. Come, Lenora. Let's leave this place."

Berinor began to push the trolley over the grass, the Blood Shard glowing within. Lenora followed in her wheelchair. It would be a long walk to the stone titan. But finally the sleeping giant would get its heart.

ORYN

They flew over endless rolling dunes, two dragons, alone in a world of sand and sky.

"This feels like flying over the sea again," Oryn said.

Flying at his side, Fira nodded.

"A sea of sand," Oryn said, gazing over the endless dunes.

The red dragon nodded again.

"Instead of water," Oryn said.

Fira spun her head toward him. "I got it, thief. Will you be quiet now?"

"Quiet. Fine, you want quiet? I can be quiet." Oryn nodded. "I like quiet! Nothing like a nice, quiet flight over the desert for me, and—"

"Oryn!" Fira slapped him with his tail.

He bit down on a yelp, sighed, and flew onward. They had been flying here all day, and the landscape didn't change. Once he thought he saw a hill, but it was just another dune. He flew in silence by Fira, gazing around him. He heaved a long sigh.

League after league, and still no sign of the Temple of Dust, the place where the monks could supposedly fix this heavy bronze mirror he was carrying.

Dunes.

More dunes.

Oryn was bored.

I suppose I can play a game, he thought. I can … count dunes!

He looked below, beginning to count. One dune. Two dunes. Three dunes …

"Four," he mumbled. "Five …"

"Oryn, what are you doing?" Fira glowered at him. "You said you'd be quiet. I'm trying to think."

He groaned. "What are you thinking about?"

"About how I'm going to roast your backside if you disturb me again!" Fira spat fire his way, then groaned. "Look, Oryn, I'm sorry for being rude. I'm just … worried, all right? About Nemoria's creatures showing up again. About Requiem. About my sisters. I just need some silence now. I'm sorry."

Oryn didn't want silence. He hated silence. In silence, in this endless desert with nothing to distract him, the memories rose stronger than ever. Again he was hanging from the rope, suffocating, seconds from death. Again the hydras were rampaging through Altus Mare, and again Reean died, torn apart by Nemoria and her children. Again he saw the valkyries shattering Nova Vita. Again he saw Miya carried away.

That last vision never left him. He dreamed of it over and over, day and night, dreamed of Miya chained in the land of the gods, tortured, screaming, calling for him. More than anything, Oryn wanted to fly to that land, to burn everyone in his way, to save Miya, to hold her in his arms and never let her go.

The mirror in his claws could take him there. But only if the dustmen in this forsaken temple could fix it. And that forsaken temple, even after days of flight, was still nowhere to be seen.

Oryn lowered his head as he flew. The longer they lingered here, the more the fear grew in him that they were too late. That Requiem would fall. That Miya would die.

He looked at Fira.

What if we come home to find that we are the last dragons?

He shook his head wildly, banishing the thought. Waste of worrying.

"Back to counting dunes," he mumbled, flying a little farther from Fira in case she heard. "One dune. Two dunes. Three dunes. Four—"

He caught his breath. He frowned. He squinted at the distance.

"Hang on," he said.

He beat his wings, flying faster, staring at the distant speck. An illusion? Dust in his eyes? No. As he flew closer, it came into focus. A stone. A large rectangular stone, lying flat on the sand.

Oryn dived down to investigate.

"It's just a rock," Fira said, gliding down beside him.

"We've seen nothing but sand for hours," said Oryn. "A rock is new. A rock is exciting. I'm taking a look."

They landed on the sand, and Oryn approached the rock. It was the size and shape of a tabletop, its sides too straight to be natural.

"Somebody carved this stone," Oryn said.

He blew air through his nostrils, clearing sand. The stone seemed to belong to a large, buried structure. He began to dig, revealing more of the stone. One foot down. Two feet. Soon three feet deep. The flat stone, he realized, was the top of a pillar.

"This goes deep," he muttered, digging some more. He kept revealing more of the stone monolith.

"There's another stone here," Fira said from nearby. The red dragon brushed sand aside, revealing another flat stone. She began to dig, exposing another monolith that plunged deep into the sand.

"These are columns, I think." Oryn frowned. "Fira, could this be … the Temple of Dust?"

The red dragon looked around her. "I don't know. But I'm willing to stay and dig for a while."

Oryn winced. If this was indeed the Temple of Dust, and it lay buried, that didn't bode well. Oryn had hoped to find monks who could repair the mirror. At most, he could hope to find skeletons.

"Maybe we'll find another mirror," he said, but he heard the pessimism in his voice.

Fira nodded, silent, not much hope in her eyes.

Both dragons kept digging, exposing more and more stones. They finally revealed thirty stones, each with a flat, rectangular top, arranged in a wide ring. They dug deeper, exposing more of the structure, raising piles of sand.

"An entire ring of columns," Fira said in wonder. "The columns of a temple. The ancients must have carved them."

"I wish they had left a shovel," Oryn said.

They kept digging. It was slow work, even with dragon claws. By the time the sun set, they had dug only several feet deep. They paused to rest in the moonlight.

Oryn studied what they had unearthed so far. Glyphs were engraved into the columns. Neither dragon recognized the language.

"This must be the place, Oryn," Fira said. "The Temple of Dust. And there's not much left."

They shifted back into humans, opened their packs, and shared a cold meal. Their supplies were dwindling. The crescent moon mocked them with its grin, and the temperature plunged.

Oryn shivered. "How can it be so damn hot here during the days and so cold at night?" His teeth chattered.

"I heard that's normal for deserts," Fira said. "I don't know why. Lenora would probably know. Maybe because there are no trees? Up north, maybe the trees soak up heat during the day and keep the nights warm. No trees here."

Oryn shuddered. "That's silly. I've never heard of a warm tree." He looked around at the stones. "And these stones are cold as ice. Let's get some sleep. We'll keep digging tomorrow. Maybe we'll find another mirror in the ruins."

It was the faintest of hopes, and he saw the despair in Fira's eyes.

That night they slept under the stars. It was so cold that even Fira, normally gruff and stiff, wriggled closer to Oryn, then eventually slipped under his cloak and wrapped her arms around him. He held her close, sharing their body heat, and her long brown hair tickled his face.

As she slept, he held her in his arms, and he whispered to her, "I'm never going to give up hope, Fira. Never. I'm going to keep fighting for Requiem, and for Miya, and for you. Always. We'll do this together. I promise you."

She mumbled something in her sleep and cuddled closer to him. All the lines of worry faded from her brow, all the stiffness from her body. Suddenly she seemed so young, a mere girl, afraid and alone in the world. Fira was a few years older than Oryn, in some ways stronger and wiser, and certainly higher born—the heiress of Requiem herself. But here in the night, in his arms, there was softness to her too.

"I'll keep you safe, Fira," he whispered. "And you'll keep me safe. We're not giving up."

Just for a moment, it seemed that she woke up, though her eyes remained closed. She stroked Oryn's hair, kissed his cheek, and slept again.

At dawn, they became dragons and dug again. The thirty stones they had found were now pillars. They kept digging deeper and deeper. Eventually the thirty columns rose up to their dragon shoulders, then above their heads. They kept digging.

They revealed more runes on the stones—coiling lines and circles within circles. Each column had a hole in its center, roughly the size of a fist, with runes engraved around it.

Finally, after digging twenty feet down, they reached the bottom. They exposed a stone floor.

They brushed the sand off, revealing large, circular engravings on the floor, many feet in diameter, with circles carved onto the rings like beads on bracelets.

In the center of the floor, they found a round, flat stone like a manhole cover. Was there anything underneath?

Oryn examined the stone more closely. Roughly the size of a shield, it fit neatly into the floor like a sewer grate. A labyrinth was engraved onto the stone's surface.

A metal star was embedded in the maze. It looked almost like a doorknob. When Oryn grabbed the star, he could move it through the maze like a trolley along a track. But he couldn't pull it free.

"Some kind of puzzle?" he muttered.

He released the metal star. He stuck his fingers into the labyrinth's engraved pathways. He groaned, trying to lift the entire flat stone. It wouldn't budge.

"It's a trapdoor," Oryn said, pulling at the stone, heels pressing hard onto the ground. "There must be treasure underneath. Trust me, I've seen my share of trapdoors and treasures. The maze engraving must be some kind of lock, but I can't figure it out. Cavewoman, help me. Maybe we can pull the door free."

She stuck her fingers into the labyrinth too, finding purchase in the shallow grooves. They strained together, trying to pull the round stone out of the floor. But it wouldn't budge.

Finally they released the stone, exhausted.

"That star in the center of the labyrinth," Fira said. "Maybe it's a key. Maybe we have to solve the labyrinth for the trapdoor to open."

Oryn nodded. He grabbed the metal star. It slid along the labyrinth's grooves like a toy cart. He tried several different paths, running the star through the labyrinth, side to side, covering multiple pathways. But the stone trapdoor still wouldn't budge.

Oryn flopped onto the floor. "Could this be the wrong place?"

Fira approached the bronze mirror, which was leaning against one of the pillars. She made a few more attempts to open a portal, speaking the names of distant places. But still the mirror—reforged from shards—did nothing.

"This is the place," Fira said. "It matches Lenora's descriptions. But there's nothing here." She kicked a stone. "This was a waste of time. A waste of time!" Her voice rose louder, and her fists clenched. "Miya needs us, and we're stuck here in a damn desert, with just old stones."

Oryn paced the floor, moving along the circular patterns. They seemed to form a larger labyrinth spanning the entire floor, but using circles instead of straight lines. Another riddle? It seemed just as meaningless to him.

Panic began to rise in Oryn, and he thought of Miya in chains, tortured in a dungeon, calling to him, with him stuck here, and—

He forced himself to focus on his breath, to let his fear flow away. He had known fear many times as a thief—invading the homes of the wealthy, tiptoeing around guards trained to slay him, facing the hangman's noose. He had always managed to focus then. He would focus now.

"This isn't a temple," he said, thinking out loud. "No walls, no altar, no living quarters for priests." He looked at the pillars rising around him. "A ring of pillars. That's all. There isn't even a ceiling. No, this is no Temple of Dust. It's a henge."

"A henge?" Fira asked.

Oryn nodded. "Like the ancient Vir Requis built ten thousand years ago."

His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the circular patterns that spanned the floor, and the smaller circles engraved on the pillars. Small circles engraved onto huge rings. At first he had thought the circles represented beads in bracelets. But as the sun began to set, it dawned on him.

"Stars. These are maps of the stars!" He ran along the floor, peering down at the engravings. "Look, cavewoman! These great rings are the paths of the stars. Orbits! The little circles are the stars themselves. And look! Each orbit surrounds one pillar." He ran to the large, towering stones, his excitement growing. "Look here! The engraving on this pillar. This represents Kloriana's Star. And this one!" He ran to another column. "This is Issari's Star, the eye of the Draco constellation. And this is the Silver Chariot. Each pillar represents another star! With another orbit traced on the floor."

"So it's a star map," Fira said. "Okay. What do we do with this information?"

"We wait," Oryn said. "We wait for the stars."

They waited. Fira busied herself eating the last of their food, but Oryn had no appetite. He paced the floor, kept checking the sky for stars.

Finally the sun vanished under the horizon. A star emerged—Kloriana's Star in the east, renowned by poets and sages for thousands of years. It appeared over the horizon and slowly ascended. When Oryn stood in the center of the floor, right over the round trapdoor, he could soon see Kloriana's Star shining directly through a hole in an eastern pillar.

He spun from side to side. All around the henge, more stars were aligning, shining through the holes in the pillars.

Across the floor, new runes—runes hidden during the day—began to glow.

Fira ran up to him. They knelt on either side of the round trapdoor.

It was glowing. Strands of starlight ran through the grooves of the labyrinth. They formed a path of light, leaving some pathways dark, illuminating others. The metal star in the labyrinth shone. Oryn grabbed the star, surprised at its warmth, and moved it along the labyrinth, following the path of starlight.

When he reached the end of the luminous path, the stone disk gave a click, then rose an inch from the floor.

Oryn and Fira looked at each other, then grabbed the disk and pulled the heavy stone free.

At first, disappointment filled Oryn. He had been hoping for a shaft down to a hidden chamber. Instead, he found only sand. He dug, still in human form, and he felt something buried under the sand. He pulled the object out.

His eyes widened.

"Well, I'll be," he whispered in awe.

It was a crystal. A silvery crystal the size of a pomegranate.

He looked around him. The stars were still shining through the holes in the henge stones, but they were starting to move out of position.

"Whatever we have to do here, we have only a moment left," Fira said.

Oryn held the crystal high.

Beams of starlight blasted through the pillar holes, bright as dragonfire, dazzling.

The beams shone into the crystal in Oryn's hand. The jewel thrummed. Oryn caught his breath, watching the stone, waiting to see what would happen.

The light flickered in the crystal. Shone brightly. But then faded. Struggled to stay alight.

Oryn held the crystal higher, adjusting the angle, trying to catch every beam of starlight. But as soon as he turned one side of the crystal toward one beam, another beam no longer hit its mark.

"The crystal is the wrong shape!" Oryn said. "I can't get every beam of starlight to hit every side. There's always one beam that misses."

Fira stared at the beams of light flowing through the henge. Indeed, no matter what angle the crystal turned, one beam always missed.

"The mirror!" Fira said. She raced toward it, pulled it across the floor, and positioned it to catch the beam of light flowing from Issari's Star in the north.

The beam hit the polished bronze surface and bounced into the distance. Fira adjusted the mirror, directing the beam toward the crystal.

The crystal burst into searing white light.

It shook in Oryn's hand, nearly fell. The light beamed out from the crystal, hitting the pillars, then rose higher, forming luminous columns that soared toward the sky. Across the desert, the sand trembled and rose. Dunes collapsed and reformed. Wind shrieked and sand stormed.

"Oryn, we have to get out of here!" Fira shouted, the sand pelting her.

"Wait!" he cried. "Shift into a dragon and close your eyes!"

He became a dragon and held the crystal in his claws, still collecting the beams of light. Fira shifted too. The floor thrummed beneath them. The sand shrieked, pelting them, hitting their scales, and rising, forming walls, archways, corridors, towers.

The light dimmed.

Oryn placed down the crystal, and both dragons returned to human form. They looked around them. They stood in the center of a great temple built of sand.

And in that temple, figures moved.

"Ghosts of sand," Fira whispered.

The figures glided along columned walkways above, wrapped in flowing robes of sand. Three flowed down a sandy staircase, leaving no footprints. As they moved down the hall, they kept breaking apart, sand cascading off them, only to rise again, reshaping their forms. One of them fell, collapsed into a pile of sand, then rose again and glided onward. As they drew closer, Oryn saw that their faces too were made of sand, and their eyes shone, gleaming lights.

"The dustmen," he whispered.

They came to stand before him and raised their hands. Sand cascaded down their arms.

"You … are … Vir Requis …" said one, voice astral, coming from everywhere at once.

Fira took a step closer.

"My name is Fira Aeternum, daughter of Berinor, princess of Requiem and heiress to the throne. I come here as ambassador of Requiem—in peace, with blessings, and with gratitude for your hospitality."

Oryn waved. "I'm Oryn."

"We are … the keepers of sand …" said the lead figure. "We are . . . men of dust and stone … for all come from dust, and all to dust return. We are the weavers of starlight and stone. We are the whispers in the night. We are light in darkness. We are the travelers. We are the weavers of paths. We are the openers of gateways and the explorers of shadows and unknown halls."

"I'm a thief," Oryn said, then noticed that he was still holding the crystal. "Uhm, I'll just … put this back down." Laughing nervously, he placed the crystal on the floor.

Fira shoved him back. She faced the dustmen.

"Noble travelers!" she said. "I've come seeking your wisdom. We brought with us a mirror. A Mirror of Many Worlds. It shattered during a great battle in Requiem. We reforged it in dragonfire, but now the portals no longer open. I entreat you to repair it."

The dustmen's glowing eyes turned toward the mirror. Their faces twisted with rage, shedding sand.

"You shattered our mirror?" they boomed, voices echoing. The temple trembled. Sand cascaded.

"It was not we Vir Requis who shattered it!" said Fira, speaking over the rumble. "It was the cruel Lintari, daughter of the goddess Nemoria, who shattered this mirror. We tried to repair it, but we lack your skill, your magic. Will you repair this mirror for us, or will you grant us another?"

The dustmen stared at her for a long time. Finally the one at their lead spoke.

"No."

Fira inhaled sharply. She took a step closer. "We need this mirror to defeat Nemoria! She kidnapped my sister, the princess Miya. We need a portal to the goddess's realm, to kill her, to save Requiem, to—"

"We did not build this mirror for war!" rumbled the dustmen. "We did not build this mirror for death and conquest! We built the Mirror of Many Worlds for exploration. For knowledge. For wisdom. Never for violence!" The dustmen rose taller, mouths twisting with rage, and the sand stormed around them. "How dare you demand that we aid your violence? You shattered our mirror in war. You profaned it. Leave this place! This is a temple of peace. Leave and blaspheme no more!"

Fira took several steps back and covered her face with her arms. The sand buffeted her. The dustmen circled her, the sand stormed, and the temple began to collapse. The banisters along the walkways crumbled to dust. Towers cracked, then came spilling down. Archways disintegrated.

"I'm an explorer!" Oryn shouted. "Hear me, dustmen! Ignore the cavewoman and listen to me! I'm interested in exploration!"

The storm died down. The destruction ceased, leaving the temple half-standing, all melted towers and crumbling walls like a sandcastle after a wave.

The dustmen were still here. They turned toward Oryn, staring silently.

"I'm no fancy prince," Oryn said. "I'm no general or priest or leader. I'm just a vagabond, and I explore new lands. I explored the plains of Requiem and the marvels of Nova Vita, her capital city. I explored Tinkers' Palace and the underwater kingdom of Lemuria. I explored the southern forests and the sea, and I explored the wonders of Irys, a great delta city." He pulled several treasures from Irys out of his pocket, pilfered from the marketplace—a silver acorn, a decorative box of spices, and a minnow with metallic scales and gemstone eyes. "I explored the desert and came seeking the Temple of Dust to behold its wonders. And wonders I found here." He took the mirror from Fira. "I don't wish to use this mirror for war but for exploration. Fix it for me, and I'll travel the world and fill books with tales of wonder, so that others may share my adventures for centuries to come. Let me continue your journey. Let me use your gift for its true purpose." He shook his head sadly. "Don't let it go to waste."

The dustmen stared at him. Oryn stared back. For a long moment, silence filled the temple.

Then the walls began to disintegrate again.

The staircase collapsed onto the floor. The buttresses crumbled. The towers fell apart. The raining sand began to bury the henge stones again. Oryn and Fira shifted into dragons. He grabbed the mirror, and they leaped, beat their wings, struggling to escape the sand as the temple collapsed around them, buffeting them. Sand piled up on their wings and stung their eyes.

Finally they rose from the storm, gazed down, and saw the sand settle over the ruins. Once more, the stones were buried. The desert was nothing but rolling dunes and darkness.

The two dragons landed on the sand, and Oryn placed down the mirror.

"I'm sorry." Oryn lowered his head. "I thought it would work."

Fira turned her back to him. She trembled, silent. Oryn tried to place his paw on her shoulder, but she shoved him off. She was weeping. Oryn himself felt his eyes dampen.

"We failed," Fira said. "We let Miya down. We let my father down. We let Requiem down."

Oryn shook his head slowly. "No," he whispered. "We didn't."

"What are you talking about?" Fira said. "We failed! The mirror is still broken, and Requiem will fall, and—"

"Requiem is right here." Oryn smiled and pointed at the mirror. "Look."

She blinked. She spun toward the mirror, then fell to her knees, weeping and laughing.

Inside the mirror, they saw rolling forests, snow-capped mountains, and a towering marble pillar. They saw Requiem.

Fira grabbed the mirror and took flight.

"Come on!" she shouted, flying north. "We're taking this mirror home!" She spun back toward him, fire in her jaws. "And then we're flying an army right into Nemoria's palace."

SIRANA

The hollow mountain shook as the titans pounded at it. Cracks raced along the walls, and dust filled the air.

Hurry, Berinor, Sirana thought, flying thorough the shadowy chasm. Bring us hope.

A hundred thousand Vir Requis filled the massive cavern, this hollow mountain of gold. Some stood on the ground. Others flew as dragons, ready to fight should the titans shatter the walls and break in. Other Vir Requis huddled in nooks that peppered the walls like honeycombs. Here they hid—the nation of Requiem. The last of their kind.

Sirana thought back to those stories she had learned at school. Thousands of years ago, the heroes Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei had visited this mountain, seeking the aid of the salvanae, ancient and wise dragons. Sirana had seen illustrations of the salvanae. They looked like long serpents, not monstrous like Lintari but beautiful, their scales glimmering, their eyes like crystal balls, their beards and mustaches flowing. The salvanae were beings of wisdom and righteousness.

Sirana had hoped to find them still here, even after all this time. Instead she had found these alcoves in the walls. Thousands of them, each the size of a house, all empty. They must have been salvanae homes, filling their mountain. The Vir Requis now huddled in the cozy nooks, praying and singing softly.

Will someday we too be just an old myth? Sirana wondered. Thousands of years from now, will somebody find our empty homes, wonder who the Vir Requis were? Will anyone remember us?

She shook her head wildly. No. She was not yet ready to abandon hope. She had thought all hope lost the night Nemoria had murdered her parents, but hope had risen anew, and Requiem had been rebuilt.

There is always hope, Sirana thought. Even should our enemies attack us again and again, destroy our cities over and over, we will keep rising anew.

She flew toward the hole in the wall—the single doorway in the mountain. She stared outside at the wilderness.

The titans rose there, nearly as tall as this mountain. The round entrance was too small for titans to enter, even to stick their hands into. Dragons constantly guarded it, ready to burn any thrusting titan fingers. Instead, the titans were trying to bring down the entire mountain.

They were howling, faces twisted in rage, pounding their fists against the mountainside. They had not yet shattered the mighty Har Zahav, for its slopes were hardened with magic. But even that ancient magic was not unstoppable. With every blow, the walls shook, and the Vir Requis prayed louder. Eventually, whether it took days or only hours, the titans would break in. And all the dragonfire in Requiem would not stop them.

Come to us, Berinor, she thought. Bring us that stone titan and shatter these bastards.

Outside, a titan leaned down, joints cracking. Its massive eye filled the cave, peering right at Sirana.

The silver dragon snarled and blasted fire. She savored the titan's roar. The beast pounded the mountain with new vigor, and more cracks raced across the walls, and more dust fell.

Sirana wanted to keep flying, to guard the mountain, to burn titans again, but a yawn interrupted her fury. She had not slept in … She couldn't remember. Her eyelids felt like boulders.

Yet she feared sleep. Nightmares lurked in sleep. When she slept, she might never wake up, and—

Another yawn changed her mind. She left the cave. She flew upward through the mountain, passing by the alcoves in the walls. Vir Requis filled the holes like bees in honeycombs. Sirana flew higher, seeking an empty nook. If she did sleep, she wanted to be high up, so that even in slumber, she could feel as if she watched over them.

She flew toward a nook near the mountaintop. It was too small to enter as a dragon. Outside the burrow, Sirana shifted into human form and grabbed the ledge. For a moment, her feet dangled. Armor clattering, she pulled herself into the burrow.

She stood for a moment, facing the shadows in the nook. She felt like a child again, facing the gaping chasm left after her parents died. She turned around from the shadowy burrow, and instead she gazed at the hollow mountain, at the nation that hid within.

I'm no longer that child.

She wore armor now, dented and bloodied. A sword hung at her side. She led armies.

Yet she still felt like that girl.

Perhaps all leaders, even the strongest and wisest, felt like children. Perhaps that was the great secret of adulthood. That it was all a show, all just armor, and beneath their hardened exteriors, all adults were children, scared of shadows, needing guidance.

She removed her armor, plate by plate, revealing her thin frame, her soft body. Just a girl. Too skinny. Too hurt. Too tired.

She walked deeper into the dark burrow, lay down, and prepared to sleep when two glowing slits appeared in the shadows.

Sirana gasped, scampered backward, and reached for her sword.

The slits widened, becoming crystal balls the size of her head. They blinked. Long, feathery lashes brushed Sirana.

"Why, hello there," said a mouth full of long, sharp teeth.

Sirana's mouth hung open. The creature raised his head until it brushed the burrow's ceiling. It was a large head, covered with glimmering purple scales. Tufty white eyebrows rose above the crystal eyes, and a long white mustache flowed down to the floor. A serpentine body curled farther behind the head, coated with the same chinking lavender scales.

"You—" Sirana said. "You—you're a salvana! A true dragon!"

The ancient dragon nodded and smiled. "I am Xin Fian, dweller of the golden mountain. I am the watcher of shadows. I am the protector of lore. I welcome you, child of Draco, to Har Zahav, mountain of the true dragons."

Sirana stepped closer to Xin Fian, gazing at him with wonder. "But I thought the salvanae died thousands of years ago."

The true dragon lowered his head. His scales chinked like a sack of jewels. "Most did. I am the last of my kind. For thousands of years, I have guarded this mountain, and I have kept our memory and lore alive."

"For thousands of years?" said Sirana. "You're thousands of years old?"

"Time flows quickly for me, child. The older I get, the shorter the years seem. It has been centuries since I've spoken to another soul, yet it seems no more than days would to you."

Yet there was loneliness to his voice, terrible sadness in his eyes. Sirana raised her hand, hesitated, then stroked his long white beard and lavender scales.

"I'm sorry, Xin Fian," she said.

"For what, child?"

"That you're the last of your kind. That you're lonely."

He smiled. "I am at peace, child. I am joy. I am the rain that falls outside. I am the blooming of flowers. I am the cycle of day and night, season by season. I am memory. I am love. I am not loneliness, not for many years. Yet I see loneliness in you. I see pain. I see fear."

Sirana nodded, her throat suddenly tight. "There is pain. There is fear."

Xin Fian nuzzled her, his beard soft and warm. "I have learned something in my long years, child. There is always pain in life. There are always those who would break things, who would hurt others, who would destroy. There is always disease, and storm, and shattering stones. But these are not things we choose. These are not things we can control. But we can choose how to face them. We can choose a path of fear and tears and rage, pound the walls and shout and weep and cower. Or we can choose a path of inner peace, of fortitude, of wisdom and reflection. We can be like this mountain. We can remain strong, eternal, letting even the mightiest storm blow over us, letting the rain flow until the sun shines again. And the sun always shines. There is always spring after winter."

"Even this winter?" Sirana whispered. "Even as titans attack this mountain, as my nation crumbles?"

"Your nation has stood for thousands of years, child. When I was but a youngling, dragons of Requiem visited this hall, afraid, hurt, angry, as you are now. They faced their enemies, and they withstood their storm. You will too, child. My grandfather, the wise Nehushtan, helped your people many eras ago. I will help you now. I will be here with you."

Sirana yawned and sat down. "Maybe you can start by watching over me as I sleep?"

Xin Fian nodded, and gently he draped his beard over her like a blanket. Sirana closed her eyes, and for the first time in many days, she slept peacefully and did not dream.

BERINOR

He sat on the cart, riding through the wilderness, and finally saw the stone giant in the distance. The dead titan lay across the landscape like a mountain range.

"We're here," Berinor said. "Finally we're here."

The cart had no horses. It needed none. The Blood Shard, laying in the wagon under a blanket, turned the wheels. After all, it was a giant animating stone, able to move wood, rock, even dead flesh.

Sitting at the front, Berinor held a lever, steering the cart. It was rough, slow going. Out here in the wilderness, there were no roads. They trundled over stones and thick patches of grass. Normally, Berinor would have flown. Yet with the Blood Shard nearby, there would be no shifting into a dragon. And so for agonizingly long days, Berinor had sat on this cart, staring ahead, thinking of his daughters, waiting to see the titan.

And there it loomed. The colossal, fossilized corpse where they had hidden from the valkyries. The titan lay on his stomach, half-buried in the soil. Over the millennia, the land had fused with the corpse. Stone and soil now draped the creature's ribs and limbs like a blanket. The hands still reached out, the fingers forming craggy columns, grasping the earth. The jaw was frozen in a silent grimace, the teeth faded and yellow. The eye sockets were black pits, nests for birds. During the battle, Lintari had punched holes in titan, but that was nothing compared to the ravages of time. From the distance, it seemed more mountain than corpse, more rock than bone.

Suddenly this quest seemed foolish. To raise the stone giant to life? The ancient Vir Requis had placed small animating stones, no larger than acorns, into stone statues, turning them into soldiers. But those statues had been human-sized. Would the magic scale up so enormously?

Lenora emerged from the back of the cart. She wriggled forward, hopped into the seat beside Berinor, and pulled her legs into a comfortable position. The librarian pushed up her slipping glasses and stared at the titan ahead. For a long moment, she was silent.

"Suddenly I'm scared," she finally said.

"Just now?" said Berinor.

"More than usual." She bit her lip. "What if it doesn't work? What if the Blood Shard is still too small?" She glanced behind her. It shone under a blanket—a stone the size of a coffin. "I had always imagined it even larger, the size of this entire cart. What if molers chipped off pieces during the years, and it won't raise the stone titan?"

"Then we'll brew a strong cup of tea," Berinor said. "That might wake up the giant instead."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure, Berinor, joke while worry-worms are eating up my insides. Can't a girl foresee doom and gloom in peace?"

He smiled thinly. "No. You may only foresee doom and gloom while things are wonderful. Bad times are for optimists. Kings and queens learned that long ago."

She groaned. "Then never marry me. I'm too pessimistic to be a queen." She sighed. "Fine, I changed my mind. You can marry me after all this ends, but only if that stone giant walks and smashes the titans and we kill Nemoria and usher in a thousand years of peace. Deal?"

He nodded. "A thousand years of peace would make a nice wedding gift. Either that, or I'll buy you a tea set."

"You and tea!" She thought for a moment. "Porcelain? I might just accept."

They rode onward, leaving the grass and forests behind. All life faded, and only a few scattered crows circled above. They trundled over rocks and deep grooves. The head of the titan loomed ahead, peering at them with its empty eye sockets. As they drew closer, ice filled Berinor. It was here, in this place, that Miya had been kidnapped.

Let this also be the place where we save Requiem, he thought.

They left the wagon in the field. It was a long climb up the titan's side. Berinor carried the crystal, holding it against his chest, while Lenora rode on his back. Fossilized ribs rose from the soil, coated with moss and vines. Berinor was wheezing and drenched in sweat by the time he reached the titan's back. He rested for a long moment, the crystal at his feet, breathing heavily.

Lenora was still piggybacking.

"I'm exhausted," she said.

He looked over his shoulder at her. "You're exhausted?"

She nodded. "Watching you climb while carrying me and that giant gemstone is hard work."

He groaned. "Want to switch places?"

"Nah, I'll soldier on," she said. "For Requiem."

"How magnanimous of you." Berinor lifted the Blood Shard again and kept walking.

They followed the titan's spine ridge. It snaked ahead, each segment like a boulder rising from millennia of sediment. Finally Berinor reached the hole Lintari had torn through the stony torso. It led to the corpse's hollow innards.

Berinor placed down the Blood Shard and Lenora, then unslung his rope from his belt. He spent a moment working, fastening the rope around the giant crystal. As he worked, the rope kept flailing; the Blood Shard was animating it. Several times, the rope tugged free from Berinor's grip, then rose like a cobra about to strike. Finally the rope was tied around the gemstone. Berinor tied the other end to the titan's spine.

"Here goes." He began to lower the Blood Shard through the hole into the waiting cavern.

It was a long, arduous task, and the rope chafed his hands. The crystal was damn heavy. Berinor kept unspooling the rope until the crystal hit the floor far below. Then Lenora hopped onto his back again, and down they climbed.

Once more, Berinor stood inside the titan's hollow chest. He carried the Blood Shard into the heart's missing chamber, a chasm as large as a cathedral.

He tied the crystal down where the giant's heart had once beaten.

For a long time, Berinor and Lenora watched, waited, silent.

The shard glowed.

The moments ticked by.

"Berinor," Lenora said, still hanging on his back. "About that strong cup of tea . . ."

Lenora was less than half his size, but suddenly her weight seemed too great to bear. The titan wasn't moving. Their quest had failed. They had no champion to fight Nemoria's titans, no hope to save Sirana and the others.

"We'll find another way," he said, struggling to remain calm, though his insides roiled. "We'll seek hope elsewhere. We'll attack the titans with everything we have. We'll survive this. We'll—"

"Berinor." Lenora gripped him. "Hold on. What if …" She nodded vehemently, banging her chin against his shoulder. "We can't shift near the Blood Shard, right? Its magic is so powerful it cancels our own magic. What if our magic is conflicting with it, weakening it?"

"The Blood Shard was still able to move the wagon wheels and the rope," Berinor said.

"Yes, well, a stone titan is a tad larger than a wagon wheel. The shard needs every last bit of juice it can get." She grabbed the dangling rope. "Let's get out of here."

They climbed the rope, returned to the titan's back, but still the giant lay dormant.

"Farther," Lenora said.

They walked down the sloping ribs, heading back to the rocky ground, and walked some more. Finally, on a grassy hill, they turned back toward the titan.

It lay across the ground, a mountain morphing with the landscape around it. With the Blood Shard now behind walls of soil and bone, Berinor and Lenora could shift again, and they stood on the ground as dragons. One large green-and-silver dragon, scarred with old battles. One slender young dragon, her scales a mosaic of indigo, cobalt, green, and gold.

"Rise, titan," Berinor said softly. "Rise and fight for Requiem. Rise and find glory again."

For a moment—nothing.

The only sounds were a few chirping birds. A breeze rustling the grass. A few crickets.

And then it happened.

Before them, the earth shook.

And before them, the land cracked.

And before them, a miracle rose.

Stones rumbled down the titan's flanks. Chasms opened across the land. The spine rose higher, creaking, sending down avalanches of dirt and rocks. A hand shook, its fingers like the columns of a temple, then rose from the soil with a great crack and a shower of soil. The hand reached toward the sky, then slammed against the ground, fingers extended, and the earth shook and boulders rolled.

The hand pressed against the ground, and the titan's great head rose. The bottom jaw, buried for millennia under the ground, rained dirt and rocks, the teeth brown and black. The second hand rose, slammed down, and more cracks raced. Both hands pushed against the earth, and with a tremble that toppled trees and boulders, the stone titan began to rise.

He did not rise gracefully. He faltered, swayed, pushing against the ground. His knees dug into the land. His feet pulled up from the earth, uprooting trees, raising clouds of sediment. His struggle tore craters into the dirt.

He stretched to his full height, raised his arms, and shed sheets of dirt like old skin. He stood. A mountain. A god of the land. A titan of stone and bone, taller even than Nemoria's champions.

The jaws opened, and for the first time in eras, the stone titan sounded his cry.

MIYA

She stood over Lintari's bed, watching her monstrous little sister sleep.

In her sleep, Lintari seemed almost peaceful, almost harmless. Gone was the snarling, vicious killer who swallowed children, who butchered thousands, who delighted in torture. Here in her bed, in this chamber in the Hall of Shadows, lay a mere girl, pale of skin, blond of hair. To the world, she looked like any other young woman lost in slumber. At peace.

Miya stroked her younger sister's hair. Lintari mumbled something in her sleep but did not wake.

Who are you, Lintari? Miya thought. You tortured me … and you healed me. You murdered children … yet you asked for a bedtime story like a child. You are the daughter of a cruel dark goddess … yet also a daughter of Requiem.

Miya looked around the room. Dozens of blades hung on the walls—katanas, longswords, axes, daggers, scimitars. So easily, Miya could lift one. Could slit Lintari's throat in her sleep. Would the demigoddess heal from her own weapon, the steel forged by the gods?

A curved dagger lay on a table between two skulls. Miya's hand inched toward it. Her fingers brushed the hilt. She lifted the dagger slowly, and the blade gleamed. She returned to Lintari, gazed down at the sleeping girl.

Lintari's lips scrunched up, and she mumbled in her sleep, something about the animals in Miya's story. Soon she was breathing deeply again, eyes closed, face calm.

Miya lowered her head.

I can't do it. We already killed Ramiel, my brother. I can't kill her too. She took a shuddering breath. I believe there's some goodness buried deep inside her. That she can change.

Miya walked to the window. She looked at the astral landscape of Icelos. The dark mountainsides sloped down to the sea of clouds, strewn with the slimy humanoids. The deformed vultures flew in the sky, sporting human hands instead of talons. Nemoria was out hunting. Miya didn't know how long the goddess would be away.

She looked at her wrists. For the first time, no chains bound Miya.

I can escape, she thought, standing at the window, trembling. I can become a dragon, fly as far as my wings take me, hide. Make my way home.

Yet how far was home from here? All Miya knew was that Icelos existed somewhere in the sky above the clouds, far over the sea. It must be incredibly far from home. Otherwise, her father and sister would have led armies here. Could Miya even find her way back, or was Icelos in a different plane of existence, like the realm of the dead where Durian had died? Miya had no memory of coming here. She had been unconscious, had not seen the way.

She looked at the boulder on the distant foothills. Pain stabbed her.

But I'm not returning to that boulder. I won't let them torture me again. Even if I die trying to escape, death is better than captivity.

She slipped the dagger into her belt. She might need to stab an enemy later. Or, if need be, herself.

Only last year, Miya had been a timid, trembling girl, frightened of her servants and the staircase to the basement. Tonight she leaped out the window, shifted into a dragon, and flew across a demon sky.

She beat her wings, flying along the mountainside. She glanced behind her, saw the Hall of Shadows rise there on the mountaintop, black columns and spiraling towers. She looked ahead. The mountainsides sloped below, coated with Nemoria's dripping, miserable children. The poor souls raised their hands below, reaching up to her, calling out. Begging for death. Miya winced.

Be silent, she thought. Please be silent.

She flew closer to the boulder. It rose on the shore, the place where mountain met clouds, where she had screamed. During her long days in chains, she had seen many strange, terrifying creatures in the sea of clouds. Translucent sea serpents with human faces. Strange wolves the size of whales with fins and long beards. Quadrupeds with silvery antlers and white eyes. All like ghosts, rising and fading in the mist. Miya did not relish flying through that sea, but she would rather face those horrors than Lintari's leeches.

She flew over the boulder, hoping she would never see it again. She was almost at the clouds when the vultures screeched and flew toward her.

Miya dived low, trying to avoid them. A fight could wake up Lintari. But the vultures shrieked louder. Dozens flew toward her. They were larger than men, wings black and oily, beaks like swords.

Those beaks drove into her, and Miya stifled a scream.

She glanced back toward the Hall of Shadows on the mountaintop. Its windows were still dark.

The vultures screamed, cutting her, grabbing her horns and spikes with their human hands, pecking at her scales with sharp beaks. Biting down on a scream, Miya lashed her tail, knocking them off. She dared not roar, dared not blow dragonfire. Blood dripped down her flanks.

"Mi!" the vultures screeched. "Mi! Mi! Ya! Mi! Ya!"

She grimaced. More and more came flying toward her, stabbing, crying out.

When Miya looked back at the Hall of Shadows, she saw lamplight come on in a window. Lintari's window.

Damn it!

Miya blasted her dragonfire.

She spun in a circle, spraying the flame in a ring. The vultures' feathers ignited. They screamed and fell, blazing. Miya whipped her tail, knocking vultures off her back, and roared more fire at those swooping toward her.

From the Hall of Shadows, the gold and black serpent emerged. Lintari streamed across the sky, shrieking.

Miya beat her wings and flew as fast as she could. She shot over the shore and dived into the sea of clouds.

The murky vapor washed around her, cold and wet and so thick she couldn't see more than several feet ahead. She blasted out fire, and the clouds parted before her. But after her flames died, the clouds reformed at once. She flew blindly.

"Miya!" Lintari cried behind her. "Miya, come back here, or I'm going to flay you and keep you alive! Come back here, or you will scream for all eternity!"

Miya kept flying, her wings churning the clouds. She flew deeper, lower, trying to find an end to this storm, to emerge into clear skies, to see the ocean, to see land in the distance. But the clouds only thickened, and lightning flashed. For a split second, she beheld a dozen creatures all around her, some the size of vultures, others larger than dragons—strange, twisting creatures with antlers, fins, curling tails, curious human faces.

Miya dared not blow fire again. She tried to fly silently, to avoid ruffling the clouds. She stretched her wings wide and glided. Her heart pounded, and she was panting, but she forced herself to remain as still as possible, to stop her scales from rattling.

A creature rose before her in the clouds.

Miya reared in the sky, wings spread out.

The creature was massive, thrice her size. Its body was long, serpentine, the tail coiling round and round like a snail's shell. It had stringy arms tipped with pale hands, the fingers several feet long. The creature's face was oddly humanoid, large and ageless. A white beard flowed in the wind, and shimmering, silvery antlers coiled like ancient trees. The eyes peered at Miya, blank eyes, dead eyes, yet eyes she knew were ancient, wise, evil.

The creature stretched those long, many-jointed fingers toward Miya.

A knobby hand wrapped around her leg.

She clawed at it, lacerating the knobby fingers. Still trying to remain silent, she bit down hard, ripping through joints, and freed herself. The grotesque hand pulled back, spurting mist instead of blood.

When she tried to fly above the creature, its face changed. The mouth opened wide, pushing back the cheeks, exposing rows and rows of teeth. The jaws emerged from the lips like a snake from a fleshy burrow. The entire skull followed, emerging through the mouth, leaving the skin and hair to dangle behind like a hood.

The fleshless jaws snapped at Miya. She threw caution to the wind. She blasted fire, bathing the monstrosity with flames. Somewhere in the distance, Lintari shrieked in triumph.

"I see your fire, sister!" Lintari cried, still hidden in the storm. "I'm coming for you!"

The monster howled ahead of Miya, burning. There was still some fight in the bastard. Miya rose higher, flying over its head. The jaws snapped, caught her wing, and tore a hole.

Miya lashed her tail again and again, shattering the creature's exposed skull. Its tail uncurled, and its head rolled back. The beast fell through the clouds, finally dead.

Miya flew onward—bleeding, panting, shaking.

"Miya!" Lintari's cry rose from behind. "I see you, Miya. You can't escape me!"

Miya kept flying, ignoring Lintari, remaining silent.

I'm sorry, Lintari. I wanted to save you. But I can't. I can only escape. I must leave you behind.

Lightning flashed again, revealing dozens of other creatures in the clouds. Giant snails with human bodies and eyes on stalks. Coiling creatures of many limbs. Reptiles and giant elks with insect wings. Stretched, pale men like victims of the rack. They all had the same elongated fingers with many joints, branch-like, reaching toward her.

Miya flew between them, swerving left and right, diving lower and lower, seeking an end to the clouds. But they only grew murkier, the air colder and thicker, and Lintari kept shouting behind her. Miya blasted fire at another pale monster, burning her way through, and flew onward—holes in her wing, blood on her flanks, vowing that she would not be taken alive.

I still have the dagger, Miya thought. If Lintari catches me, I will shift back into human form and slit my neck.

She flew onward, trying to burn her way forward. The sea of creatures thickened around her. More and more fingers reached out to grab her, and hundreds of white eyes stared, promising her death.

SIRANA

She hovered inside Har Zahav, wings beating, staring at the mountain's inner wall.

Boom.

The mountain shook. The cracks widened. Dust fell.

Sirana narrowed her eyes, gathering fire in her gullet. Around her, hundreds of armored dragons stared, hovering in place, waiting, ready.

Boom.

The gargantuan morning stars slammed into the mountain again, those same iron flails that had butchered hundreds of dragons over the wilderness. Cracks raced across the inner mountainside. Vir Requis fled from the burrows that honeycombed the wall, flying to the opposite side of the mountain.

Boom.

Another blow sounded above. Chunks tore free from the walls. Boulders fell through the mountain, clattering against dragon scales.

Outside, the titans bellowed. The mountain shook. Fists, maces, massive stones—they pummeled the mountain. A crack widened, letting in a moonbeam. The silvery light fell upon mothers huddling their babies, praying elders, and young boys and girls ready to fight as dragons. More alcoves in the walls crumbled, spilling dragons.

For several days, they had hidden here. For several days, the titans had been pounding at the mountain—and finally it was beginning to collapse.

"The mountain will cave in on us," said General Pherion, flying by Sirana. "It will crush us all."

Sirana nodded. "Once those cracks are wide enough, we fly out. All of us. We take them head on. We blow our fire. Not just soldiers. All of Requiem. Tens of thousands of dragons will rise together."

Pherion nodded. "We will burn them."

Boom.

Boom.

Shouts and thunder and raining stones.

The cracks widened in the wall.

Sirana raised her voice to a shout. "People of Requiem! Hear me! I am Sirana Oldnale, and I fear no titans! Fly with me! Fly with me now! Fly for starlight! Fly for hope! Let every Vir Requis who can shift fly—for fire, for light, for Requiem! Arise, arise! For Requiem!"

The flails slammed into the mountain again. A great chunk of stone, large as a cathedral, crashed down. Another piece of the mountainside, large as a village, shattered with an avalanche of sharp stones. Moonlight streamed into the mountain, falling upon a frightened, hunted people. The titans roared, still slamming at the mountain, tearing out more chunks of the golden slopes.

"For Requiem—fly and blow your fire!" Sirana shouted and flew forth.

Behind her, myriads of Vir Requis—grieving, wounded, afraid—shifted into dragons. They rose together. With fury. With fire. With deafening roars. Like wasps from a shattering hive, the dragons emerged from the mountain. They stormed toward the titans, and their dragonfire streamed together.

The final stand of Requiem began.

Six titans stood in the night—three pale beasts of the east, three gray behemoths of the west. Their whips and chains flew, long as city streets. Their hands grabbed and crushed. Their teeth grinded. And dragons fell before them.

Outside the golden mountain, they died.

Here, in the ruins of an old kingdom, their nation perished.

Here the chains tore through them. Here the maces crushed them. Here the titans devoured them. Here they fought, blowing fire, and here they fell—streams of flame, falling stars and dying lights and dying souls, streaks of orange and red and white like balls of burning wax, hitting the foothills, fading, hissing away. Here their fire flamed hot and then guttered away. Here their stars went out, one by one, candles in a ruined temple in a storm.

Sirana flew, fought, blew dragonfire, knowing there were no more places to hide, knowing that she would die here—die fighting, die with honor, die and rise to see her parents again.

Long ago, you fell, Mother and Father, she thought as she flew between the titans, dodging their blows. You died fighting the goddess. Now I die too in battle. Soon we'll be together again.

The flames burned all around her. Her soldiers flew toward the titans, died in their fists, fell to the fields. The golden mountain collapsed. Fire hid the stars.

A massive hand slammed into Sirana, and she tumbled through the air, armor cracked, scales dented.

A chain link hit her.

She fell.

She beat her wings, trying to rise.

The dead rained around her.

All was darkness.

And from the east—dawn.

At first—faint rays of light, pale blue, white, like a glimmer on dragon scales. Then a beam of yellow, rising. The crown of the sun emerged, a shimmering disk, blazing over the mountains like shards of broken gold.

And there, from the dawn, he rose.

A towering figure, taller than the clouds, than the mountains. Feet that shook the earth. Shedding soil and rock with every step. A titan of stone, of bone, ancient beyond measure, crumbling, trudging on, and in his chest beat a glowing heart.

Undead. Risen again. A warrior of light. The champion of Requiem.

Once they had hidden in his veins and inner chambers. Now he walked the earth again, after thousands of years of sleep, and now he roared.

The living titans turned toward the stone giant, and they cried out in rage, in fear. Their roars shook the sky. They raised their weapons, standing in place, as if uncertain whether they faced a friend or foe.

"Requiem!" rose a distant cry. "Requiem!"

Sirana saw them now. Two dragons were flying alongside the stone titan. Both kept a wide berth. One green-and-silver dragon. One a mosaic of many colors.

Sirana's eyes dampened.

"King Berinor," she whispered. "Lady Lenora."

The survivors of Requiem flew around Sirana, pointing, calling out in hope.

"A champion!" they cried.

"A golem of stone!"

"Our king brings hope!"

As the stone colossus drew nearer, some dragons flew toward it. As they drew close, they lost their magic. They fell as humans.

"Keep your distance!" Berinor cried.

Sirana could see the red glow through a crack in the titan's chest. There shone the Blood Shard, the world's largest animating stone, powerful enough to cancel out magic. Instants before the Vir Requis could hit the ground, they were far enough. They shifted back into dragons and flew away.

No other dragons dared fly near.

The earth shook with every step of the stone titan. The champion crossed the last mile, reached the ravaged mountain, and with a roar, swung stone fists at one of the foul, fleshy titans.

Blood rained upon the land.

The living titans cried out and swung their weapons.

A flail's head slammed into the stone titan, chipping rock. The ancient beast bellowed, drove a fist forward, and crushed a living titan's jaw. Teeth the size of buildings fell and tore into the land. The female titan lashed her whip, and the thong carved a groove into the stone titan, but the giant stayed standing. The stone fists swung again, shattering the female's temple, then crushed her arm. A bearded titan attacked, but the fleshy fingers could not tear through rock. The stone titan grabbed his bearded adversary, slammed him down, and a chasm opened across the earth, and trees fell, and boulders rolled, and the sky itself seemed to shatter.

Yet the living titans, bashed and bleeding, were learning how to fight their stone adversary. They were perhaps weaker, their flesh fragile compared to rock and bone, but they were faster. They dodged the stony fists. They circled their fossilized enemy, fighting from a distance, swinging their weapons.

The flail's spiky heads slammed into the stone beast, cracking the ancient body, scattering rocks. Boulders rained. A stony rib snapped. Dragons cried out in fear, and the animated giant bellowed in rage. The flails kept swinging, crushing more stone, chipping more old bones.

They're going to shatter him like they shattered the mountain, Sirana thought.

She inhaled deeply, then shouted, "Dragons, with me! Distract the living titans! Burn their eyes, blind them, fly all around them!"

She charged, and the dragons swarmed.

She flew around one of the titans—the one with the iron jaw—and blasted flame toward its face. A hundred other dragons joined her, roaring out their fire. Soon thousands of dragons swarmed around the titans like angry bees, lashing their tails, clawing at the pasty flesh. They couldn't do much damage. But they could distract the titans, blind them, draw their fury.

As the titans stumbled, lashing at the dragons, the stone giant could attack in earnest.

The fists of rock slammed into gray and pale flesh. Jaws of stone ripped out skin. Bones snapped.

One titan swayed—a skeletal creature, cheeks sunken, eyes covered in cataracts. A stone fist slammed into its skull, and the cadaverous titan fell. It slammed onto the ground, and the earth shook, and trees fell, and shards of the mountain collapsed, and the titan rose no more.

The stone champion swung again, and another titan fell. Another earthquake shook the land.

The dragons kept flying, kept attacking the titans, kept blinding them with flame. Whenever they flew too close to the stone titan's chest, to the Blood Shard within, their magic fizzled, and they fell as humans, able to shift again only once they fell past the titan's knees.

Another living titan fell.

Another.

The earth shook.

The sky rained stones and blood.

The land tore apart.

The flails tore into the stone giant, and chunks fell from him, crashing, tearing into the earth. Ribs shattered. And still he fought, crying out for lost life, for a lost age. An ancient cry, echoing, a cry from beyond the eras. His hands tore into flesh. His hands shattered his enemies. His hands cracked, bleeding rocks and soil.

Another living titan fell.

The flails lashed.

The stone titan's arm collapsed, crumbled, shattered, fell as boulders.

His skull broke open, an eye socket gone. His ribs snapped, fell, cracked against the earth.

And still he stood, and still he fought, facing just one last living enemy. As five titans lay dead across the land, these two circled each other. A towering, stinking, rancid giant of flesh and hair. A crumbling, rocky, undead soul of mountain and earth and pulsing crystal.

The morning star slammed into the stone, again, again. Shattering more ribs. Shattering a knee. Breaking off the lower jaw. The stone titan was crumbling, barely anything left now. Chunks of his body hailed down, and the flail kept swinging, mercilessly breaking the ancient beast apart.

The flail shattered his knee.

The stone titan fell before his last enemy.

The flail flew again. Its iron head, its spikes larger than dragons, slammed into the stone giant's skull.

The flail shattered, and iron spikes flew and hammered the ground, digging into the soil like comets.

Sirana watched, unable to breathe.

The stone giant tilted. His skull was cracked open. His lower jaw was gone. From his throat emerged a low wail.

He pitched forward.

Even in his dying spasms, he reached out and grabbed his enemy.

With stone fingers, the stone champion grabbed the living titan's wrist. He yanked his enemy closer. He reached out another rocky hand.

With his dying heartbeat, he tore into his opponent's torso. He ripped out the entrails, burrowed deeper, and pulled out his foe's pulsing, rotten heart.

The stone giant fell, the leaking organ in his lifeless fist.

The corpse of his last enemy crashed down.

Boulders rolled and the land shook … then fell still.

The battle had ended, and all the titans lay dead. Mountains of stone or flesh. Gone from the world. Creatures of legend, fading again into myth.

The surviving dragons flew down. They landed in valleys between the mountainous dead titans. They shifted into human form.

"My king!" Sirana cried, rushing toward him.

The king stood in the carnage, looking thinner, wearier than he'd ever been. Dust filled his brown beard and hair. His eyes were sunken but finally filled with some hope. Sirana ran toward him, and she meant to kneel, to bow her head, but before she could stop herself she leaped onto her king, crushing him in an embrace.

"You did it, my king." Her eyes dampened. "You brought us our champion." She looked down to see Lenora rolling forward in her chair, and Sirana smiled through her tears. "You too, Lenora. You saved us."

Berinor held Sirana in his wide, warm arms. "And you led the people to safety. And you fought bravely. I'm proud of you, Lady Sirana Oldnale."

But of course, Sirana thought, they were not saved yet. Their war was not yet over. Nemoria still lurked in the east, and Miya was still captive.

"The goddess will hear of our victory here," she said, suddenly grim. "Her spies are everywhere. Her vengeance will be swift."

Berinor's eyes darkened, and he opened his mouth to speak when a cry rose from behind them.

"Whoa! Not fair! You didn't save any titans for us!"

Sirana turned and saw two dragons flying from the distance, one red, the other black.

"Fira!" she cried. "Oryn!"

The two dragons dived closer. In his claws, Oryn held the Mirror of Many Worlds.

"I just can't believe this!" Oryn flew toward them, laid the mirror on the ground, and shifted back into human form. "You just couldn't save us a single titan—not even one!—to kill. Now how will I go down in history as a titan-slayer, my true calling?"

Wreathed in fire and smoke, the red dragon landed beside him, and Fira too returned to human form. They all shared hugs.

Sirana looked at the bronze mirror in the grass, then at Princess Fira.

"The mirror," Sirana whispered. "Is it …"

Fira's eyes hardened, and she drew a dagger from her belt. "This dagger was forged to slay gods, its steel anointed with the blood of innocents. This mirror will take us to Nemoria … and I will plunge this blade into her heart."

BERINOR

He stood in the field, facing ten thousand Vir Requis—the Starlit Army of Requiem, ready to invade Icelos and slay a goddess.

A few hundred were true soldiers in armor, veterans of the old City Guard and Royal Army, survivors of the battles against Nemoria and her creatures. Most were new conscripts, gleaned from the nation over the past few months. Many were aging men and women, some bent, some slow, their hair white—yet ready to fly as dragons. Many others were too young. Some were mere boys and girls of twelve and thirteen, still soft, still so afraid, yet they too stood in formation, and they too would fly as dragons and blow their fire.

The refugees of Requiem were camped several leagues west of the rotting titan carcasses. Here were wild grasslands between sprawling forests, a pristine land beyond the borders of Requiem, far from the devastation. But Berinor knew that Nemoria would hunt them everywhere, that her arm could reach to every land. The army stood here in the field, while the civilians camped and hunted in the forest beyond. They were all in human form, hidden in the folds of the land, but soon they would summon their magic and fill the sky.

"There will be no peace for Requiem until Nemoria is slain," said Berinor. "With hydras, with valkyries, with titans—she butchered us. For many days, we ran and hid, suffered her hatred. No more!"

"No more!" replied his soldiers.

Berinor turned to look at his daughter, who stood a step behind him. Fira wore her old dented armor, the steel still stained with mud and old blood. Her long brown hair streamed in the wind, and her eyes were dark, full of simmering wrath and determination. The heiress of Requiem stepped forward, raised her dagger, and spoke loudly for the army to hear.

"This blade was forged with the blood of sacrificed children. This steel is stained with innocence. This is a weapon that can kill Nemoria." She held the dagger overhead, and the blade gleamed.

Berinor gestured at the bronze mirror which stood in the grass. "We'll open a portal a league outside the Hall of Shadows. We'll emerge one by one into the murky clouds of Icelos, hidden from the goddess. There we'll shift into dragons, regroup, and prepare for battle. Once we've all passed through, our army will charge toward the mountain, toward Nemoria's hall. We will shatter its columns. We will slay any enemy in our path. We will free Princess Miya, and we will make sure Nemoria can never hurt us again."

The new recruits looked at one another, nervous. The old warriors of Requiem would never break attention like this. The young ones, drafted in such haste, lacked the discipline. Lacked the experience. Perhaps even lacked the courage.

"But Nemoria is a goddess!" said one soldier, a boy too young to shave.

"She'll kill us all!" said another soldier, an old man with a bent back and missing teeth. "We must hide."

"There are no more places to hide!" said Berinor. "You are warriors of Requiem! You will know fear, but you will overcome it! You will face terrifying enemies, but you will defeat them! For thousands of years, enemies have risen to destroy us: the demons, the griffins, the phoenixes, the seraphim, hundreds of others. We suffered loss, destruction, genocide. Yet again and again, from the ashes, we rose. We will rise again! In future generations, Vir Requis will look back to this day, and they will remember you. They will say: Here in the fields of Salvandos stood those who refused to cower, who refused to surrender. Here rose the dragons of Requiem!"

A young captain raised her sword. "For Requiem!" she cried.

Others in the army followed suit. Blade after blade rose—dozens, hundreds, then thousands, a forest of steel.

"For Requiem!" they cried. "For Requiem!"

Their voices shook the land. Their voices would be heard for miles. Perhaps even Nemoria, with whatever godly power she possessed, heard this chant in her distant land. And feared it.

Berinor looked at them—thousands of soldiers who believed in him, who would follow him to battle, perhaps even to death. They rallied around his courage, even if they lacked it themselves.

What they didn't see was Berinor's fear.

He had never been more afraid.

His chest constricted. Every breath felt like a war. His head pounded. He wanted to fall to his knees, to rail at the stars, to shout: Why this curse? Why do enemies keep rising? Why, whenever we find peace, must we burn? Why did I lose my wife, and why was Miya taken, and why do so many thousands perish in agony?

His insides roiled, and he felt that Requiem was cursed, that there could never be peace. At most—a mere respite to lick their wounds, to try to heal, before the fire burned again.

He inhaled deeply. Courage? He had no choice but courage. He could kneel and surrender to the cruel arrows of fate. He could weep, tremble, suffocate on his agony. Or he could swallow the pain, could ignore the terror, ignore the scars inside him, and keep his shoulders squared, keep his dragonfire hot.

I will fight on, he thought. I will fight though my fear and pain are claws inside me. I will fight because my only other choice is surrender. It is better to fight, and to suffer the arrows and swords of an enemy, than to kneel and live under that enemy's heel.

"Requiem!" he cried. "May our wings forever find your sky!"

The ancient prayer of their people. The prayer Queen Laira and King Aeternum had sung thousands of years ago in the wilderness. The prayer King Benedictus had whispered in the dark, as the griffins toppled the marble halls. The prayer the Vir Requis had uttered in chains, whipped, enslaved in Saraph across the sea. It was the song of dragons, the dream of hope—to forever fly.

"Requiem!" his people repeated the holy words, swords raised. "May our wings forever find your sky!"

Berinor turned toward the mirror. His reflection stared back at him. A tall soldier. Bearded, armored, his hard eyes belying the torment inside him. A king.

He spoke in ancient Osannan to his reflection. "Icelos. A league outside the Hall of Shadows."

His reflection faded, and the mirror shimmered, then filled with swirls of gray and white. A scene of roiling clouds appeared, and a cold wind blew. Wisps emerged from the mirror, icy and dark, and wafted across the landscape.

Berinor stepped through the mirror.

He fell through a sea of clouds. Lightning flashed, revealing silhouettes of distant, coiling creatures who instantly vanished back into the murk. Berinor shifted into a dragon, rose higher, and turned around. The clouds spread around him in all directions. He barely knew up from down, left from right. The only solid reference point was the Mirror of Many Worlds. From here, it appeared as but an oval window into Requiem. He could see the field and his people there, hovering beyond the murkiness.

Fira stepped through the window next and shifted into a red dragon. She came to fly beside him.

One by one, the Vir Requis passed through the mirror and joined him. Oryn, a black dragon. Sirana, a silver dragon in armor. Soldier by soldier, one by one, soon thousands. They took formations in the sky, battle flights of three dragons organized into phalanxes of a hundred, each led by an officer with gilded horns. Phalanxes joined into five brigades, each commanded by a general. Ten thousand dragons in all. Few had been soldiers for long, but all had seen battle. All would fight this day.

The murkiness spread around them. Berinor could only see several dragons deep in their formations. This felt like no sky he had ever flown in. It was more like swimming in an ocean, the gray and blue vapor swirling all around him like watery currents.

Lightning flashed again, for an instant illuminating all ten thousand dragons, phalanx after phalanx, all hovering in the sky. Countless creatures coiled around them like fish and serpents underwater, like parasites in blood. Some of the ghosts of Icelos were larger than dragons, beasts like whales floating through the murk. In the distance, so faded Berinor could barely see it, rose a dark smudge—a mountain, and upon it the Hall of Shadows.

Berinor blasted up a pillar of dragonfire, and he began to fly.

Behind him, the dragons followed his light.

At first, Berinor flew slowly. With every beat of his wings, he gained speed. His dragonfire roared, a crackling, spinning pillar of flame for his army to follow. Behind him, he heard the chinking of millions of scales, the grunts of dragons, the blasts of fire.

They flew faster.

The mountain rose from the clouds, still small and distant—but growing larger, darker.

Ahead rose the screeches and roars.

Thousands of figures rose from that distant mountain like insects from a carcass.

The battle was here.

Berinor let out a great roar, a bellow that rolled across the murky sky.

"Forth, Requiem!"

From behind him, ten thousand dragons roared out the cry. "Forth, Requiem!"

"Forth, Requiem!" Fira shouted at Berinor's side.

"Forth, Requiem!" roared Oryn, storming forth.

Ten thousand dragons—howling, roaring fire—stormed across the sky toward the mountain.

Here we might die, Berinor thought. Here we might fall and never rise again. So let here be our final stand. Let here be our great, last song.

"Requiem!" they cried, the word echoing across the sky. "Requiem!"

They stormed forth, and their enemies flew toward them.

Myriads of creatures stormed through the clouds. A host of monstrosities. Some beasts were large as whales, their eyes blinking on stalks, their jaws wide enough to swallow dragons whole. Others were long and coiling and covered with gray scales, sprouting fingers like oak branches, their antlers shimmering silver. Some were elongated, pale men, limbs stretched and rubbery, fifty feet long, their pale white eyes blazing, their fingers tipped with claws. A hundred other shapes and sizes. A motley army of nightmares, all pale gray, their teeth serrated, their eyes white, blazing for death. They stormed forth, some like worms, others furred, others scaled, some thin, some bloated, all with those long knobby fingers, and their mouths opened together, spewing a storm of insects.

"Blow your dragonfire!" Berinor shouted and blasted his flames.

From the jaws of the beasts, the miasma flowed—millions of buzzing, flapping insects wreathed in gray smoke. Berinor's flames burned thousands of them. But countless other insects made their way around the flames and landed on him. They bit. They hissed. They stung with barbed stingers. He roared, clawing at them, shaking them off. They tore into his wings, pulled scales back from the flesh. Wincing, Berinor spurted dragonfire onto his own scales, heating them, roaring in agony. The insects burned and fell.

Across the sky, the dragons were blasting their dragonfire, burning the foul host of insects. But many of the creatures still made their way through. They burrowed into dragons' eyes. They stormed into jaws and down throats. Dragons lost their magic. The insects burst out from their softer human bodies. The ravaged corpses fell through the clouds and vanished.

"Burn through them!" Berinor shouted. "Spearhead formation! Forward!"

The army rearranged itself, folding backward, forming a great spearhead in the sky, all clattering scales and blasting flames. Berinor lead the charge, flying at the spear's tip, blasting out fire. Behind him, a triangle of ten thousand dragons bathed the sky with fury. They became a spear of dragonfire, driving toward the enemy.

The pale creatures ahead flew in a great, massive blob, many times the size of Requiem's army, hiding the mountain. They vomited more clouds of insects. Dragonfire crackled. Insects burned. More of the foul miasma washed across the dragons, millions of insects invading nostrils, mouths, eyes, ears, then ripping out through the flesh.

The pale monsters flew closer. Closer still. Berinor kept flying toward them, burning through the insects, his body covered with the biting, stinging vermin. The monsters ahead roared, bellowed, hissed, screeched.

With an explosion of fire and rot and flying scales, the two hosts slammed together.

The might of mountains seemed to slam into Berinor.

A massive creature, larger than a dragon, drove elk antlers toward Berinor. One horn cracked his scales, cut the flesh, and broke off. Berinor howled in pain. A strange serpent with a deer's face, antlers shimmering silver and pulsing with light, grabbed him with knobby fingers, and pain pulsed through Berinor. A mocking, deformed creature with an elfin face stabbed him, bit him with razor teeth. Berinor fought them. He blasted his flames. He lashed his claws. He plowed through them, knocking the creatures back, sending them into the inferno of dragonfire that wreathed the spearhead of dragons.

The formation drove onward. Berinor roared, casting his fire before him, ripping through the nightmares—whales with bloated human faces, giant crabs with snapping pinchers, demonic little girls with fingers longer their bodies, and strange animals woven of writhing human limbs. Fira and Sirana flew beside him, claws extended, tossing creatures back into the fire.

Across the massive spearhead of ten thousand dragons, the enemies swooped, biting, spewing insects, grabbing, goring. With every flap of Berinor's wings, another Vir Requis fell dead. A desiccated creature with a wide, bony chest and many arms grabbed a dragon, ripped off the wings, pulled off the legs, then fed upon the human remains. A cowry the size of a dragon rolled forward, and a mollusk emerged from within, pink and silver and quivering. It grabbed a dragon and pulled him into the shell.

But the dragons kept moving forward. Their fire kept blazing.

Ahead of Berinor, the enemies began to thin out.

As he plowed his way through, hope began to fill Berinor.

"They're falling back!" Oryn shouted, flying behind him. "They're running away! They're—"

A deafening shriek sounded ahead, followed by blasts of light.

The cloud monsters screeched. They scurried aside, cackling, hissing.

A new creature emerged from the mist ahead. It was a shimmering beast, elongated and flat like a tapeworm. It stretched three hundred feet long, dwarfing every other monster. It was like some lurid mockery of King's Column back in Requiem—towering, silvery, looming over the dragons. Claws thrust out from its sides, and upon its crest, like a capital atop a pillar, horns sprouted out and jaws screeched.

Dragonfire sprayed out from a hundred dragons at the vanguard. But the flames washed harmlessly off the massive worm's flat, shimmering belly. Screeching, the gargantuan creature drove forward and slammed into the dragon army.

Their ranks tore apart.

The massive worm sliced through the formation, destroying dragons. Wings and limbs flew through the clouds. Corpses rained. The creature pulled back, bodies impaled on its claws like lurid decorations. It screeched again. The mountain loomed behind.

"Tear it open!" Berinor cried. "Use your claws!"

He charged toward the creature. He blasted fire, but again his flames washed across it harmlessly. He reached a segment of the worm, lashed his claws, and cried out in pain. It felt like trying to claw steel.

The creature flailed. Its tail tore through dragons. Its upper claws grabbed more Vir Requis, pulled them to its mouth, crushed them between powerful jaws, and swallowed. Its rows of claws lashed. Berinor fell back, bleeding, panting. The creature thrashed like a whip, tossing dragons through the sky. Whenever Requiem's soldiers reformed, the beast tore the lines apart.

The creature slammed into Berinor again.

He tumbled, crashed into other dragons, and barely kept his dragon form. All around, the smaller monsters jeered and howled and tore at the scattered dragons. The mountain was so close—just there, just in the distance …

"Miya!" Berinor cried. "Miya, I'm coming!"

But he could not fly through. The worm flailed again, tearing down dragons, and spewed white fire. The light seared the sky. It blinded Berinor. It burned him. The creature shrieked, the sound rising, rising, deafening, a victory cry, and—

A roar sounded from behind.

A small blue dragon came flying from the distance—from the mountain.

Berinor stared through the searing firelight, barely believing, not sure if he was alive or dead, seeing visions, perhaps seeing the afterlife. The blue dragon flew closer.

"Miya," Berinor whispered, tears in his eyes.

The blue dragon flew closer, roaring. The worm rose between them, halving the sky. Miya rose higher, flying above the worm's shrieking head.

"Requiem!" Miya cried … and released her magic.

She fell through the clouds, a woman again—clad in rags, blond hair flying, holding a gleaming curved dagger.

Miya slammed onto the top of the worm, plunged the dagger into its flesh, then slid down its body.

The dagger tore through the creature with a sound like ripping leather.

Miya kept sliding down its body, cutting it open like gutting the world's largest fish. Blood spurted. The innards came free. Miya kept moving downward, clinging to the dagger's hilt, carving open the beast until she reached its bottom.

She shifted into a dragon again, faced the disemboweled monster, and breathed fire.

The worm screamed as Miya's dragonfire entered its wound.

Berinor stormed forward and blew his fire too. The other dragons joined him. Their flames drove into the vertical cut. The flames spread through the great worm. The beast burned, a writhing serpent of flame, then fell through the sky, spurting blood and smoke, until it vanished into the murkiness.

The blue dragon flew toward Berinor.

"Father!" she cried.

"Miya!" Berinor flew toward her. "Miya!"

They reached each other, flew in circles, and touched their claws together. Tears streamed down their cheeks. Fira cried out wordlessly, flew toward them, weeping, calling her sister's name over and over. The dragons flew together, claws touching.

But there was not much time for reunions. A hiss sounded in the distance, following by a scream.

"Lintari is here," Miya whispered.

LINTARI

She flew through the clouds, chasing her sister, and beheld an army of ten thousand dragons.

Lintari halted. Her black and golden scales chinked. She reared in the storm, a cobra with venom in her jaws, and stared.

Horror, hatred, and love pounded through her.

My family! My father, my sisters!

She gazed at them. She recognized them at once, even in their dragon form. She dreamed of them every night. A large green-and-silver dragon, scarred, dripping blood, but still noble and strong—Berinor, King of Requiem. A powerful red dragon, long and slender—Fira, her older sister, a jaded warrior. A small blue dragon, quick and graceful—Miya, the woman Lintari had tortured, the woman who had soothed her to sleep.

I love you, my family, Lintari thought, gazing at them. I love you so much.

She took a closer look.

Berinor—the man who had spurned Lintari, renounced her, the cruel king who had driven her into exile. Fira—the vicious killer who had murdered Ramiel in the tunnels. Miya—the wretched whore who had tricked her, who had fled her.

I hate you. Lintari growled. I hate you all—killers, evil, monsters!

She hissed, the venom filling her mouth.

She flew closer. She would kill them! She would kill them all! She hissed louder, then froze again in the sky.

The ten thousand dragons hovered before her. Ten thousand jaws crackled with flames. Lintari was an immortal, and she had survived devastating injuries. She had grown back even from charred skeletons. But could she survive ten thousand flaming streams of dragonfire reducing her to nothing but ashes?

Lintari didn't know. She didn't want to find out.

She floated in the sky, hissing, torn between love, hatred, and fear.

"Lintari!" Fira cried. "It's me, Fira! We won't harm you. You're our family!"

Lintari remembered meeting Fira in the labyrinth of roses, remembered seeing a vision in the mirror—a different truth, a story of a righteous Requiem, of a cruel goddess. She remembered healing Fira, loving her, then fleeing.

I love you, Fira. Lintari's eyes stung.

I hate you! I hate you all! You killed my brothers!

You are my family …

Lintari shifted back into human form. She hovered in the sky, holding her katana. Her hair streamed in the wind. Like this, just a girl, nineteen years old, she felt so vulnerable. So weak. Not a demigoddess but just a sister, a daughter. She stared at them. At her father, her sisters, and all the dragons behind them. Her people.

"You healed me," Fira said. "Do you remember, Lintari? You healed my scars, my wounds. I love you. You are my sister."

"You …" Tears streamed down Lintari's cheeks. "You killed Ramiel."

"I'm sorry," Fira said. "I wish we could have healed him, driven out the evil Nemoria had placed inside him. I wish he could have joined our family. But you still can, Lintari. We still love you."

Berinor flew closer. The green-and-silver dragon gazed at Lintari, and his eyes softened. "I came here to free Miya. But I also came here to free you, Lintari. You are a victim of Nemoria's cruelty, same as we are. Come home, Lintari. Come home to Requiem."

Lintari looked at her father, tears on her cheeks. Berinor—the man she had hated for so long, the monster from Mother's stories. Berinor—her true father, a man whose love Lintari wanted more than anything.

"You rejected me," she whispered. "You always hated me, Father." She turned to look at Fira. "You always wanted to hurt me."

"Have we hurt you, Lintari?" Fira said. "We love you. You're our family. You don't need to suffer Nemoria's cruelty anymore. You don't need to hate anymore."

Miya nodded. "Please, Lintari. There is goodness in you. Let us help you heal, as you healed me. Let us wash away the hatred and cruelty from you. You have a home in Requiem."

"I don't!" Lintari screamed. "I'm not one of you! I never can be! I can't turn into a dragon, just a snake. I'm not Vir Requis! Not fully. And …" She sobbed. "I'll always be evil. I'll always hate. I'll always love pain. I'll always remember killing your children. I can't." She trembled, weeping. "I want to. I want to be one of you so badly. But I can never be noble like you, Fira. I can never be good like you, Miya. I'm broken. And I'm evil. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She shifted into a snake again, turned, and flew back toward the Hall of Shadows on the mountain.

Behind her, she heard the thousands of dragons roaring and following.

The mountain grew larger ahead. Lintari flew toward the pantheon on its crest, the only home she had ever known. The home where Nemoria had hurt her so many times. The home where Lintari had learned to kill, to hate. Where she had bled. Where she had wept. Where she had vowed to slay her father and sisters. She flew between the columns, entered the throne room, and shifted back into a girl.

Mother was waiting.

The goddess rose from her throne like smoke unfurling from a fire. Nemoria wore resplendent black armor, the breastplate filigreed with a golden, three-headed dragon. Her raven hair flowed across her shoulders, and she held her spear, an eye blinking on its blade.

That spear can kill me.

Lintari shuddered.

The weapons in Icelos were forged to slay gods. Back in the day, many gods had lived here. They had forged weapons to slay one another, forging the steel with the blood of sacrificed children. These were weapons drenched with innocence.

With these weapons, the gods had fought a great war in the ancient days. Nemoria had emerged victorious. She reigned supreme upon Icelos. All other gods were but ashes and memory. Only their weapons remained, a handful of blades forged with innocent blood.

Throughout her childhood, Lintari had suffered her mother's claws, teeth, and blades of mortal steel, but only once had she tasted that spear's kiss. It had taken the wound months to heal, and Lintari still bore the scar across her side. It still hurt some days.

Lintari gazed at her own weapon, a katana forged in the bowels of this mountain. It too was cursed with dark power. It too could slay a god. So many times, in her pain, Lintari had dreamed of thrusting this katana into her own flesh, of finally ending her pain.

She looked back at her mother.

"The dragons are here," Lintari said.

Nemoria caressed Lintari's cheek. "Come, then. We'll face them together."

They stood between the portico columns. They stared out into the darkness of Icelos. From the clouds, they emerged: thousands of dragons, roaring fire, vowing death.

BERINOR

They stormed over the foothills. They lit the night with dragonfire. They flew toward the dark acropolis on the mountaintop.

"The Hall of Shadows!" Lenora said. The librarian's eyes were wide as crystal balls. "I read about it in my books! Thousands of years ago, many gods ruled here. But Nemoria killed the others. She lived here alone for millennia, mad with power and loneliness. I don't think any of the authors from my library have actually seen the place. I can't wait to go home and write a book about this!"

"Lenora!" Berinor said. "I don't want you flying at the vanguard. Go back behind the soldiers."

She growled. "I'm going to fight at your side, Berinor. For Requiem! For dragons! For starlight! For, well—my book!"

Silver scales flashed, and Sirana Oldnale came to fly by them. "And I'm not leaving you either, my king."

Black scales clattered, and Oryn joined them. "I suppose I have to be a hero again and save everyone."

They flew closer to the Hall of Shadows. Berinor saw them there, standing at the portico.

Two goddesses.

Nemoria. A woman with gray skin and purple veins, her hair long and black. Her right hand held a spear. Her left arm was made of metal, tipped with serrated claws.

With her—Lintari. Younger, her hair golden, a katana in her hand.

"Nemoria!" Berinor shouted, flying toward her, thousands of dragons flying behind him. "It's over, Nemoria! You've lost!"

Fira flew beside him, snarling, a fierce red dragon with long fangs and claws. But in her human form, Berinor knew, she hid a greater weapon. Once Fira shifted back into a human, she would draw the dagger from the south. A gift from the Crab Sisters. A dagger forged with the blood of innocents. A dagger to slay a goddess.

Nemoria stood in the temple, grinned, and spread out her arms.

"Hello, Berinor, my love!" she cried. "Welcome to my home—and your tomb!"

She spread out her arms. From between the columns of the temple, a dark swarm emerged.

Berinor gasped.

Dragons.

Thousands of dragons were flying from inside the temple.

Not dragons with shimmering scales and red flames. These ones were charred, blackened, ghostly. Black fire burned in their jaws, and their eyes were shining white beacons. Their flesh hung loose, exposing their bones.

The rancid dragons flew toward Requiem's army and blasted out dark flame.

Berinor bellowed as the fire burned him. Across the army, dragons cried out, lost their magic, fell as humans … only to rise again as black, ghostly beasts with white eyes.

Berinor gasped.

He stared at the astral dragons that were still emerging from the temple.

He recognized one—a long, thin dragon with one horn. Another dragon, short and beefy, with half a tail and one eye. A third dragon with a hint of lavender still on her scales, and a white scar on her brow. He recognized them too.

They had been his soldiers once. They had been his friends.

As Requiem's army collapsed, falling before these apparitions, Nemoria laughed. "Do you know them, my love? You led them once. I took their souls, Berinor! Every dragon that I slew—I kept the soul to torment you. Soon you will join them!"

Berinor roared out fire, trying to burn them down, to reach the temple. But thousands of astral dragons were still emerging like bats. Their dark fire washed across Requiem's dragons, knocking them down.

And there—there in the ghostly army, Berinor saw him.

A burly, squat dragon, hints of copper still visible on his blackened scales.

"Durian," Berinor whispered.

The undead dragon—Berinor's oldest, dearest friend—flew toward him, roaring out black dragonfire.

Berinor shouted as the flames burned him.

He charged, barreling through the rotting creatures, these souls of the dead. Beyond them, he could hear Nemoria laugh.

Hatred—hotter than dragonfire—blazed through Berinor.

With a roar, with tears in his eyes, he blasted fire, burning through Durian, through a man he loved.

This is not him, Berinor thought. This cannot be real.

Around him, a few other dragons still flew. A handful managed to storm through the ghosts. Armor dented, covered in blood, they flew toward the temple.

Nemoria and Lintari were gone from the portico now. Berinor reached the columns, burned and lashed at ghosts, and shifted into human form.

He landed between the columns, drew his sword, and ran over stone tiles. A handful of other Vir Requis joined him. They too shifted into humans and ran with their king.

They raced into a throne room. Crimson tiles covered the floor like a pool of blood. Dark pillars, shaped like tortured men, supported a shadowy ceiling. There were no walls. Between the columns, Berinor could see the clouds of Icelos. The cold wind shrieked into the temple, scented of blood.

Three thrones rose at the back. Seats for gods.

Dragonfire would not help here, Berinor knew. The only hope lay in Fira's dagger. The princess held that blade drawn now. She advanced with Berinor, her eyes narrowed, her lips tight.

Miya ran with her, wearing rags but holding her own blade. It was a cruel, curved weapon, its hilt shaped like a jawbone. Berinor had watched it slice through the giant worm, a creature his own claws could not harm. Miya must have stolen the blade from this temple, and it contained dark powers.

Sirana made it into the temple too, running in her steel armor, carrying her sword. She joined Berinor and his daughters. The four of them advanced toward the thrones, their weapons raised.

No other Vir Requis made it in. Berinor heard the battle still raging outside, the living dragons fighting the dead.

Stay safe, Lenora, he thought. You better stay alive to write that book.

Nemoria sat on her throne—a twisting, dark monstrosity with blinking eyes—and her spear lay on her lap. Lintari sat beside her on a smaller throne of silver, and her blue eyes darted nervously, and her hand clenched and unclenched around the hilt of her katana. A third throne was empty, forged of gold and shaped like an eagle.

That was Ramiel's seat, Berinor thought.

He glanced at Fira. She stared back at him, eyes dour. Sirana and Miya raised their blades higher, and the steel gleamed. The four Vir Requis walked across the black marble tiles, approaching the thrones.

Outside, dragons were screaming and dying. Between the columns, Berinor could see the ghostly dragons surrounding the temple, forming a whirlwind, hiding the clouds. He couldn't see Requiem's dragons, could only hear their muffled cries.

"Hear me, Nemoria!" Berinor said. "I've come to end this. I've come to stop you. For too long, you hurt my family, my people." He kept walking forward, and the others advanced with him. He had to keep talking, to keep distracting the goddess until Fira was close enough. "I've come to take Lintari home along with Miya. She's my daughter too, and she'll find a home in Requiem."

Nemoria rose from her throne and placed a hand on Lintari's shoulder. "Lintari is home, Berinor! This is her home, the Hall of Shadows, and this is her realm, the land of Icelos. For years, you spurned her. And now you seek to kidnap her! But Lintari will show you her strength, her hatred of you. You've come to kidnap her! Now it will be she who kills you—who kills all of you!"

Berinor leaped forward. "Now, Fira!" he shouted.

Fira ran with him. With battle cries, Sirana and Miya joined them.

Berinor hurled his sword.

The blade flew toward Nemoria.

Fira shouted and charged, her dagger raised. Sirana and Miya both shifted into dragons and roared.

Nemoria leaped up, grabbed her throne, and hurled the heavy chair toward them.

Berinor's sword slammed into the throne, and the seat shattered into a hundred pieces. Each shard became a black, winged snake that hissed and lunged at him.

One snake wrapped around Berinor's legs and tightened. He fell, and more snakes landed on him, wreathing around him, biting. When he tried to shift into a dragon, he could not. The serpents gripped him like chains.

Other snakes leaped onto Miya and Sirana. The two dragons roared, thrashed, struggling to rip off the biting serpents.

Fira shouted, still racing forward, still in human form. In her hand, the dagger of innocence gleamed.

Serpents leaped onto Fira.

She cried out.

The snakes wrapped around her legs, her torso, her neck.

Fira fell several feet away from Nemoria, bloodying her knees.

But even as the snakes engulfed her, the princess managed to toss her dagger.

Berinor watched, catching his breath.

The cursed dagger flew toward Nemoria … and the goddess stepped aside.

The blade clattered against the floor behind her.

Berinor stared in horror. His heart shattered.

Nemoria looked into his eyes and smiled thinly.

Sirana and Miya, both still in dragon form, managed to rip off the serpents. They blasted dragonfire. Heat and flame filled the throne room, gushing toward Nemoria.

The goddess only laughed. The flames could not hurt her. She held out her arms. More black serpents leaped forth like gushing strands of smoke. They slammed into the two dragons, knocking them down, biting, twisting. The dragons lost their magic, and the serpents wrapped around them, pinning their arms to their sides, squeezing, crushing. Other serpents were constricting Berinor and Fira.

"I am a goddess, fools!" she cried. "I am no griffin or phoenix like the pathetic enemies you fought before. I am divine! Did you really think you could hurt me?"

Nemoria raised her arms. All four Vir Requis—still wrapped in the serpents—slid forward. Invisible strings were pulling them.

Berinor struggled, jaw clenched, growling, muscles bulging. But the more he resisted, the tighter the serpents wrapped around him. They bit at his armor, cracking the steel, and their fangs pierced his flesh. Venom seeped through him, pulsating with burning hot waves, then freezing cold, sapping him of strength. His head spun. His vision blurred. If not for the snakes holding him up, he'd have fallen.

At his sides, the others struggled too. Fira and Miya were shouting and flailing, but as the serpents constricted and bit, their mouths frothed, their voices turned hoarse, and their eyes reddened and watered. Sirana was flailing in the air. The serpents held her above the floor, and her feet kicked, yet as the snakes bit her, she grew limp.

Nemoria stood in the hall, watching the prisoners, nodding. She stepped closer to Berinor and caressed his cheek. He thrashed, grunting and cursing, despite the venom weakening his muscles. But the snakes tightened, squeezing his ribs. With a sickening crack, one rib snapped, and he didn't even have the air to scream.

"Oh, my sweet lover." Nemoria caressed his hair. "You've come to me. I always knew that you would. Did you truly think that you, a mere mortal, could defeat a goddess? I instructed my dragons to let you through—just you and your family! I knew you would come. I knew you would kneel in my hall, my slave." She kissed him. "I planned all this, sweet Berinor, luring you here with your daughter like luring a wild dog with a piece of meat."

"You … planned nothing," Berinor whispered hoarsely. "You … lost our son."

Nemoria shrieked. She slapped him—hard—with her prosthetic metal hand. The claws ripped his cheek, spraying blood.

"You weredragons murdered him!" Nemoria screamed. "You stole my sweet Ramiel. Our son. I loved him, and you killed him! Just like you killed my firstborn!" She cackled, tears in her eyes, and spun toward Lintari, who still sat on her throne. "Do you see their cruelty, Lintari? Do you see how he mocks our sweet Ramiel's death, gloating even now?"

Lintari rose from her throne. She came to stand before the prisoners, looking from one to another. Her fist was tight around her katana.

"They are cruel," Lintari whispered.

Nemoria nodded. "They rejected you."

Tears flowed down Lintari's cheeks. "They rejected me."

Nemoria held her daughter's hand. "They murdered your brothers."

"They murdered my brothers," Lintari whispered.

"Only I love you, my sweet Lintari."

"Only you love me, Mother," Lintari repeated, eyes glazed.

Nemoria walked among the prisoners, holding her daughter's hand. "A cruel father who rejected you. Wicked sisters who scorned you." She came to stand before Sirana. "And finally, a soldier who led armies to destroy our home." Nemoria looked at her daughter. "It's time, Lintari."

"For what?" Lintari whispered, trembling and pale.

"To become a woman," said Nemoria. "To become a goddess. To atone for your sins. Twice you betrayed me—healing Fira in the maze, then letting Miya flee. Yes, I know that it was you who did this. But now you can redeem yourself. Now you can truly become the heiress of Icelos. Now you can earn my full, eternal love." Her eyes ignited. "Now you will kill them. Now you will kill them all. Your own family. Only after you slay your father and sisters will you prove yourself a true goddess, and Requiem's cursed blood will be seared away from your veins."

Lintari's eyes flooded with tears, and her lip wobbled. For a moment, she looked like she would collapse and weep. Then she raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and drew her katana.

"I will do this," she said. "I'll prove it, Mother. That I'm worthy of your love. And then you'll forgive me." Her voice wavered. "Right, Mother?"

Nemoria stroked her hair. "If you do this, all will be forgiven, and I'll love you forever."

Lintari took a step closer to the prisoners. Berinor tried to meet her gaze, but Lintari would not look directly at him.

"Daughter," Berinor rasped, "you don't have to do this. Listen to me. You're not this killer. You're not cruel. You—"

"Be silent!" Lintari screamed, eyes red. She would not meet his gaze, and her sword shook in her hand. "You keep lying. Lies and lies and lies. You keep fooling me. You keep making me think you're good, that you love me, that I'm one of you. You keep deceiving me!" Her face flushed, and her tears flowed. "You did this to me in the maze. You know you cannot fight us with strength, so you fight with lies. My mother told me all about it. But I'm done being deceived. I'll prove that I'm strong." She marched toward Sirana. "I'll prove that I can kill you all! Watch your friend die and know that you're next!"

Wrapped in the serpents, Sirana screamed.

"No!" Miya shouted. "Lintari, no!"

"Lintari, stop this!" Berinor roared.

She finally met his gaze. She smiled thinly. Never breaking her eye contact with him, Lintari swung her katana, slicing Sirana's neck.

"No!" Miya screamed, weeping, struggling against the serpents that held her. "Sirana! Sirana, no! No …"

Berinor stared in horror, eyes wide, breath shaking.

Blood gushed from Sirana's neck. The young noblewoman looked at him, and it almost seemed as if she smiled thinly, as if she was saying, It's all right … It's all right, Berinor …

The katana thrust, driving between the coiling snakes—and into Sirana's chest.

The young general's head tilted forward … and the snakes unfurled and scurried away.

Sirana thumped to the floor, blood pooling around her, and no longer moved.

Miya was still weeping and screaming for her friend. Fira stared in silent horror. Berinor's jaw clenched so hard he almost chipped a tooth. His breath shuddered. Terror and guilt filled him.

I named her commander of the army, he thought. I brought her here. Now she's gone. Now her blood is forever on my hands. He lowered his head. Goodbye, Lady Sirana Oldnale, bravest among Requiem's warriors. Goodbye, daughter of dragons. May your soul find its way to the stars, and may you be with your parents again.

"Excellent, daughter!" Nemoria said. "You are reclaiming your honor already. You are finding your strength. But this wretched worm you slew …" The goddess gestured at Sirana's corpse. "She wasn't an Aeternum, not part of your wicked dragon clan." She looked at Berinor and the princesses, who were all struggling against the serpents. "Now you must kill them, Lintari. Your family. All three of them. Slit their throats. Do this while our warriors destroy their army, and our victory over Requiem will be complete."

Lintari nodded. "I will do this."

She took a deep, shuddering breath, looking between Berinor and her sisters. Finally she walked toward Berinor, her bloody katana in hand.

"Lintari, don't, stop, please!" Miya shouted. "This isn't you! I know you're not this killer! Listen to me, please!"

But Lintari ignored her. She stood before Berinor, staring at him, and raised her katana.

"I love you, Lintari," Berinor whispered.

Fresh tears flowed from Lintari's eyes. "I hate you."

Berinor gazed into her eyes as the snakes writhed around him. "I forgive you, Lintari. In the coming years, you will feel pain. You will feel guilt. You will lie in bed, remembering this night. The night you killed your family. And I want you to remember this: I forgive you, and I will always love you. You are my daughter. Always."

She sobbed. Her katana wavered.

"I'm scared," Lintari whispered. "I'm so scared. Father … who am I?"

"You are loved," Berinor said. "Always. Unconditionally."

Nemoria stepped forward, sneering. "Silence, king of reptiles!" She spun toward Lintari. "What are you waiting for? Cut out his lying tongue!"

"I'm …" Lintari hesitated. "I feel weak. Mother, help me, I …"

Nemoria struck the girl. Lintari gasped and fell to the floor, her lip bleeding. Nemoria kicked her hard in the ribs, cracking them. As Lintari grunted, Nemoria kicked again, scattering her daughter's teeth. She kicked again, again, bloodying the girl, crushing her nose, cracking her skull, wounding her again and again as Lintari healed from each blow. Finally she grabbed Lintari by the hair, yanked her up, and shoved the katana back into her hand.

"Do it!" Nemoria screamed. "Do it, or I will make sure you scream for years. Prove to me your strength now, or I will make you strong. I will flay you alive over and over. I will rip out your organs. I will burn you. I will drown you in your own blood. You will kill your family! Do you hear me? You will kill your fam—"

Nemoria gasped.

She sputtered.

Lintari stood before her, holding her katana's hilt.

The blade pierced Nemoria's belly, emerging from her back.

For a long moment, Nemoria stood frozen, gasping. Blood filled her mouth.

Lintari twisted the blade.

"This is a blade of Icelos," Lintari whispered. "Forged in the old wars of the gods. A blade from which you cannot heal." She stared at her mother with dry eyes. "That is a mercy. This is a kinder wound than all those you've given me."

Nemoria fell to her knees, grasping her belly, trying to keep her entrails inside. She stared at her daughter, eyes wide, blood dripping.

"My daughter …" she whispered. "I loved you. Why … why …"

Lintari shook her head. "You never loved me, Mother." Her voice shook, barely more than a whisper. "I know that now. I understand. Miya made me understand. My father made me understand. I finally know what love is. I know what family is." She raised her chin, fists shaking. "I am a daughter of Requiem! I am a Vir Requis. I will find a home there, with a true family, with—"

Nemoria screamed. The goddess leaped to her feet, even as her belly bled, as her innards spilled. She thrust her spear.

Lintari tried to leap back, tried to parry, but she was too slow. Nemoria's spear crashed through Lintari's sternum and emerged from her back. The eye upon its blade blinked, covered in blood.

Lintari gasped and stumbled back, the spear in her chest. She fell, clutching the shaft, blood in her mouth, blood pooling beneath her.

"Curse you," Nemoria whispered, kneeling on the floor. "Curse you all … curse …"

As the goddess's blood spilled, the serpents around Berinor and his daughters loosened. The snakes hissed, fled across the floor, and vanished into the shadows.

Berinor rushed toward Lintari. She lay on her side, the spear still impaling her. A weapon to kill gods.

Fira ran toward Nemoria. The goddess was on her knees, disemboweled, but still breathing.

Berinor took Lintari into his arms. He cradled his youngest daughter. She gazed up at him, eyes glassy.

Fira grabbed her fallen blade, the steel forged with the blood of innocents.

"Father …" Lintari whispered, lying in Berinor's arms.

"Curse you!" Nemoria screeched, struggling to rise, slipping in her own blood. "Curse—"

Fira lashed her blade, slicing Nemoria's throat. Blood sprayed.

The goddess fell, and Fira plunged the blade down again, driving it deep into Nemoria, then again, and again, stabbing, weeping, screaming, cutting the goddess over and over.

Nemoria's skin crinkled. Smoke rose from her. Her blood boiled.

Then, with a crack, the goddess shattered into a thousand pieces. Each shard became an insect. The little bugs began to flee, then fell, shriveled up, and turned to smoke.

"She's dead," Lintari whispered, her face pale, her voice so soft. "Nemoria is dead."

Outside, beyond the columns, the hosts of ghostly dragons vanished, dispersing into mist. The survivors of Requiem's army—bloodied, holes in their wings, ash on their scales—flew among the clouds, cheering for victory.

But Berinor could feel no joy, not even at Nemoria's death.

He held Lintari in his arms. His daughter lay limply, the spear still in her belly, staring up at him. She blinked, and her lips moved, whispering so softly he couldn't hear.

"It's all right now, Lintari." Berinor stroked her hair. "She can't hurt you anymore. I've got you now. Your father's got you."

She coughed weakly and held his hand. "Father … am I … Am I still forgiven?"

He held her close, knowing it was too late, that she was dying.

"Always, Lintari." He kissed her forehead. "You are always loved. You will always have a home in Requiem."

A tear flowed down her cheek. Her hand slipped from his grasp. Her eyes gazed upward, lifeless. For the first time, her eyes were at peace.

Berinor looked up at Fira and Miya. His daughters gazed at him with huge, damp eyes. Sirana lay at their feet.

Berinor spoke softly. "Let's go home."

ORYN

The ghostly dragons dispersed around Oryn. They floated away like smoke.

Panting, cut, burnt, Oryn flew toward the temple on the mountain. He shifted in midair, landed on the portico as a man, and raced into the dark building.

He skidded to a halt.

He stared, eyes wide.

A dark hall stretched ahead, lined with columns, three thrones at its back. The goddess Nemoria was gone. Lintari lay on the floor, a spear through her chest. Farther back, Sirana Oldnale lay fallen, her eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Three living people stood here. Berinor. Fira. And …

Oryn let out a strangled cry.

He ran.

Miya looked up from the dead, saw him, and her eyes dampened. She raced across the chamber toward him.

She crashed into his embrace. Oryn wrapped his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, and spun her in circles. When he placed her down, she was weeping.

"Miya!" He touched her cheek. "Miya, are you hurt? You'll be all right now. I'm here. I'm here to save you. You'll be all right."

She laughed and wiped her eyes. "Didn't you see me outside? The blue dragon? I was the one who saved all of you from that giant worm."

"I saw! You were bloody marvelous!" Oryn looked around him. "Is Nemoria … ?"

"Dead," Miya whispered.

Oryn scrutinized her, seeking signs of torture. But Miya's skin was unblemished. He squeezed her against him, and his eyes stung.

"I don't care who saved who," he said. "You're alive. You're safe. That's all that matters to me. We're going to go home now, Miya. It's over. It's all over. I'm never letting you go again. I'm just going to keep hugging you forever."

She laughed and leaned her head against his chest. "You'll have to let me go eventually."

He shook his head. "Never. Well … maybe if any giant worms show up, and I need you to kill them." He touched her cheek, and for the first time, he kissed her—just a peck on the lips, that was all, but a kiss that meant everything.

When I first met you, I tried to steal your jewels, he thought. You are more precious to me than any treasure. I love you, Miya.

Words he could not utter aloud. But he didn't need to. In her eyes, he saw that she understood, and he saw her answer.

I love you too.

He held her close as dragons flew outside, roaring for victory.

MIYA

They flew home.

Thousands of dragons, carrying their wounded and their dead. They flew through clouds. They flew through the portal. They flew over the wilderness, the rolling forests and fields west of Requiem.

Many dragons sang—songs of victory, of pride, for they had slain their enemies. They had saved their nation.

But many others were silent. Many mourned.

Ten thousand dragons had flown through the portal into the land of Icelos.

Only two thousand flew back from the wretched realm.

Most of their dead had fallen through the clouds; those bodies would never come home. A few dragons carried fallen comrades, laid them down on the grass, and wept over them. Some of the fallen were frail elders, faces wrinkled, hair white. Others were barely older than children.

Here in the grasslands, still leagues beyond the border of Requiem, they sang for their victory, and they buried their fallen.

The day seemed too beautiful for death. The sun was bright, the verdant forest rustled, and birds sang. Miya stood, wrapped in a cloak, looking at the graves.

Rows and rows of them. Solemn graves outside the ruins of the golden mountain. The tombstones were carved by dragon claws, formed from golden chunks of the mountain. Many of the fallen were unknown; their tombstones bore no names, only engravings of the Draco constellation.

But the two tombstones Miya faced were engraved with names. Names she would never forget. Names that would forever be in her heart.

Miya knelt before one of the graves, and she whispered the words etched into the tombstone. "Sirana Oldnale. Warrior of Requiem. Guardian of dragons. Daughter of starlight." She touched the tombstone. "But you were more than that, Sirana. You were my friend. You were my dearest, my only friend. I'll always love you. I'll always remember you."

Miya lowered her head, remembering her childhood. For years, Miya had feared the world. For years, her own servants had mocked her. Her mother had fallen, and her sister had fled into exile. But Sirana had always been there. Lady Sirana, the last of an ancient family. A warrior. A painter. A kind, noble soul.

Miya turned toward the second grave. A name appeared there, but no epitaph. Miya whispered that name.

"Lintari Aeternum."

They had not called her a daughter of Requiem. They had not called her a daughter at all. Lintari's sins had been too great, her hands too stained with blood. But they had given her the ancient, honorable surname. Aeternum—the family that had founded Requiem thousands of years ago, this dynasty that had governed Requiem in a winding path through the generations, a journey of danger, hope, grief, and starlight.

Miya stared at the grave.

The woman who tortured me, she thought. The woman who slew countless Vir Requis. The woman who had been broken, bred to hate, yet who saved us all.

"I forgive you, Lintari," she said. "I forgive you."

Chinking like coins in a purse sounded behind her. Miya turned around and gasped.

An odd creature hovered toward her. At first, Miya was sure it was one of Nemoria's monsters, a new invader. His body was as long as a city block, coated with shimmering lavender scales. He had no limbs, no wings. While his body was serpentine, he had a dragon head. But not like a dragon of Requiem. The eyes were like crystals balls, the lashes long and feathery. His long white beard trailed along the ground.

"A salvana!" Miya breathed. "One of the ancient true dragons, mystical beings with no human form! I thought you had all died many years ago."

The ancient creature—his eyes seemed so old to Miya—stared at the graves. He spoke softly. "I knew the Lady Sirana. For only a few days, but she became my friend. I loved her. I will miss her." He looked up at her, eyes damp. "But you comfort me, Miya Aeternum."

"You know my name?" she said.

He nodded. "I am the last of my kind, Princess. For thousands of years, I lived here alone, but always I watched over Requiem. I am Xin Fian, a dragon of Salvandos. I never forgot how our nations were once allies, how your grandmother—Agnus Dei Aeternum—visited my grandfather long ago."

Miya blinked. "But Agnus Dei isn't my grandmother! Not even my great-great-great grandmother. It's been many, many generations. I'm not even sure how many."

"Ah." Xin Fian nodded. "Yes, of course. Time passes by so quickly for us salvanae, for we live for thousands of years. To us, your lives are like the rising and setting of the sun. Ephemeral yet so beautiful. Every one of your lives is as precious to us as dawn." He floated closer and nuzzled her, his white beard tickling her. "I know of loss, Miya Aeternum. I know of grief, of loneliness, and fear. But I know something of peace too and of healing." He smiled, and his eyes shone. "Yours will be a life of peace and healing."

Miya looked at the shattered golden mountain in the distance, the ancestral home of the salvanae, which the titans had shattered.

"Come home to Requiem with us," she said, stroking the true dragon's cheeks. His lavender scales were cool and smooth. "Let our nations be friends again."

The salvana looked around him, and a sigh rippled through his scales. "This is my home. But …" His eyes sparkled. "I can come for a long visit."

The dragons flew that evening, heading east across the mountains through sunset and under stars. Fewer than they had been. Leaving too many fallen lights behind.

They flew for days. They flew over rolling forests, grasslands, hills, rivers, lakes. At night, as the Draco stars shone, they camped in the wilderness, ate wild game, and Miya slept in Oryn's arms. During the days, they sang in clear skies—the ancient songs that had passed through the generations, that survived for another lifetime.

Finally, the survivors of Requiem flew over an escarpment that spread across the land, coated with pines. An ancient dragon statue rose here, and a waterfall splashed near a canyon. Here was the place where, at the dawn of the world, the first Vir Requis had gathered—those able to become dragons, shunned and hunted, exiled from their tribes. It was here that King Aeternum and Queen Laira had founded a nation. It was here that Issari, the Priestess in White, had blessed Requiem for all eternity.

The dragons flew onward till night, and there they saw it, rising in the distance: King's Column.

From this distance, the pillar was but a thin needle rising on the horizon, shining in the moonlight. It soared, the tallest structure in the world. Since the first days of Requiem, this column had been a beacon to Requiem, calling her lost dragons home. It had stood through war and rebirth, through genocide and triumph, generation after generation. Every enemy that had arisen could not crack this column, not even scratch it. So long as a single dragon lived, it would stand. It would call Requiem's children home.

They flew closer, and the pillar grew larger, shining in the moonlight, and the dragons called out in joy.

"King's Column stands!" they cried. "Requiem stands!"

Tears in her eyes, Miya cried out with them. "Requiem stands!"

Around the column spread the ruins of Nova Vita. The toppled palace, crushed temples, thousands of homes—gone. But Requiem had never been a land on the ground, Miya knew. Not the true Requiem. She looked up at the sky, and she saw them there, shining down upon her. The stars of her people, the stars from which their magic flowed. The Draco constellation.

"Our kingdom has always been in the sky," Miya said.

Berinor came to fly at her side, green and silver. Fira, red as fire, joined him, then Oryn, black as night, and Lenora, her scales of many colors, and thousands of other dragons all around.

"Requiem!" Miya said, staring up at the stars, and the others spoke the old words with her. "May our wings forever find your sky."

LENORA

After a dizzying whirlwind of sky, sea, and sorrow, Lenora was returning home.

She wheeled her chair down the tunnel, moving deep below Requiem, heading toward her library. Aboveground, the world still bustled. Thousands of dragons were busy clearing away rubble, recovering and burying corpses, and preparing to rebuild the shattered city of Nova Vita. But a second city had always existed here, a second capital to Requiem. Here, underground, was Lenora's domain.

The priests speak of a second Requiem among the stars, she thought. My second Requiem has always been underground.

She took a deep breath as she rolled down the dark corridor. Not very long ago, she had left this place a pale, trembling, terrified girl, her soul as broken as her legs, an orphan who had never dared face the world. She returned with her face tanned deep bronze, her body bearing the scars of battle, her arms stronger, her soul like steel.

Once only books had filled her mind. Today it was filled with memories of all her adventures. Exploring Tinkers' Palace where dwelled the strange creatures made from trinkets. Diving underwater, exploring the ruins of a drowned city, and battling a kraken guarding an ancient treasure. Delving into an ancient, abandoned mine, only to discover the descendants of ancient miners who had changed into a hive of mole-like diggers. Flying into a sky of monsters and slaying them with fire. Kissing a thief. Falling in love with a king.

Lenora paused in the tunnel.

"Do I love Berinor, Minori?" she asked her invisible friend, looking at her shoulder.

Her shoulder spirit was silent as always, but Lenora swore she could feel the tiny jatash hopping, rubbing against her cheek. Or perhaps Lenora imagined it. Perhaps now, after her adventure, she no longer needed this friend. Perhaps now, finally, she could let go.

But no, Lenora decided. Not yet. She would keep Minori around for a bit longer, would rely on her invisible friend's wisdom and comfort and love. At least for another while.

"But I have new people who love me now," Lenora whispered, tears in her eyes. "I have my friends. I have Berinor."

She thought of all those times Berinor had carried her in his strong arms, and how she had slept in his embrace, and how she saw such pain and mourning in him. And how, when she spoke to him, held him, his pain eased. As did hers.

Yes. She loved him, loved him in ways deeper, fuller, truer than all those love stories in the books, where the strong-willed heroine fell in love with the dashing thief or prince. Berinor was not young, not dashing, perhaps not even as handsome as those heroes. He wasn't Oryn. But neither was Lenora some heroine from a book. Still, even now, she was a librarian, still disabled, still afraid … but no longer broken.

She rolled onward and entered the library.

For a moment, she could only sit still, eyes stinging. The memories flowed through her. A girl with her parents, raised in joy among the books. A girl mourning, her parents slain, her legs shattered. Eighteen years of hiding, reading her books in her little nook, tending to her underground kingdom, exploring endless worlds between the pages but never facing the true world above.

"Eighteen years," she whispered. "Almost two decades—a prisoner here."

As she rolled her wheelchair between the shelves, Lenora began to weep. The place seemed so familiar yet so different. She no longer feared those shadows in the corners. The imaginary monsters were gone. She no longer thought the paths between the shelves great canyons. They seemed so small and narrow to her now. The same library, yet never the same again. Not after what she had seen, how she had grown.

"Maybe I have to let go of this place too." Lenora rolled toward her favorite shelf, one where she collected her most treasured books of adventure and romance. She caressed the beloved spines, these books that had been her life for so many years, been her friends. How could she give them up? How could she ever abandon this place?

She turned away, throat tight, eyes stinging.

She left the library, wheeled up the tunnels, and emerged into the world.

It was a chilly spring day, a drizzle fell, and a rainbow spread across Requiem. Hundreds of dragons flew above and toiled below, clearing away the white bricks, exposing the old boulevards and gardens. Little remained standing in this city. The houses, temples, the palaces, the trees—all had fallen in the war. Only King's Column still soared, and even this mighty monument now seemed small by the glory of the rainbow that crowned their kingdom. Even the oldest, gruffest dragon paused from laboring to gaze at the rainbow, to whisper of miracles and signs from the heavens.

A dragon flew down toward her, green and silver, the colors of Requiem's flag, symbolizing her birch trees and blessed stars. He shifted into human form. Berinor no longer appeared like the haggard, grief-stricken traveler Lenora had entered the mines with. His breastplate was burnished, displaying the Draco constellation in silver. His thick brown beard was trimmed, streaked with white, and a dark green cloak hung from his wide shoulders.

"So, did any giant mice eat up all the books while we were away?" Berinor asked, smiling, but his smile vanished when tears filled Lenora's eyes. He clasped her hands. "Lenora!"

She lowered her head, and her glasses slipped onto her lap. "Berinor, it feels different down there. It feels lonely." She looked back up at him, her vision blurry. "I don't know who I am anymore. And I don't want to hide away. I don't want to be far from you."

She rose from her wheelchair into his embrace. He held her close, and when her hat fell off, he kissed the top of her head. She leaned her cheek against his wide chest. His armor was cool and comforting.

"I think," said Berinor, "that we need to build a new library."

She put her glasses back on and blinked at him, still in his arms. "A new library?"

He nodded, looking around him at the ruins. "We're going to be rebuilding this city. This time, alongside the temples and palace, we'll build a grand library aboveground, full of wide windows and lots of sunlight. And I think, Lenora, that we'll keep a special shelf just for the books you'll write."

She tilted her head. "But Berinor! Books are too precious! Underground they're protected. If any enemies should destroy the city again, and the books were aboveground …"

Berinor nodded. "We'll still keep the most precious books underground—the ancient tomes scribed by the old masters. But Requiem knows how to build printing presses now." He touched the metal letters that hung around Lenora's neck. "We'll build many presses, and paper mills, and print many copies of our books. They will be available for all to read, not just kings and priests, but every Vir Requis. It will be a library of light, full of plants, statues, and of course—it will be yours to rule."

Lenora caressed his face—a weary face, lined, haunted, but still full of so much joy, so much life. She spoke so softly it was barely a whisper. "Is that all I am to rule?"

Berinor looked into her eyes. "Lenora, I—"

She pressed a finger against his lips. "Don't say it. Don't say that you're too old for me. I know it. Don't say that you still grieve for your wife. I know that too. And don't say that you don't love me." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Because that is a lie. Because I know how you look at me, how you feel for me. Because it's how I look at you, how I feel for you." She shook her head, tears falling. "I don't want to be a queen. I don't care about ruling a nation. I don't care about my children being heirs to Requiem. All I care about is you. Being with you forever, until I'm as old and wrinkled and gray as you are now." She winked.

Berinor laughed. "I'm not that old. I'm not yet fifty!"

She laughed too, wiping her eyes. "And I'm not yet thirty. I'm the same age as Fira. But if you ask me … I will say yes." She nodded, lips tight. "I will say yes."

She married her king in the autumn. It happened on a bright day on the escarpment, the northern landscape where Requiem had first risen. The birches rustled, their leaves golden and yellow, and no clouds hid the sky. Most Vir Requis married in human form, standing in marble temples, but Berinor and Lenora married as dragons. They sat on their haunches among the birches atop the escarpment, gazing at the waterfall that plunged to the River Ranin. A craggy dragon statue, which the ancient Vir Requis had carved before Requiem even existed, rose at their side. Millennia of rain and wind had washed its features away, but not its legacy.

Lenora had polished her scales of many colors until the blue, green, indigo, purple, and golden mosaic shone, and she wore a garland of hibiscus blossoms that hung around her horns. Berinor wore a heavy crown forged for dragons, and in its center shone a silver star, symbolizing Issari's Star, the eye of the celestial dragon.

It was a small wedding. Only a handful of guests stood before them, also in dragon form. Oryn, a black dragon—the dreaded thief, terror of the east, who had built Lenora her new wheelchair, who had kissed her, who had traveled with her through water and war. Once, Lenora had feared his boisterous energy. She had come to see his kindness, to become a dear friend.

Fira and Miya stood here too, a red dragon and a blue dragon. They were Lenora's princesses—and soon to be her stepdaughters. Years ago, they had lost their mother in Lenora's library. The same night Lenora had lost her parents and the use of her legs. For so many years, the three women had grieved in their own ways, each broken. Now all three would be united, stronger, bound with love.

"I love you, Berinor," Lenora said as the birch leaves glided around her. "And I love you, Oryn, Fira, Miya. And today, I think too about those we lost. Durian. Sirana. Queen Tilania. My parents." She looked at Berinor, this man she loved so much that she could barely take it, so much that her heart overflowed. "We lost so much. So many. But this is a day for new life, new love, new hope. This is a season to build, to come together."

Scales chinked and gleamed, and Xin Fian hovered through the forest toward them. The ancient salvana's white beard trailed against the forest floor, his long lashes beat, and his crystal eyes shone. He was the most ancient being in the world, perhaps the wisest too. With his home fallen, he had found a new home in Requiem, and after thousands of years of loneliness, he had found new companionship.

From loneliness to love, Lenora thought. From shadows to light.

The salvana sang softly, old prayers and blessings for lovers, his voice like wind through the trees, like falling water, like secrets and starlight.

"In Requiem's woods," said Xin Fian, "I name you husband and wife, King Berinor and Queen Lenora Aeternum. Make your life be good. May the stars forever bless you."

The dragons spread their wings and rose. They flew above the escarpment, the waterfall, the canyon, the dragon statue, this holy land, and on the southern horizon they could see King's Column rising. Lenora and Berinor danced as dragons, circling each other in the sky, until the sun set and the Draco constellation shone above. For so many years, Lenora had read about the dragon stars, dreaming of seeing them someday, and she wept at their beauty.

I was hurt, Lenora thought. I was broken. I was left in darkness, shattered, afraid. But tonight, I am married to a man I love, and I fly as a dragon beneath the stars. Tonight I am happy. Tonight I am a queen. Tonight let there be nothing but joy for all the children of Requiem. May we forever find this sky.

FIRA

Snow covered Requiem, and hearths warmed new homes of white stone. Fira flew alone, gazing upon a glittering world.

Spring melted the ice. Flowers bloomed and birch saplings sprouted across the forests, and Fira walked for endless hours, exploring hidden paths.

Summer's sun baked the land, and new columns rose in Nova Vita, and laughter and joy filled the city. Fira spent her days wandering the escarpment, far from the city, often sitting for hours by the stone statue, gazing into the wilderness, silent and still.

One late summer morning, a cheer rose in Nova Vita. A baby was born to Princess Miya and Prince Oryn—a hearty boy with his father's brown skin and his mother's blue eyes. One night of countless stars, when autumn blew its first cold breezes, a second child was born, daughter to King Berinor and Queen Lenora—a beautiful child with her mother's blond hair and the love of all Vir Requis.

On these blessed occasions, Fira spent her time in the city. She dined with her family, laughed with them, and shared the hearth's light and the joy of home and family.

But always, after only a few hours, Fira left again. And again she flew alone. And again she walked along secret paths, hidden between the trees. And again she sat still for many hours, silent as a statue, watching the forests.

Father and Lenora found joy, Fira thought. Oryn and Miya found joy. And I'm happy for them. And I love them with all my heart. But my own heart cannot mend.

Most nights she slept out in the wilderness, a dragon curled up on a mountaintop or in the forests, sometimes letting rain patter against her scales, sometimes finding shelter in a cave. Because back in the city, there was still too much pain. There were still too many memories. There was still that girl who had seen her mother devoured. Who had flown out and bitten the arm off a goddess. Who had fallen through fire. Who had shattered. Who had killed her own brother.

On one autumn day, Fira was walking along a forest trail. She often walked here as a human, wanting to fully experience the rustling leaves, the song of birds, the scurrying of rabbits, to collect acorns and stones and other pretty things. After long hours, climbing a slope, she found a shimmering dragon scale on the path. It was a bright gold scale, platinum when the sun caught it just right. A rare color in Requiem. The color of her mother's scales.

Many dragons had flown here during the years, some of them colored gold. But Fira felt like this scale had truly belonged to Queen Tilania. Her beloved mother. Fira placed it into her pack.

"I miss you, Mother," she whispered. "Always."

She heard the flap of wings, and Fira spun around, heart beating. For an instant, she was sure that it was a hydra, a valkyrie, or even Nemoria herself. Her hand leaped to her sword, and cold sweat washed her.

But it was only a small blue dragon. Miya.

The young princess glided down, landed on the path, and returned to human form. Miya normally wore gowns, but today she wore simple leggings, tall boots, a vest, and a wide belt. Hiking clothes.

Fira exhaled in relief, sweat on her brow, and realized that she had drawn her sword. She sheathed it.

"I'm sorry, Miya. For a moment, I was sure that …" Fira sighed. "Every time a twig snaps. Every time the wind blows just wrong. Every time a baby cries. I always think she's coming back. I always think that it's all happening again."

"I'm the same way." Miya looked around at the pines, birches, and wildflowers, as if seeking enemies. "It's been two years since Nemoria died. It's been two years of peace." She looked back at Fira. "Yet I still have nightmares. I still jump whenever somebody breaks a dish. I'm still afraid of darkness." She clasped Fira's hands. "Fira, come home."

Fira hated that she cried. Hated to be so weak. She looked down at the path. "I don't know that I can."

Miya embraced her. "For so many years, Fira, we were broken. We were afraid. Both of us. I hid in the palace. You hid in the wilderness. But it's time to heal. It's time to be a family again. It's time to go home."

Fira trembled, tears on her lashes. "I don't know if I have a home anymore."

"Fira! You will always have a home in Requiem. In Nova Vita. With us. Father has been looking to rebuild the City Guard, and he wants you to serve. To command it. He wanted to fly here, to ask you himself, but he wasn't sure how. So I came."

Fira laughed. "I'm not a soldier. I've never served in a military."

"You fought many battles, and you slew Nemoria," said Miya, eyes solemn. "And you're the princess of Requiem. Come home with me, Fira. We're rebuilding this kingdom. You still have a part to play in it."

Fira watched a blackbird fly above. To command the City Guard? It was an honorable position, one that went back many generations. Someday, Fira would inherit Requiem. But that would not be, she hoped, for many years. Even decades. She nodded. Until that day, she would defend Requiem. She had no husband, no children, no desire for them. Her pain had driven her to spend most of her life in the wilderness.

So let that pain drive me to courage, she thought. Let my fire always burn for Requiem. Let me find peace in defending this kingdom that I fought for, that I sacrificed so much for, that I love. Requiem! My wings will find your sky.

She hugged her sister.

"I love you, Miya," she whispered. "Always."

Miya kissed her cheek. "Right back at ya, big sis."

They rose together as dragons. They flew over the mountains, forests, and rivers of Requiem. They flew toward King's Column, that ancient pillar on the horizon, a beacon of starlight that would always call them home.

Find more Requiem novels at . . . 

DanielArenson.com/Requiem

New Requiem novels are coming soon! To learn when they're released, sign up to the Daniel Arenson mailing list (you'll also receive a free ebook as a gift): DanielArenson.com/MailingList

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading the Dragonfire Rain trilogy. I hope you enjoyed these novels.

I've written several other trilogies set in Requiem, and I'm writing new ones all the time.

You can find a list of all Requiem novels at: DanielArenson.com/Requiem

Want to know when new Requiem books are released? Here are some ways to stay updated:

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And if you have a moment, please review Dragonfire Rain online. Help other fantasy readers and tell them why you enjoyed reading. Thanks!

Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

THE MOTH SAGA

Moth

Empires of Moth

Secrets of Moth

Daughter of Moth

Shadows of Moth

Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

Dawn of Dragons

Requiem's Song

Requiem's Hope

Requiem's Prayer

The Complete Trilogy

Song of Dragons

Blood of Requiem

Tears of Requiem

Light of Requiem

The Complete Trilogy

Dragonlore

A Dawn of Dragonfire

A Day of Dragon Blood

A Night of Dragon Wings

The Complete Trilogy

The Dragon War

A Legacy of Light

A Birthright of Blood

A Memory of Fire

The Complete Trilogy

Requiem for Dragons

Dragons Lost

Dragons Reborn

Dragons Rising

The Complete Trilogy

Flame for Requiem

Forged in Dragonfire

Crown of Dragonfire

Pillars of Dragonfire

The Complete Trilogy

Dragonfire Rain

Blood of Dragons

Rage of Dragons

Flight of Dragons

ALIEN HUNTERS

Alien Hunters

Alien Sky

Alien Shadows

OTHER WORLDS

Eye of the Wizard

Wand of the Witch

Firefly Island

The Gods of Dream

Flaming Dove

KEEP IN TOUCH

www.DanielArenson.com

Daniel@DanielArenson.com

Facebook.com/DanielArenson

Twitter.com/DanielArenson