PILLARS OF DRAGONFIRE

FLAME OF REQUIEM, BOOK THREE

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE: TIL

CHAPTER TWO: MELIORA

CHAPTER THREE: VALE

CHAPTER FOUR: MELIORA

CHAPTER FIVE: LUCEM

CHAPTER SIX: MELIORA

CHAPTER SEVEN: VALE

CHAPTER EIGHT: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER NINE: TIL

CHAPTER TEN: MELIORA

CHAPTER ELEVEN: VALE

CHAPTER TWELVE: LUCEM

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MELIORA

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: VALE

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MELIORA

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ELORY

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BIM

CHAPTER NINETEEN: LUCEM

CHAPTER TWENTY: TIL

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: MELIORA

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: LUCEM

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: JAREN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: VALE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: TIL

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: MELIORA

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: TIL

CHAPTER THIRTY: VALE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: TIL

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: MELIORA

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: MELIORA

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: VALE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: ELORY

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: VALE

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: LUCEM

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: JAREN

CHAPTER FORTY: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: MELIORA

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: VALE

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: ELORY

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: VALE

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: ELORY

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

TIL

They crept through the ruins—a man, a woman, a child—seeking life in fields of death.

Please, stars of Requiem, Til prayed silently, moving through the snow. Let there be others. Please.

The snow kept falling and she couldn't stop shivering. Her woolen cloak was too ragged, and the wind invaded its holes to claw her skin. Her patches of rusted armor, cobbled together over the years, felt like ice pressed against her. Holes filled her boots, snow sloshed around her toes, and Til began to wonder if the cold would kill her before the fire of the seraphim could.

The ruins of Requiem spread around her. Clouds veiled the sun, allowing only dim light to fall upon the devastation. Columns lay shattered around her like the bones of giants. Icicles clung to statues of dragons and ancient kings. An archway still stood on a hill, the entrance to some old temple, the walls around it long fallen. Only crows now stood upon what remained of the battlements, the priests and warriors long fallen. Homes, schools, libraries, hospitals—all now lay as strewn bricks, covered in snow. Forgotten. Dead like the denizens of this place.

Nova Vita, fabled capital of Requiem, Til thought, shivering as she walked among the snowy ruins. She lowered her head. Like every other place, you too are gone.

"There's nothing but death here," she whispered.

At her left side, her father grunted. "Let's take a closer look. We'll scan the city."

Til turned to look at him. Father was tall and haggard, his eyes dark. Like her, he wore a tattered cloak, the gray wool dusted with snow. Like her, he sported flaming red hair, most of it hidden beneath his hood. Like her, he held a bow, and a sword and quiver hung across his back. Yet he seemed more hopeful to Til, stronger, braver.

He still believes, she thought. Still believes we can win this rebellion. Still believes other Vir Requis survived.

Five hundred years ago, the seraphim had come here to Requiem. Five hundred years ago, they had carted off nearly all the Vir Requis in chains.

But a few Vir Requis had remained in their homeland. A few had avoided the chains, had hidden, had survived, had passed the torch of Requiem to a new generation. For five centuries, free Vir Requis had been fighting the seraphim here in Requiem, haggard but wearing no collars, hiding in forests and caves, keeping the old flame alive. As most of their people languished in slavery far in the south, these few had remained, had fought on. Til. Her father. Her brother. Perhaps they were the last.

"I want to leave," whispered Til's brother. "Please, Father. Please. I'm scared. They'll find us. I want to go back to the caves. Please."

Til turned to her right. Her brother, Bim, walked there. He was only eleven years old—a full decade younger than Til—but his eyes were older. Dark eyes, too large in his gaunt face. Haunted eyes. The eyes of an old soldier who had seen too many killed, had killed too many. Bim too carried sword and bow, the weapons too large for him, and beneath his hood, a man's helmet wobbled on his head.

Forced to grow up too soon, Til thought. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Like I was. Like we all were. But will he live to be my age?

"Soon," Til said, trying to make her voice soothing, though fear coiled through her. "Soon, Bim. We just have to see if any others live in this city."

His eyes flooded with tears, and his breath shuddered. "We've been looking for others for so long. For years. For years, Til! It'll be the same here as everywhere else. Just bones."

He pointed.

Til looked and her spirits sank deeper. Three skeletons hung from the frosted branches of oaks, swinging in the wind. The crows had stripped them bare. These were not the skeletons of Requiem's ancient warriors, those who had fallen in the Great Calamity five hundred years ago when Prince Ishtafel had shattered this land. The ropes around their necks were too fresh. No. Here were others like Til and her family. Others who had survived the war, who had been living in hiding, fighting from the shadows all these centuries. Still falling. One by one. Last lights going out after a great flame, last stars vanishing long after the sun had set.

Father approached, placed his arm around Bim, and turned the boy away from the grisly sight. "We keep going, son." Father's voice was but a whisper. "Just a little longer. We might yet find life here."

They walked onward, and with every step, Til's hope shrank. When she had been a youth, there had been others. Not many but enough to give Til a sense of camaraderie, of hope to see Requiem reborn. She had fought with them, the last free Vir Requis, the ancestors of those who had survived the war, who had hidden in tunnels and forests while the seraphim had carried their brethren to southern slavery. For centuries they had hidden in their ravaged homeland, scurrying from hole to hole, fighting in the forests and ruins.

Until five years ago.

Til lowered her head.

Until the disastrous rebellion.

The man had led them, the prophet, the one who had claimed to be king. He had gathered all free Vir Requis, all those who had cowered and hidden in Requiem. A thousand dragons had flown that day, flown against the Overlord, the cruel seraph who ruled over these ruins.

And the dragons had burned. They had fallen screaming.

Hundreds had perished in the flames that day, and the survivors—mere dozens—had fled. For five years now, the Overlord had been hunting them. Killing them one by one. Til's comrades. Her mother. Her older brother. Until this was all that remained: a haggard father; a frightened son; and her—a young woman with red hair, old patches of armor, and fading hope in her heart.

As they kept walking, fire crackled above.

At once Til, her brother, and her father leaped aside. Father crouched behind a toppled statue, and Til and Bim huddled under a fallen log. Red light fell upon the snow. Til's heart pounded, and she clutched her sword's hilt. Peering from under her snowy hood, she saw them above.

Chariots of fire.

She grimaced, cold sweat on her brow. She still remembered those chariots tearing through the rebels five years ago. She still remembered the seraphim, deities from the sky, slaying her mother and older brother. A thousand times in her dreams, she had seen these chariots fly into Requiem—the Old Requiem from five hundred years ago—and topple this city.

Only three now flew above, their firehorses shedding ash, and suddenly Til wanted to summon her magic. To become a dragon. To fly, to blow her fire like she had during the rebellion. To burn down the seraphim, even if she died in their fire.

And why shouldn't she? She was not like the Vir Requis slaves who languished in the south, captives of Saraph. Her ancestors had avoided the chains and collars, had remained in Requiem, had learned to survive in these ruins. Til was a warrior descended of warriors. She had been fighting in these ruins all her life. She reached down, felt her magic tingling there—the ancient magic of Requiem. The magic that would let her fly as a dragon. To fight instead of cower.

The chariots flew onward, and Til released her magic and lowered her head.

No, she thought. The rebellion is over. There is no more hope to fight the seraphim, only hope to maybe find more Vir Requis. To maybe live another day.

With the chariots gone, they emerged from their hiding spots. Bim was crying. The damn boy was always crying lately.

"You have to be strong." Til grabbed his shoulders, leaned down, and stared into her brother's eyes. "You hear? You're eleven years old, old enough to fight, to be a man. To be strong."

"I want to go home," he whispered.

Til's throat tightened. "This is our home." She swept her arm across the ruins. "See this place? This is Nova Vita, the ancient capital of Requiem. Where our ancestors are from. See the old walls, the archway, the bridge?"

He shook his head, shivering. "I see only burnt stones. Only bones. I want to go back to the cave. The place in the north where we hid. To hide. To hide from the fire. They're going to burn us." He covered his eyes, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "The seraphim."

Father approached and brushed snow off Bim's shoulders. "Come, son, just a little farther. There might be others here. Other survivors."

Til looked over Bim's head and met her father's gaze. He stared back, his green eyes so weary in his haggard face. She had the same eyes. Eyes that clung to hope though the mind knew there was none.

She nodded. "We keep going."

They kept walking through the ruins as the snow fell. As they stepped over frosted bricks, Til imagined a home standing here, a hearth crackling, a family gathered together in prayer and love. She walked alongside a staircase that rose only four steps, leading to a pile of rubble and smashed statues, and she imagined a temple standing here, soaring toward the sky, full of priests who sang the old songs. When she gazed up at the clouds, she imagined millions of dragons flying above in every color.

This was a great nation once, Til thought. A nation now enslaved in the south. But I will never be a slave. I will never wear a collar. Better to live like a rat, scurrying from hole to hole, than live in a cage.

The sun was low in the sky when she saw it ahead. Til froze and gasped. Her father and brother stood with her, staring with wide eyes.

"There it is," Till whispered. "It's real."

She had always known her father to be stern, laconic, but now the haggard man knelt in the snow, and his eyes dampened.

"King's Column," he whispered.

The ancient pillar was still distant, miles away, but easily visible. It soared above the treetops, three hundred feet tall. Til had never seen it before, but like all Vir Requis, she knew the tales. Thousands of years ago, the legendary Aeternum had raised that column in the forest, a beacon to summon the wild, hunted Vir Requis from across the world. It had become the backbone of Requiem, the kingdom of those who could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and rise as dragons.

For thousands of years, Til knew, the enemies of Requiem had tried to topple this column. Yet so long as a single Vir Requis breathed, the column would stand. And so even now, in these ruins, with the seraphim burning the sky, King's Column still soared.

"Thousands of years ago, this was a beacon to our hunted, outcast people," Til said. "I pray that it acts as a beacon still. If any others survived the rebellion, I pray that we find them here."

Other survivors. Til did not know if any still lived in these ruins. She had not seen others for months now, not since her mother had died. Perhaps they were all that remained—her, her father, her brother . . . and the collared slaves in the south. Yet if others still lived free, they would be here, she knew. Here at this ancient heart of an ancient kingdom.

The ruins were thick here, with countless bricks, staircases, and columns buried under the snow. Walking was slow but they dared not fly. In human form, they would quickly leap and hide should more chariots burn above. As dragons they would be visible for leagues. As she walked, Til tried to imagine the great manors and temples that had risen here, the heart of the city. In her mind's eye, she could see Requiem standing again, beautiful in the winter, a safe home.

I pray that someday Requiem rises again, she thought. If there is any holiness left in this place, and if you can hear me, stars of my forebears, let us survive long enough. For thousands of years, empires have risen to destroy us, only to fall. I pray that we live long enough to see Saraph fall too, to see Requiem reborn, but the darkness is great, and the wait is long, and I'm afraid.

She stared ahead at King's Column, seeking solace from this ancient pillar, yet when she stepped closer, a strangled yelp left her mouth.

Her father grunted, and Bim covered his eyes.

Stars above, Til thought. She walked closer, dreading what she saw, unable to turn away. Sickness rose inside her, and she knelt over and gagged.

In the stories, King's Column shone like starlight, carved of purest marble, a pillar like white dragonfire. Yet now dried blood coated the stone, flaking and rancid. Hundreds of skeletons draped across the column, strung along chains, like a lurid maypole from the Abyss. They were human skeletons, wingless—the skeletons of Vir Requis.

Bim let out a strangled yelp. Til pulled him into her arms and pressed his face against her shoulder.

Ancient magic still protected the column, Til knew, and the seraphim could not topple it. But they could defile it. They had turned it from a beacon of hope into a monument of Requiem's fall.

"They're all dead." She stared at her father with dry eyes. "We leave. There's nobody here."

But she was wrong.

There was life here.

Cruel life. Life of sunfire and steel.

They rose from the ruins. They descended from the clouds. They burned the sky and melted the ice. Hundreds of them, casting out blinding light.

The seraphim.

Some flew in chariots of fire, pulled by winged horses of flame. Other seraphim spread their own wings, and the firelight shone against their armor, spears, and golden hair. At their lead flew a glittering deity, his armor gilded, a blinding halo around his head. He was a burly figure, beautiful to behold, his blond locks flowing, a figure who seemed woven of light. A sigil of a rampant lion glittered upon his breastplate.

Til knew this one. The Overlord. Commander of the north, this land that had once been Requiem.

"Run!" Til whispered.

She raced through the snow. Her brother and father ran with her. Til whipped her head from side to side, seeking shelter—a cave, a fallen log, a huddle between walls. Finally she spotted a fallen column ahead, a hollowed out space below.

But it was too late.

They saw her.

"Weredragons!" the seraphim cried. "Weredragons below. Seize the reptiles! String them up with the others."

For five years—five terrible years since the doomed uprising—Til had slunk through the ruins in human form, hiding in holes and caves, scurrying between trees and hills, her sword and arrows her only weapons.

The time to hide was over.

This day, in sight of her defiled column in the heart of her stolen kingdom, Til summoned her magic.

Scales flowed across her, rattling like a suit of armor, deep orange trimmed with yellow. Wings burst out from her back, tipped with black claws. Her tail lashed. She took to the sky, the color of fire, and blasted out her own flames. Her father and brother shifted too, both rising as black dragons, and their fire pierced the sky.

The light of Saraph flared. The sun was setting, but the light of a thousand suns now covered the sky and ruins, gold and white. A voice tore through the air, a voice so loud its waves pounded against Til and cracked trees below, a voice mellifluous yet terrible, a voice like a beautiful dirge. The voice of a god.

"Slay the reptiles!"

Til didn't have to look to know—this was the voice of the Overlord.

"Fly!" Til shouted to her family. "Don't look back, just fly!"

The three dragons shot forward, the fire and light blazing behind them. Flames rained, so hot even the frozen trees kindled and burned. More seraphim kept rising, emerging from the forest and ruins, plunging from the clouds, covering the world with their light. Their lances rose like a second forest, their eyes were cruel stars, and their wings shone like clouds in dawn. The hosts of heaven, wreathed in splendor, angels of wrath and retribution—they stormed from all sides.

"Slay the beasts of darkness! Slay the reptiles for the glory of Saraph."

And so this is how we die, Til thought. Not hiding in shadows but roaring in light. We die in fire.

The seraphim charged toward the dragons from all sides, a luminous noose. Til reared in the air, spread her wings wide, and blasted out her flames.

Her dragonfire roared outward, slamming into a chariot. The firehorses scattered, and a seraph screamed. More seraphim charged from her sides, thrusting their lances. The firehorse hooves thundered, and the tips of lances gleamed, and Til knew that she would join them—the skeletons on the pillar, the last free warriors of Requiem.

Two jets of flame blasted at her sides, framing her, crashing forward, slamming into seraphim. The immortals screamed, their armor melting, their skin peeling, their chariots falling like comets. Two black dragons stormed forth—her father, her brother—blasting out fire.

"For Requiem!" Til cried.

Her dragonfire stormed forth, shrieking, spinning, slamming into another seraph.

"Fly, children!" Father cried. The black dragon clawed the air, spraying dragonfire in all directions. "Don't fight. Fly! Fly!"

Roaring, Father charged forth, barreling between seraphim. Lances slammed against him, chipping his scales. Firehorses washed across him, burning his wings. Yet still the black dragon flew, blasting out his fire, burning them down.

"Father!" Til cried, flying toward him through the enemies. She swiped her tail, knocking down a chariot. A lance sliced her wing, and she screamed, roared her fire, burned the seraph down.

"Til, take your brother!" Father shouted. Flames blazed across him, and blood seeped from his cracked scales. "Take him south. Take him to the coast. Find others! Find them in the south. Go—"

His voice died under a shriek and blaze of blinding light.

Til rolled in the sky, blinded, crying out.

The sun seemed to crash onto the world. Light blasted out. Wings buffeted her. She tumbled, reached out, managed to grab her brother. They beat their wings as a holocaust of fire and sunlight flared. In the center of effulgence he flew, wings wide, halo thrumming, lance bright as a falling star—the Overlord.

Father turned toward his children.

"Go," the black dragon whispered.

With a roar, Father soared.

"No!" Til cried, tears in her eyes.

She clung to her brother as Father soared into the light, as he reached toward the Overlord, as dragon and seraph slammed together.

She cried out as the Overlord thrust his lance, as the blade crashed through Father's chest, as it burst out from his back.

"Father!" Bim cried.

Til howled. She wanted to fly up, to save him, to slay the Overlord, to slay them all, to die. To die. To burn in fire. Yet she couldn't release her brother. She could only watch, weeping, as Father lost his magic upon the lance.

The overlord—a massive seraph, eight feet tall—raised that lance. Father was skewered upon it, a man again. The life gone from his eyes.

"Sling him up with the others!" the Overlord cried, tossing the corpse toward a chariot. "Peel off the flesh and string his bones up across the column." Smiling thinly, the Overlord turned in the sky to stare at Til. "Now . . . come to me, children. Come join your father."

Time seemed to freeze.

All the world became just her and him. A dragon and a seraph. A grieving woman, her heart shattered, staring into the eyes of her father's killer.

Father—gone.

Everyone—gone.

My brother.

Her tears streamed.

My brother lives. He lives. He lives.

I have to fight, I have to kill him. I have to die with Father.

"Til," her brother whispered.

He lives. One other lives.

The Overlord stared into her eyes, and his smile grew. "Come to me, children." He reached out his palm. "Come home."

Til lashed her tail, slamming it against her brother, spinning him around in the sky.

"Fly, Bim!" she cried. "Fly!"

They flew, roaring out their dragonfire. The jets shrieked, slamming into seraphim, knocking them aside. The two dragons, orange and black, siblings, perhaps the last two free dragons in Requiem, charged into the hosts of heaven. Their tails lashed, tearing into chariots. Their claws ripped through armor. Lances slammed against them, tearing off scales, yet they kept flying.

Til soared, blasted fire, melted one seraph. Another flew from her left, and she snapped her jaws, ripping his torso apart. She shook her head madly, scattering blood and flesh. Her brother flew at her side, his dragonfire washing over the enemy, burning their wings, their faces.

They flew onward.

They rose higher.

They burst into the clouds, vanishing into swirls of snow.

Flames rose through the clouds. Arrows and javelins flew through the shadows and light, a forest in the sky. The flames of chariots filled the darkness.

Til and Bim flew onward. Silent. Their fire hidden in their jaws. The clouds coiled around them, and snowy wind buffeted them. The chariots flew everywhere, faded patches of light like the sun behind veils. The dragons swerved, rising higher, lower, dodging the enemy. An arrow pierced Bim's wing, but he ground his teeth and kept flying. Silent. Tears in their eyes. Two shadows in the night.

They flew for what seemed like hours, never leaving the clouds, pushing themselves onward until the firelight faded, until the sounds of pursuit were a mere rumble in the distance.

Finally they could fly no more. They were too weary, too hurt. They glided down from the cloud cover, emerging into a dark world. The forests of Requiem spread below, silent in the night. The two dragons spiraled down. They all but crashed through the forest canopy, scattering icicles and frozen branches, and thumped into the snow.

Their magic left them.

They knelt in the darkness, shivering, weeping, humans again.

"He killed him," Bim whispered, even as his teeth chattered. "The Overlord, he—he—"

Til pulled her brother into her arms. She hugged him, squeezing him, nearly crushing him, and her tears fell into his hair.

"He's with Mother now," she whispered. "His pain has ended."

She could not see her brother in the night, but she felt his shuddering breath against her, felt his hands around her back.

"What do we do?" he said.

Til stared upward. Through the hole in the canopy, she could see the night sky. The stars of Requiem shone above—the Draco constellation. The god of her people. The stars that had forever blessed Requiem. The stars that, she had to believe, still looked down upon her.

"We do what he commanded us." Til held her brother close, wrapping him in her cloak. "We travel south. We seek others. We seek life and hope even in this darkness."

"There is no hope," Bim said. "Not without him."

She gripped his shoulders and stared at his dark face, barely visible in the night. "Even in this night the stars shine. There is always hope, even in the darkest shadows. So long as we draw breath, we will fight for Requiem. If not with dragonfire then with every heartbeat, every breath in our lungs. We must stay alive. We must keep Requiem's memory within our hearts. We must believe, Bim."

He lowered his head, shivering. "Believe what?"

Til raised her eyes, though tears now marred her vision, and the stars blurred. "That Requiem can rise again."

Perhaps it's but a dream, she thought. Perhaps Bim and I are the last. Perhaps all other resistors have fallen. Perhaps the slaves in Saraph will never return, and perhaps they too are gone. But I have to believe. I have to trust in my stars. For you, Father, I will go on. I promise you.

The siblings held each other close, shivering until the dawn.

MELIORA

Around her they soared.

Hundreds of thousands rising into the sky.

Dragons.

Dragons in every color, rising in the night. Thin. Weary. Some mere children, others elders missing their fangs. The scars of whips still showed upon their bodies, and holes filled their wings. They had been beaten down in human forms, and they showed their wounds as dragons, but still they soared. Their fire blazed in countless pillars, rising like the columns of a flaming temple. The light shone upon their scales. Red, blue, brilliant green, gold, silver—a mosaic in the sky.

"Requiem rises," Meliora whispered, flying with them.

She beat her wings, spinning and soaring higher, and she blasted out a great pillar of white flame. Her flaming halo crackled above her head. They spread below her, flying higher—the great nation of Requiem, their firelight burning the sky.

"Hear me, O Requiem!" Meliora cried, her voice ringing across Tofet. "Arise, arise, sons and daughters of Draco! Fly for freedom. Fly for your stars. Fly for Requiem!"

They rose around her, streaming higher, dragonfire soaring skyward. Their voices rang together, torn with pain, with tears, with awe, with joy.

"Requiem rises!"

And from the south, rose new fire.

Meliora spun in the sky and snarled, smoke blasting from between her teeth.

"The seraphim," she hissed.

They rose from Shayeen across the river. A hundred thousand chariots of fire, leaving trails of flame and smoke. They painted the sky red. The night turned bright as day under their wrath. Their firehorses' wings spread out in a burning canopy, and the seraphim raised their spears. At their lead he rode, his armor bright, his halo a great ring of gold.

Ishtafel.

The seraphim cried out together, spears gleaming, chanting for war. Ishtafel's voice rose above them all, tearing across the sky.

"Slay the reptiles! Slay every last one. Saraph, Saraph, rise with fire! Slay every last dragon."

The dragons of Requiem bellowed in fear. Child dragons, no larger than ponies, wailed in the sky. Elders prayed. The stronger dragons stormed forth to protect the weak, fangs bared, fire crackling.

Vale, a great blue dragon, darted up beside Meliora. "We must fight."

The seraphim kept charging, howling for war, the firehorses' hooves deafening like countless blasts of thunder.

No, Meliora thought. We're too hurt, too weak. We cannot defeat them.

She soared higher and roared out her fire, a beacon for Requiem. "Fly north, Requiem! Fly north! Flee them! Flee the city!"

A few dragons began to fly north at once, but most bustled in a confused mass, and the chariots of fire flew closer.

"Elory!" Meliora shouted. "Elory, lead them out! Lead them north. Father, help her!"

The two—the green elder and the young lavender dragon—nodded and flew north, blasting twin jets of fire.

"Follow, Requiem!" Jaren roared, casting out firelight, green scales clattering. "Follow me, Jaren Aeternum. Follow me north!"

Elory flew at his side, raising her fire, crying out. "Follow, children of Requiem! Follow us north—to freedom, to home!"

The green dragon led the way, raising his pillar of fire, while Elory flew madly from side to side, shepherding the dragons onward.

Lucem flew up to hover at Meliora's side, facing the approaching seraphim. The red dragon growled. "Time to burn some seraphim."

Meliora slapped him with her tail. "The sky is up, Lucem."

Scales flashed, and Vale and Tash came to fly with them too. His scales shone deep blue, while hers glittered gold like coins.

"We fight with you, Meliora," Tash said, snarling.

Vale roared out a great cry. "For the light of Requiem, we fight!"

While most dragons were fleeing the city, flying after Jaren, hundreds rose to fly around Meliora, to join the defenders. Their roars rolled across the sky, and their wings churned smoke and fire.

"For Requiem! For Meliora!"

The chariots stormed across the river.

The warriors of Requiem charged forth to meet them.

Above the field of bricks and dust and agony, dragons and chariots slammed together.

The fire of chariots and the fire of dragons blasted across the sky. Meliora roared out her inferno, slashed her claws, whipped her tail. A chariot stormed toward her, and she soared, spun, lashed her tail, slammed the spikes into the firehorses. Another chariot flew from below, and Meliora swooped, reached out her claws, and tore the rider apart. Ichor rained.

Around her, her companions fought. Dragonfire washed across seraphim. Spears shattered scales. Fangs tore into armor and tails smashed chariots. Firehorses drove into dragons, tearing out their magic, casting them down as screaming, bleeding men and women.

"Welcome home, Meliora!" rose a voice across the battle—Ishtafel's voice. "You will watch your people burn before I drag you back to your cell."

She saw him ahead, and Meliora growled. She rose to fly toward him, but a dozen chariots stormed her way. She roared. She blasted her fire. Her tail whipped, her claws lashed, and she tore into the seraphim around her. A lance thrust and dug into her side, and Meliora screamed, her scales cracking. She spun, scuttled forward, and grabbed the seraph in her jaws. She bit deep, tearing into the armor, tearing the flesh beneath, and pulled back, cutting the man in half. She spat out his upper torso and roared, blasting fire skyward, holding the chariots back.

The other dragons fought around her in a fury, crying out for their kingdom. Every moment another dragon fell. Lances drove into them, picking them out from the sky. They lost their magic in death, falling as men, women, children, bleeding, slamming down onto the field where they had labored for so many years—falling finally as warriors, not slaves. And always the chariots stormed forth, thousands and thousands, covering the sky, and still more rising—an inferno in the heavens.

"Ishtafel!" Meliora roared, meat and metal in her mouth. "You will die too, coward. Requiem is free!"

"Requiem is free!" the other dragons cried.

Meliora glanced behind her, just for a second. Countless dragons were fleeing the battle, flying so close together their wings touched. The scaly mosaic covered the sky. At their lead flew Jaren, blowing his fire. But as Meliora watched, thousands of chariots were making their way past the dragon defenders. Their fire blazed across those who fled, and the lances of the seraphim drove into dragons, sending them falling down as humans.

We're not going to make it, Meliora thought, heart sinking. We're—

"Sweet sister!" The cry rose above, and fire crackled.

She looked up and saw him charging down toward her.

"Ishtafel!" she roared. Growling, she narrowed her eyes and stormed up to meet him.

Ishtafel laughed as he flew, wreathed in the fire, and his lance pointed down toward her. A white and gold dragon, Meliora blasted forth her fire.

Her white flames crackled and streamed over the charging firehorses. Ishtafel raised his shield, and the blaze exploded across the disk, scattering like a collapsing sun. The firehorses crashed against Meliora, their flames washing across her. Her scales expanded in the heat and cracked, and she bellowed with rage. She whipped her tail, beat her wings, soared higher and swooped toward the chariot.

Ishtafel grinned, protected within his armor, the gilt melting and peeling off the steel. He thrust his lance skyward.

The blade drove into Meliora's front foot, cutting through the scales and flesh, then bursting out the other side.

Pain blasted up her leg, along her back, into her head, and she screamed.

Ishtafel tugged the lance back with a shower of blood.

She couldn't even breathe.

A hole in her hand, Meliora lost her magic. She fell. She landed in the chariot beside him, a woman again.

"You've come back to me, sister!" He reached toward her, grinning. "Now stand with me here and watch as—"

With her good hand, she drew her sword and thrust the blade into his chest.

He yowled, the blade denting the steel and cutting the skin inside.

Before she could push the blade deeper, he swung his fist into her cheek.

Meliora fell. She saw nothing but light and shadows.

Don't faint. Live. Live!

She summoned her magic and rose as a dragon.

Pain throbbed through her. The blazing agony of a shattering world filled her wounded hand. Her eyes began to roll back, but she sneered and blew her fire.

Chariots slammed into her.

Fire washed over her.

Meliora lost her magic again and fell.

She tumbled through the battle, a woman again, passing through fire. She slammed onto a dragon's back, rolled across its scaly flank, and fell again. The ground rushed up toward her, strewn with corpses.

You will never see Requiem! Leyleet shrieked in her mind. With my dying breath I curse you.

"No," Meliora whispered and clenched her shattered hand. "I will find your sky."

She shifted into a dragon, soared, blew her fire against a chariot. She tried to find Ishtafel again but did not see him. Dragons and chariots flew everywhere.

"Ishtafel!" she roared. "Ishtafel!"

She blasted fire, knocking back another chariot, and surveyed the battle. Hundreds of Vir Requis, maybe thousands, already lay dead below, their human bodies torn apart. Many dragons still flew, battling the seraphim, but they were falling fast.

When Meliora spun her head northward, she saw the bulk of the dragons still fleeing, following Jaren. But hundreds of seraphim had made their way around the dragon defenders. They were now falling upon the flanks of fleeing slaves, cutting into the dragons—the young, the old, the wounded, sending them crashing down. Thousands of other chariots kept streaming forth.

"Kill them all!" Ishtafel cried somewhere in the distance, laughing. "Kill all the dragons!"

Meliora's heart sank.

Does our dream end here? Did we rise as dragons only to fall in battle?

She sneered.

No. We must escape. We must make it back to Requiem. I will not see our dream end here.

"Meliora!" a red dragon roared, and Lucem came to fly beside her, tail knocking a chariot out of his way. "Meliora, the seraphim are tearing into us!"

"The sky is up, Lucem!" Meliora cried back. "Now fly with me."

She was bleeding, burnt, her scales cracked and her front foot ravaged, but still she flew. Lucem flew at her side. They stormed toward the nation of fleeing dragons—half a million strong—and charged into the ranks of attacking seraphim.

Dragonfire and blood filled the sky.

VALE

He saw Meliora fall.

He saw Ishtafel laugh above her in his chariot.

Vale roared and charged toward the tyrant.

Chariots flew toward them, and Vale lashed his tail and claws, knocking them back. Seraphim thrust their lances at him, and he shattered the spears and blasted his fire across the soldiers. He stormed through the battle, burning down the enemy, and howled with rage.

"Meliora!" Vale cried, seeking her in the blaze. "Sister!"

He could no longer see her, but he could see Ishtafel. The King of Saraph flew before him, his armor shining, chariot casting out flames, a god of light and wrath, a sun shining upon the battle.

Vale flew toward the tyrant. All around him, thousands of dragons battled thousands of chariots. The sky rained blood, scales, and ash.

Issari, the Priestess in White, told me that a great battle awaits me. Vale roared and blew his dragonfire. This is my battle.

"Vale Aeternum!" Ishtafel called in delight.

Vale growled. He had fought Ishtafel before over the city, had watched the deity slay sixty thousand slaves.

But today we are no longer slaves. Today we are dragons.

He blasted his dragonfire.

The inferno crackled and spun, driving toward Ishtafel, but the tyrant rose in his chariot, dodging the flames. He swooped, lance thrusting.

Vale swiped his claws, knocking the lance aside. He snapped his jaws, trying to bite Ishtafel, but he bit only fire and cried out in pain. He swung his tail toward Ishtafel but hit the seraph's shield.

"Last time I nailed you to my palace!" Ishtafel laughed and thrust his lance. "This time I'll skewer you in the sky."

Vale dipped in the sky, and the lance scraped across his back, tearing off scales. He yowled. He blew his fire again, but Ishtafel raised his shield, and the flames scattered and showered back onto Vale.

The chariot spun around and the firehorses charged, slamming into Vale.

He cried out as the fire washed over him, and the hooves slammed into his head.

He fell.

Burnt and cut, he lost his magic, tumbling down as a human.

He grabbed his magic again. He rose as a dragon, blowing his dragonfire, but only sparks now left his mouth. He was too weary, too hurt, his belly empty of flames.

Ishtafel charged, and his spear flashed and drove into Vale's wing. The leathern membrane tore.

Vale roared and snapped his jaws, tried to blow fire, but cast out only sparks.

The spear thrust again, scraping across his cheek, tearing it open and scattering scales.

Vale fell, tumbling, barely clinging to his dragon magic.

"Grab him!" Ishtafel shouted, all amusement now gone from his voice. "Hold him up!"

Chariots of fire streamed forth, twenty or more, surrounding Vale. He slammed down onto one. Others drove into his sides, their fire washing across him. Seraphim stood within, swinging chains. Grapples drove into Vale's flesh. Chains tightened around him. The chariots flew higher, trapping him in the chains, stretching him out, displaying him like a tortured prisoner upon a metal cross.

Vale thrashed, whipped his tail, knocked one seraph down. The chariots pulled farther apart, stretching his chained limbs, driving iron links into his soft underbelly. Vale roared, stretched so wide his joints nearly dislocated. He hung in the sky, helpless like the time he'd been nailed onto the ziggurat. As all around in the sky the dragons and seraphim battled, Vale hung in his chains, roaring and flailing and unable to free himself, knowing he was going to die.

I'm sorry, Tash, he thought, grimacing in pain. I'm sorry.

The memories flashed before him. Tash and him, traveling through the wilderness to find the Chest of Plenty. Kissing in the delta. Making love. Laughing together. The light in her brown eyes, the softness of her hair flowing between his fingers, the warmth of her smile, her love.

And then the tears. The anger. Tash betraying him, betraying Requiem, only to turn back after two steps—and Vale turning away from her. Leaving her love behind.

Now, as he faced death, tears filled his eyes.

I'm sorry, Tash. I love you.

Ishtafel hovered before him in his chariot.

"And now, son of Aeternum, I will kill you. Slowly. I will first carve out your entrails. Then your liver, then your stomach, then peel off your skin. And still you will live. I've done this many times, and I know how to keep you alive. Only when you beg and call me 'master' will I cut out your heart."

Vale thrashed in his chains, tossed back his head, and howled. His wings beat. Spurts of fire left his maw.

No. No! I was meant to fight for Requiem in a great battle, to save our nation, not this, not this!

Ishtafel hefted his lance, smiling. He spread out his swan wings, rose from his chariot, and hovered in the air. He aimed his lance at Vale's belly, eyes narrowed like a surgeon examining his patient.

"Issari!" Vale cried out. "Issari!"

"Your gods can't help you, reptile." Ishtafel grinned. "I am your only god now. We begin."

Baring his teeth, Ishtafel flew forth, lance flashing.

"Vale, no!" rose a voice from below.

Golden scales flashed. Fire blasted. Crying out, Tash soared, placing herself between Vale and the thrusting lance.

"Tash!" Vale cried.

Her fire roared out, slamming against Ishtafel, washing across him, an inferno, a storm, engulfing the seraph.

Emerging from the flames, Ishtafel's lance drove into her chest, cracking her scales, and burst out of her back.

"Tash!" Vale roared.

Ishtafel screamed, falling, wings ablaze.

Seraphim flew downward after their lord, and Vale thrashed, tearing off the chains.

"Tash!"

She stared at him in the sky, a golden dragon, a lance piercing her, then lost her magic.

The lance tore free and tumbled.

A young woman clad in silk, Tash fell from the sky.

Vale pulled his wings close to his body and plunged after her. Seraphim flew everywhere. Ishtafel was still screaming somewhere in the distance, and fire flared, and the battle of countless dragons and chariots stormed all around. Vale dived, reached out his claws, and grabbed Tash.

He spread his wings wide, and they caught the wind. Air whistled through the hole in his right wing, but he managed to steady his flight, to descend toward the earth. Tash hung in his claws, limp.

Gently he placed her on the ground. His heart seemed to clench, and his breath caught. The battle still raged above them, blood rained, and corpses lay strewn across the field. Vale released his magic, returned to human form, and knelt above Tash.

"Tash," he whispered and touched her cheek. She still lived, her breath shallow, her eyelids fluttering. A hole gaped through her chest, and blood poured down her belly and soaked her silken trousers.

"I . . . I burned him," she whispered. "I burned Ishtafel for you, Vale. I . . ."

Tears filled his eyes. He tore off his shirt and held the cloth to her wound. She winced. Her face was so pale, turning grey.

"Issari," Vale whispered, looking up at the night sky. "Heal her, please. Heal her, great priestess."

But he could not see the stars, only the raging dragons and chariots and flames.

"Vale." Tash's voice shook, so weak. "Hold me. Don't leave me. Don't look away."

Tears falling, he held her in his arms, cradling her shivering body. "I'm not leaving you, Tash. Never. I promise."

She coughed weakly, reached up, and touched his cheek. "I love you, Vale Aeternum. And I'm sorry for what I've done. I'm sorry."

"You are forgiven," he whispered. "I love you too. I always did. I always will."

"Fight for them, Vale. Lead them home. To Requiem."

She was growing so cold in his arms, and her blood would not stop pouring. "You will fight with me! I will heal you. The Priestess in White will heal you. I—"

"No." Tash shook her head. "I'm no daughter of a great dynasty. I'm no heroine. I'm just a woman who loves you, who loves our home across the sea. I will see Requiem again, Vale. I can see her already." Her eyes shone, and she stared skyward. "She's up there, Vale, a Requiem all in starlight, and her harps are calling me home." Her tears streamed. "I will find our sky. I fly to it now."

"No, Tash." His tears splashed her cheeks, and he kissed her lips. "Don't leave us. Don't leave me. I love you."

"This is a good way to die," she whispered. "In your arms. I will always be with you, Vale. Always. In your heart and in your stars."

Her eyes closed, and her breath died upon his kiss.

Vale held her close against him, rocking her, her head against his chest. A sob shook his body.

I love you, Tash. I love you. Goodbye, daughter of Requiem. Goodbye.

MELIORA

They're too many.

Meliora fought across the sky, her dragonfire down to mere spurts, her silvery scales cracked. Her front foot—a hand in her human form—was ravaged, dripping, blazing with an inferno.

Too many seraphim . . . we cannot beat them.

The dragons had crossed the wall and were flying over the wilderness now, but countless chariots of fire kept attacking, flying in from every direction, culling the dragons. Every heartbeat, another Vir Requis lost his or her magic and tumbled down through the night. Ishtafel had murdered sixty thousand Vir Requis last time Meliora had rebelled; now he would slaughter them all.

"Dragons, fly!" she called out. "Fly with me, faster! Fly north!"

Yet Requiem lay so many miles away; it would take weeks of flight to get there, and the seraphim would harry them every mile.

We'll all die long before we reach the coast, Meliora knew. Even as dragons. She snarled. Then let me die giving the others hope. Let me kill as many seraphim as I can, even if only a handful of dragons escape. That handful will rebuild a nation.

She charged into battle, flying across the rim of the camp, tearing into the ranks of attacking seraphim. Lucem roared at her side, a red dragon, his fire still flowing. Elory fought with them, scales chipped and bleeding, but still the lavender dragon swiped her claws and tail, sending seraphim down dead.

For every seraph killed, it seemed that a dozen Vir Requis fell, resuming human forms in death. Men. Women. Children. They fell like rain through the darkness.

The fall of Requiem, Meliora thought. We rose in light and now we fall in shadow.

Yet even in the darkness a new light shone.

The sun rose in the east, and from the light they flew.

"Meliora the Merciful!" they cried. "Meliora, our mother!"

She looked into the light, and her eyes dampened.

The erevim.

They flew in from the dawn, the life she had made. Beings raised from the mud, given the blood of both Vir Requis and seraphim. Men and women coated with scales, swan feathers growing from their wings and heads. They flew toward the battle, crying out her name. They had multiplied in the wilderness, and a thousand or more now flew forth.

"We fight with you, Meliora!"

With battle cries, the erevim charged against the chariots of fire, lashing their claws at seraphim, tearing at their flesh with sharp teeth.

"For Requiem!" rose new voices in the west. "For Requiem, slay the immortals!"

Meliora spun in the sky, saw them, and gasped.

"Hope," she whispered. "Hope rises."

They flew in from the lingering shadows, a hundred ghostly ships sailing through the sky, translucent, firing their cannons. Ships of Old Requiem. The rebels who had once risen up against the Aeternum family; they now came to raise Requiem from ruin. Upon their decks, thousands of skeletons danced, rose, shifted into ghostly dragons of smoke. The creatures stormed forth, blowing out white fire.

The seraphim shouted in fury, then in fear, and finally in pain.

The astral dragons flowed across them, tearing them apart, ripping limbs off torsos, severing wings, sending corpses falling. Ships blasted their astral cannons, sending chariots crashing down. The erevim flew between the apparitions, blood on their claws, still calling out her name.

"Meliora, Meliora!"

The dragons of Requiem flew on.

Blasting out fire, clawing the enemies in their way, they flowed across the sky.

They flew away from Tofet.

They flew away from the army of seraphim.

They flew through blood and fire and rain. To freedom. To a dream of Requiem.

LUCEM

The dragons flew, and flying among them, Lucem thought of home.

For the first eleven years of his life, home had been in Tofet. A home of the whip, the shackles, the pain of carving and molding bricks. Then, for the second half of his life, home had been the wilderness—huddling in caves, wandering the darkness, singing to nobody, talking to invisible friends.

Lucem looked around him. He flew as a dragon on the wind, and thousands of other dragons flew with him. Their scales shone brilliantly in the sun like a field of jewels. Lucem's eyes stung. So many times he had dreamed of seeing this—seeing the people of Requiem rise in their dragon forms, no collars around their necks. Free. Leaving Tofet and the corpses of seraphim behind.

And leaving two other souls behind, Lucem thought, eyes dampening.

Elory flew up to him, a slender dragon, smaller than most. Her scales were deep purple near her belly, growing lighter along her flanks, turning pale lavender on her back. Her horns were small and white, her eyes kind. One of her ears thrust out from her head, violet and scaled. The other was missing.

"How are you, Lucem?" she asked softly.

He blinked the tears out of his eyes. "I just . . . I just wish they could have been here. My parents. I keep looking around, hoping to see them, even imagining that they fly with us. But then I remember. How the overseers killed them a decade ago." He lowered his head as he flew. "How they'll never see our freedom."

Elory flew a little closer and touched her wing to his. She reached out her tail, gently tapping his own tail.

"I'm sorry, Lucem. I miss my mother too—so badly that it physically hurts." Elory's eyes shone damply. "I don't know what'll happen next. I don't know how many enemies await between us and Requiem. But whatever happens, I'm here for you. Always. I love you, Lucem, and I'll always fly by your side."

They flew together, side by side, bodies touching.

Lucem stared forward as they flew. Across the thousands of dragons, the wilderness sprawled to the horizon. Thousands of miles still separated them from Requiem, and many enemies perhaps waited along the way. And yet beyond the horizon it lay. Their homeland.

Let Requiem be my third home, Lucem thought. Let it be a home to all of us. A home of light, of safety, and of peace.

MELIORA

The children of Requiem gathered in the wilderness under the heat of the blinding sun.

The land was burnt around them. The rushes along the river, the trees, the forests, all had burned in the fire of Saraph when the first slaves had escaped to find hope. Now half a million Vir Requis had fled their captivity, and they covered the land.

Most stood or lay as humans, nursing their wounds. Many flew as dragons above the camp, protecting those below. The Vir Requis carried their meager supplies with them—skins of water, sacks of oatmeal, a few pickaxes, some dried fruit, not much more.

Meliora walked up a hill until she stood above the camp. In dragon form, her front foot had been wounded in the battle, and now her hand was bandaged, blazing, screaming with movement. The hot wind billowed her tattered burlap robe, and her good hand rested on the hilt of Amerath, her ancient sword of kings and queens. The sun beat down upon her, browning her limbs, and her halo crackled above her head.

What a figure she must have struck, she thought. Only a few months ago, she had been a different person. Nobody from that time of her life would recognize her now. Once she had worn gowns of finest muslin, adorned with precious jewels. Swan wings had grown from her back, and golden hair had cascaded across her shoulders. Her skin had been pale, soft, powdered. Today that skin was tanned and covered in scabs and bruises. Her hair was but stubble on her head, and instead of a golden halo, she stood crowned with dragonfire. No more swan wings grew from her back, but two scars ran there along her shoulder blades, reminders of who she had been, who she could never be again.

My seraph half died with my wings, she thought. I am nothing but a daughter of Requiem now, pure.

"Children of Requiem!" she cried, and below the hill, the people turned toward her. "Hear me, children of Requiem!"

They stared up at her. Thin, hungry, wounded. Wearing rags. Their ankles still chafed from the chains they had discarded. A brutalized people, heirs to a kingdom they had never forgotten.

Meliora summoned her magic and soared as a dragon.

She rose high and cried out, her voice rolling across the camp.

"I am Meliora Aeternum! I brought you the Keeper's Key, and I freed you from your collars, but the danger has not passed." She flew across the multitudes below, letting them all hear. "The cruel Ishtafel was dealt a blow, but if he still lives, he's licking his wounds, and he's building a new army. If he's dead, then whatever heir Saraph places upon the throne will hunt us. We will fly fast. We will continue fleeing."

She could see the fear in them. That was good. They needed to be afraid now. That fear twisted Meliora's own heart.

"You are free now, children of Requiem!" she said. "You are free warriors, no longer slaves. And you will fight to see Requiem again. Our kingdom lies across many miles. Even as the dragon flies, Requiem lies a moon away, and many dangers wait along that path: armies of seraphim and creatures even darker. And even should we reach Requiem, we will find nothing but ruins."

The crowd murmured below. Some cried out in anguish.

"But we will fly there nonetheless!" Meliora said. "Because Requiem is our home. It has been our home for five thousand years, since our ancestor, King Aeternum, raised a column in a birch forest. That column still stands! It awaits us. We will seek it across the miles, and we will be a proud nation again. This I promise to you, Vir Requis. I will lead you to our land. I will lead you home."

They cried out to her, hundreds of thousands, the last survivors of an ancient race. "Meliora the Merciful! Praise Meliora!"

She blew a pillar of white fire, a twin to King's Column in the north. "Follow, children of Requiem! Follow my light. Follow me home."

They all rose from below, dragon after dragon, ascending into the sky. They flew behind her. Freed slaves. Proud warriors. A nation.

"Not bad, Mel." Lucem flew up to her side, the sunlight bright against his red scales. "Could have used a few puns, maybe a couple dirty limericks, but overall not a bad speech."

Meliora rolled her eyes. "You and your dirty limericks."

The red dragon grinned. "Want to hear a few new ones?"

"No!" She spurted fire his way.

They flew onward, and behind them the children of Requiem followed, covering the sky.

VALE

As the nation of Requiem flew above, Vale and Elory stood below on the hill, both in human forms.

"I wish I could take her with us," Vale said.

Elory held his hand. "I do too. But the journey is too long, too perilous."

"She belongs in Requiem." Vale had to force the words out of his tight throat.

"Maybe she already is in Requiem," Elory whispered, looking up at the sky.

But Vale did not look up. He looked down at the ground, down at her. At Tash.

She lay there, wrapped in his cloak, her face so pale, so fair. Vale knelt and stroked her long brown hair.

"I love you, Tash," he whispered. "I know that I'll see you again someday."

Elory knelt at his side, and she placed her hand on Tash's. "And I love you too, Tash," she whispered. "Goodbye, sweet friend."

You saved my life, Tash, Vale thought, stroking her cold cheek. You gave your life for mine. And . . . I never had a chance to love you enough. Our last few days, we fought, we hated, we hurt each other. But know that I forgive you, that I love you. Know that for all eternity, Requiem will know your name, know of your sacrifice.

Finally Vale looked up at the sky.

You gave me new life, Issari, our holy priestess. You told me that a battle awaits me. Yet I would have lost my battle if not for Tash. Why do I linger on, hurt, so many scars upon me, and she lies here, so fair, so cold, no gift of life given to her?

Yet the Priestess in White was silent. Perhaps Vale had no power to summon her the way his father could. He was no priest, no wise man like Jaren. Perhaps Issari had never heard his prayers, had never seen his pain. Vale did not know. He did not know why he kept living as so many died—as thousands of Vir Requis remained here, buried in Saraph.

Maybe I've not yet faced my battle. It hurts. It hurts to go on. To live without you, Tash. I will fight on, but I don't know if I can bear this pain.

He shifted into a dragon, and he dug a grave, and he gently placed Tash inside. She was far from Requiem here, but Tofet was too far to see too. The land was burnt now, but in time grass would grow here, trees would rustle, and flowers would bloom again. The river would flow through life, and birds would sing. This place would be beautiful come next spring, a good place for her to rest.

As he placed dirt onto the grave, Vale swore that if he survived the journey, and if Requiem was rebuilt from ruin, he would return for her bones, and he would place them in a coffin carved from Requiem birch, bring them to rest in the land of her forebears, and someday he would rest at her side.

"Sleep well for now, sweet Tash," he whispered to the grave.

Still in human form, Elory leaned against his scaly neck, and she patted his long snout.

"I know that you hurt, Vale. I know that it hurts more than you can bear. But I'm with you." She kissed his cheek, her lips soft against his blue scales. "And so is Father, and so is Meliora, and so are all in Requiem. We all love you, prince of dragons."

She shifted too, and they rose into the sky together, a blue dragon and a lavender one. They flew with their people, taking some pain with them, leaving some pain behind, heading onward to hope and light and a dream of home.

ISHTAFEL

He lay in the bloody field, convulsing, screaming.

He rattled in their cart, crying out, begging them to kill him.

He thrashed in his bed as they placed ointments upon him, roaring that he'd kill them all, vowing to kill himself too.

Meliora's halo had burned him, leaving a scar across his face. Now dragonfire—roaring, all-consuming—had washed across him.

He screamed.

He wept.

He thrashed in pain.

He lay in his palace, Ishtafel thought. The walls spun around him. He fainted. He woke, fresh bandages across him. He stumbled out from his bed, seeking a blade, seeking a rope, seeking a way to end his life, but he ended up falling to the floor and trembling.

He slept. He dreamed.

In his fever, he was back in Requiem, flying through hosts of dragons, traveling through the tunnels, slaying the demons one by one in the darkness, watching his soldiers die.

"They fled," he whispered, tasting blood. "The weredragons fled me."

He stumbled through the halls of his dark palace, dripping, his bandages trailing behind him. He tore them off one by one, leaving a wake of puss and ichor. No more servants filled the palace; all had fled. Those seraphim who still wandered these halls saw him, gasped, and fled too. One woman fainted.

"A mirror!" he shouted. "A mirror!"

Yet they would bring him none. He limped onto a balcony into the searing sunlight, and he raised his arms before him, and he laughed. Dripping, melting arms, the skin gone. When he touched his face he found nothing, and he screamed.

He stared into the northern distance. They had flown there. They were gone.

"Twice you burned me, dragons," he spoke into the distance. "But I still live. I am a god of fire. You cannot kill me. You only strip the flesh away, leaving my soul stronger, tempering me like iron in a forge."

Iron.

Ishtafel sneered.

"Bring me iron and gold!" he shouted.

He summoned his chariot, and he rode in fire, a thing of flames, and his steeds took him to the city smelters. There he entered the darkness, and he stood before roaring fires that melted metal in a cauldron, and he laughed.

"Forge, men! Forge and hammer and temper."

The cauldrons boiled and hammers swung, and Ishtafel laughed.

On a dark night, he stepped out from the pit, and he walked through the city, clanking, thudding. All who saw him fled. Down cobbled roads he marched, between obelisks and colossal statues, making his way to his ziggurat.

"A mirror!" he shouted as he stepped into the palace.

Finally two soldiers approached, bearing a tall bronze mirror, and knelt, shivering. Ishtafel stared at his reflection.

He wore new skin—skin of metal. A mask covered his face, drilled into him, shaped as the face he had once worn, the face now gone. Gilt covered the iron. More metal covered his limbs and torso, sealing him inside. His wings spread out, the feathers burnt away—wings of raw leather, tipped with black claws. They almost looked like dragon wings. His halo still blazed above his head, brighter than ever.

"Now I am truly a god," he whispered.

He beat his wings. He soared off the balcony. The ziggurat's platinum crest streamed behind him, the place where he had nailed up the weredragon prince—the prince he would still catch and break.

"My army of light failed," he whispered, beating his naked wings. "The dark seraphim failed. It's time to summon . . . them."

He soared until he reached the Eye of Saraph, the engraved eye upon the ziggurat's triangular crest, the great watcher of the empire. It stared from within a sunburst, larger than him, ever guarding his domain.

"Hear me, Eye of Saraph!" Ishtafel cried, hovering before the engraving, his wings spread wide. "For long you watched over us, and now I call you to cast forth your light. Raise the beam! Shine your column to call your children home."

Slowly, the great stone eye began to open.

At first only a slit shone with terrible light, nearly blinding Ishtafel. Then the eye opened wider, exposing its innards, heat and light more terrible than the cauldrons of molten metal that had forged his new skin. A beam of searing, golden light slammed into Ishtafel, bounced off his armor, and blasted skyward.

Above, the storm clouds gathered. Clouds rarely gathered in the heart of Saraph, this dry southern land, but now a maelstrom brewed, the color of bruises. Lightning flashed. Thunder tore across the land. And still the light flared, passing from the eye, through Ishtafel, up into the sky, shattering the heavens.

A second great eye—this one dark and swirling—opened above.

"Descend, children!" Ishtafel cried, laughing, arms and wings spread wide. "Join us in this world, ones of Edinnu. Fall, fall from the heavens, fall and rise in new glory!"

Above him, they shrieked, his old pets, barely visible in the clouds, eyes like stars, collapsing, rising again, blaring out with terrible hatred. Their wings darkened the sky.

"Fall and slay dragons!" he shouted.

From the heavens they fell, covering the land, coating temples and palaces like tar, shrieking out in rage and hatred, a song for the blood of dragons.

TIL

They travelled through the snowy forest, shivering even in their thick cloaks, moving fast, daring not stop.

We must reach the southern coast, Til thought as she trudged onward. We must live. We must find the sea.

"I'm cold." Walking at her side, Bim hugged himself. His teeth chattered. "Can we build a fire?"

Til shook her head. "No fires. Not yet. Not until we're sure we've lost them."

She looked around her, seeking any sign of pursuit. The trees rose all around—maples, oaks, and many birches. Ice encased the branches, topped with snow. Fallen logs, branches, and roots lay everywhere, twisting like a city, white and brown. When Til looked up, she saw a blue sky between frosted branches.

No seraphim. No Overlord.

Yet the memory wouldn't leave her. Again and again, she saw it before her eyes. The Overlord, a god of light, his halo like the sun, his armor golden, a figure of splendor and holiness. Again and again, she saw the deity's lance driving into the black dragon, slaying her father, turning him from a dragon into a man again—a man skewered upon the shaft. Even in the cold, Til suddenly felt hot, as if the chariots of fire flew around her again.

She shook her head, banishing that memory, yet her father's words still echoed in her mind.

Take him to the coast. Find others.

"Til, can I remove my armor?" Bim said. "The metal is too cold. Can we build a fire soon?"

She looked at him, and pity filled her. The boy was too thin, too pale, his breath frosting. A decade ago, when Til had been that age, things had been better, she thought. A thousand Vir Requis had still lived in the ruins of Requiem, eking out a life in tunnels, caves, and forest camps. Yet now food was scarcer, shelter harder to find, and they were always moving, never spending two nights in the same place. Always seeking others, finding none. The past five years, since the tragic uprising against the Overlord, had thinned their family down to raw bones, leaving haunted eyes in gaunt faces, stiff fingers that never strayed far from the hilt, haggard legs that knew to always trudge on, always keep moving, keep seeking.

"Another league," Til said. "And we'll build a fire, and we'll tell old stories."

They moved on through the forest, shivering in their cloaks. Soon Til saw prints in the sand, raised her eyes, and descried the rabbit ahead between the birches. Silently, she nocked an arrow in her bow, and she pierced the rabbit with her first shot. They saw no other animals; this paltry meal would have to do.

"There will be more food on the southern coast," Til said to her brother. "It's warm there, Bim, and no snow falls, not even in winter. There are plenty of deer on the plains, and the rivers aren't frozen and many fish fill them. All other Vir Requis survivors will have traveled there."

Bim eyed the scrawny rabbit in Til's hands. "If there are others."

"There are," Til promised. "We have to believe."

Because what else is left to us? she thought. If not for this hint of hope, we might as well doff our cloaks, lie down in the snow, and let the cold seize us. We have to believe there are others. We have to keep moving.

They kept walking until they found a valley, the canopy a thick latticework above, perhaps thick enough to disperse the smoke of a fire. It was colder here in the shade, and Til could not stop shivering, but she set camp near a fallen log. She and her brother spent a few moments collecting firewood and arranging a small campfire. Ice coated the branches; no tinderbox or kindling would ignite them, Til knew. She glanced around, stood silently, and listened. She heard nothing. No seraphim. No sounds of pursuit.

Finally she nodded, inhaled deeply, and summoned her magic.

She rarely became a dragon anymore. Dragons were large and loud. Flying above, they puffed out smoke, visible for miles. Even walking through the forest, their scales clattered, their large bodies rustled the trees, and the smoke from their nostrils left a trail. Yet now she allowed the orange scales to flow across her, allowed fire to fill her jaws. She spent a few moments puffing out weak flames, melting the ice around the branches, until finally the campfire burned. Then she became human again.

They sat on the fallen log by the fire, warming their fingers, and cooked the rabbit. There was barely any meat on the bones. Even the wildlife of Requiem was gaunt, struggling to survive.

"On the southern coast, the meat is rich and fatty," Til said, gnawing on a bone. "There are plump bison and fish so large they can feed a family for a week."

Bim snapped a rabbit bone in two and sucked on it. "There will be seraphim there too."

"Not as many." Til waved her hands over the campfire, trying to disperse the smoke, to scatter a single plume that could rise and alert others to their presence. "The Overlord lives here in the north, and most of the battles were fought here. The south has always been the backwater of Requiem, even in the glory days before the seraphim arrived. A quiet place. A few others survive there; I'm sure of it. Warmth. Food. Safety."

"But not for Father." Bim lowered his head. "He won't ever see the south."

Til tossed her rabbit bone into the fire. She moved closer and sat beside Bim on the fallen log, wrapped her arm around him, and rested her cheek on the top of his head. She stroked his hair.

"Have you heard the tales of Kyrie Eleison?" she asked him.

Bim nodded. "You told them a million times."

"Then I'll tell them a million and one times. He's our ancestor; we're directly descended of his lineage. When he was a boy, he was lost here in this wilderness. He thought he was the last Vir Requis, the only survivor of the griffins who had crushed Requiem. Three thousand years ago, he traveled through these very forests, seeking others. His family dead. His belly empty. The enemy flying everywhere."

Bim sighed. "Your story isn't making me feel better."

"But Kyrie found others." Til squeezed her brother against her. "He found a new family, new hope. In the darkness, he lit a new light, and Requiem rose again. Now we are in darkness. Now we are alone. Now we struggle to find new life, new hope. And I believe, Bim, that Requiem will rise again. That King's Column will be cleansed and rededicated, that many other columns will rise around it, that dragons will fly in the open again. Father believed too. That's why he wanted us to go south. To seek others."

Bim lowered his head. "But those are just old stories. What if there are no others? What if . . . what if we're the last?"

"There are others." Til took his head in her hands, turned it toward her, and stared into his eyes. "Countless Vir Requis live across the southern sea, in the heartland of Saraph, though they are chained and collared and cannot become dragons. But they live too, and they pray. They pray to rebuild Requiem. Our nation still lives, all over the world, and our prayers still rise to the stars. We grieve. We hurt. We shiver in the cold. But we do not give up, Bim. Not so long as our legs can walk and our hearts can beat."

Bim frowned. "I hear something."

At first Til heard nothing. She stiffened, cocked her head, listening . . . but heard only the wind creaking the trees, the crackling fire, and—

There. She heard it.

The shuffling of snow. Padding feet. A snort and heavy breathing. The sounds came from all sides, and yet no light of halos or chariots filled the forest. The sun was dimming, shadows falling. The sniffing rose louder.

Wolves? she thought, reaching for her bow.

Bim stiffened at her side, drawing an arrow. Slowly, the siblings rose to their feet, weapons raised, staring from side to side.

From the shadowy forest they emerged, and Til cringed.

"Serpopards," she said.

The creatures were vaguely feline, but larger than any cat Til had ever seen, larger even than horses. Their fur was black and bristly, their paws tipped with claws. Their necks coiled upward, longer than Til was tall, tipped with the heads of lionesses. The creatures growled, baring their fangs, and slinked forward from all sides. Til counted five of them, forming a ring around the camp.

"Seraph pets," Bim said, moving his arrow from side to side.

Til had seen such creatures before from a distance. Back during the uprising, the seraphim would lead them through the forest on leashes, sniffing out the trails of Vir Requis survivors. These ones wore no leashes, though collars still encircled their necks, and their nostrils flared. Their masters could not be far behind.

Til did not hesitate any longer.

She fired her arrow.

Before it could even meet its target, the serpopards pounced.

Bim's arrow fired too with a twang. Both arrows slammed into the creatures, digging through the furred flesh, only enraging the beasts. Long necks stretched out, and jaws opened wide to bite.

One creature slammed into Til, and she fell, shouting. The lioness head snapped at her, lashing fangs against her patches of rusted armor. At her side, Bim fell too, raising his arms before his head, trying to ward off another serpopard.

Til growled, writhed madly, and kicked hard. She managed to knock the creature off her, tossing it into the campfire. The flames raged and showered sparks.

At once she leaped up and grabbed her sword's hilt. Before she could draw the blade, another serpopard leaped onto her, knocking her back down. The claws lashed at her, reaching between her plates of armor, cutting her chest.

"Til!" her brother screamed.

Panic rose in her. Her blood spurted as her heart lashed. She tried to draw the sword, but the creature's paws pinned down her right wrist. The campfire blazed at her side, spraying sparks onto her clothes, drenching her with heat. The serpopard's neck rose skyward, six feet long, and then the head plunged down, jaws opening to rip out Til's throat.

With her left hand, Til reached into the campfire and grabbed a burning log.

She screamed as the flames burned her, but she wouldn't let go. She swung the torch into the serpopard's striking head, knocking it aside an instant before the fangs tore into her. Those fangs now scraped across her armor, and the head thumped into the snow at her side, its fur kindled.

When Til leaped to her feet, she saw Bim firing arrow after arrow, knocking back serpopards. Several lay dead around the campfire, but more kept emerging from between the trees. Their eyes gleamed in the shadows, and their growls rose all around. A hundred or more were advancing.

Another one leaped at Til's side. She swung her sword, knocking it back. At once she spun the other way, thrusting the blade into another pouncing creature. Claws tore at her leg, and she cried out and fell to one knee.

"Can we shift now?" Bim cried as more serpopards raced among the trees. Their eyes and growls filled the shadows, and the sun vanished behind the horizon, leaving only the campfire to light the darkness.

Til cursed. She hated shifting into a dragon. But any hope of remaining silent here was long gone, and with the serpopard corpses burning, the smoke and light would be filling the sky.

"Shift!" she cried and summoned her magic.

With a clatter like the armor of a racing army, their scales rose across them. Fangs and claws slammed into the hardened plates. Two dragons moved in circles around the campfire, blowing flames in a ring.

The dragonfire roared. Ice melted across the trees, and the serpopards burned. Their fur and flesh crackled, giving out a foul stench, but more kept racing forth. They leaped between the trees, and three serpopards slammed into Til, clawing at her orange scales. She spun around madly, struggling to shake them off. One managed to tear off a scale, and its teeth sank into her, and she bellowed. Several more of the creatures covered Bim—a black dragon, only half her size. Their claws drove under his dark scales like splinters under fingernails, and he swung his tail, struggling to knock them off. Their dragonfire kept spurting, but more creatures kept racing through the forest.

"Fly, Bim!" she cried.

"I can't!" He fell, overcome with more serpopards, their weight pinning him down. As a young dragon, he wasn't much larger than the bristly, long-necked felines.

Til roared, forsaking all promises to remain silent in this forest. She rolled onto her back, crushing a serpopard who clung to her. She spurted fire across the camp. The trees blazed. She whipped her tail, knocking more beasts aside, then leaped up toward her brother.

She grabbed one of the creatures attacking him. She dug her teeth past fur and flesh, ripping out a chunk of its back. She spat out its backbone and roared, then swiped her claws, knocking another creature off her brother. With a lash of her tail, she sliced through the necks of the last serpopards clinging to the black dragon.

"Now fly!"

They soared, blasting fire, an inferno that washed across the forest and spurted into the sky. More serpopards leaped at them from the treetops, clawing at their scales, falling to the blazing forest. With a few more flaps of their wings, the two dragons smashed through the canopy and rose into the night sky.

Smoke hid the sky, and only Issari's Star still shone, the eye of the dragon, and then it too vanished. The forest below swarmed with black felines leaping in the shadows, and the trees below still burned. Black smoke, both of charred trees and flesh, unfurled and washed across the dragons.

They flew through the inferno, holding their breath, until they emerged from the smoke.

We're safe up here, Til thought. We're safe so long as no seraphim are near, and—

And then she saw them.

Chariots of fire.

The flaming horses thundered across the sky, and seraphim raised bows in their chariots. The missiles flew through the sky, and Til cried out and soared higher. An arrow slammed into her horn and embedded there. Another grazed Bim's flank.

The enemy flew everywhere. Dozens of the chariots circled in from all sides, firing their arrows, deadlier by far than their pets.

And so we die here, Til thought. Here, two days away from King's Column. So far from the warmth of the southern coast. Here we die in snow and flame.

She looked at Bim and saw the fear in his eyes. The chariots flew closer. He stared back, panting, blood on his flanks, his wings churning the smoke.

No, Til thought. No, not yet. I promised him that there is always hope, that we will always fight on. So long as our wings can beat. So long as we can breathe fire.

"Fly with me," she said, giving him the slightest of smiles, and dived.

She plunged toward the forest. Bim flew with her. They crashed through the canopy . . . then curved their flight and flew forward.

They raced between the trees, twenty feet aboveground. The canopy rose above. The snow melted below under their heat. Between the trunks, the long-necked felines still growled and pounced, leaping from below, desperate to catch the dragons flying above them. Others leaped from the treetops, knocked aside with flaps of the dragons' spiky tails.

Til tried to curve her flight, to whip between the trees, but she was moving too fast, and the trees were too close. She slammed into a birch, cried out in pain, and shattered the trunk. The tree fell and she kept flying. Bim slammed into an oak, cracking the bole. He fell to the snow, then rose and flew again, narrowly dodging the serpopards that leaped.

They kept flying, so fast the dark forest streaked around them. They blasted their fire, lighting their way, slamming into birch after birch, uprooting the trees. Icicles hailed down, stabbing their backs. Melted snow ran in rivulets.

And above the fire still burned.

The chariots of fire descended from above, casting down fire. Arrows rained, and Til yowled as one tore through her wing. She blasted dragonfire, and the blaze crashed into the canopy and spurted upward, washing across a chariot. More covered the sky.

The dragons kept racing across the forest. The landscape now sloped downward. As much as they could, they whipped between trees, but they couldn't avoid crashes. Splinters drove into their scales and cut the thick skin on their underbellies. Trees fell and burned. And still the fire streaked across the sky.

A chariot swooped ahead, plunging between the trees. Til and Bim flew sideways, dodging it, racing onward. When the chariot tried to follow, its flashing reins wrapped around an oak, sending the chariot flying in one direction, the firehorses in another. A second chariot plunged between two pines, and Til roared out her dragonfire, roasting the seraph who stood within. She rose higher, emerged above the canopy, and plunged back downward and flew between the trees again. The forests of Requiem burned.

A voice rose above, angelic, mellifluous, a voice so kind and beautiful that Til could almost weep. The voice of a god.

"You cannot escape us, Til Eleison. Come to me, my child."

Tears filled Til's eyes. The voice was so warm, so benevolent. She wanted to obey, to seek that voice, to hear it comfort her.

He knows my name. He knows who I am, how I hurt.

Ahead, she saw it. A golden glow in the sky, as bright as the sun. She could just make him out above the trees. A heavenly figure, swan wings spread wide, a halo around his head of flowing golden hair. A man in gilded armor, beautiful, noble, all knowing, merciful.

The Overlord.

"Come to me, child," his voice rolled across the land, the voice of harps and song. "Rest your weary head in my embrace. Let me claim your life, so that you might find comfort in death."

And now Til wept. She wanted to rise from the forest. To fly to him in the sky, this god in the heavens. To let him welcome her soul. To leave her hurting, hungry body here in the forest, to forever live in that radiance.

She began to rise toward the sweet song and light.

Bim reached out and grabbed her.

"He's lying." The black dragon stared at her, gripping her with his claws, still flying between the trees. "He wants to kill you, Til. To kill you. Live. Live! Don't die like Father."

That memory now flooded Til—the Overlord thrusting his lance, a god of wrath, slamming the blade through Father, raising the corpse.

Til howled, and now she wanted to fly skyward not to join him but to slay him, to cast down this cruel god upon the burnt forests of her homeland, even if she died in that searing light.

But I made a promise. I promised to take Bim south. To the coast. I promised to live.

Til snarled, dived low to the ground, and grabbed one of the leaping serpopards. She soared, crashing through the canopy, carrying the long-necked feline in her claws. She flew toward the godly light and tossed the dark creature. The serpopard tumbled toward the Overlord, neck flailing, and crashed into the light. The creature burst into flame and slammed against the Overlord, and white bursts of light blazed across the sky.

The Overlord shrieked, all his grace gone, now a being of white fury. Til blasted dragonfire his way, then dipped down and flew between the trees again. Bim flew at her side. The light still blazed above, lighting the night, melting snow and ice.

The land sloped downward, and Til knew this land, knew every curve and fold of the hills. She crashed through the last few birches, dodged charging chariots of fire that were braving the forest, and there below she saw it—a red strip in the night, halving the landscape.

The River Ranin.

"Follow me, Bim!" Til cried.

She flew downhill, whipping between the trees. She smashed into an alder, cracking the trunk, and plunged down into the dark river.

An instant later, Bim dived into the water with her.

She swam underwater, eyes open and stinging. The fire blazed above, casting orange light into the river, revealing stones and algae. Bim swam at her side, tail flailing.

"Keep swimming!" she said, bubbles rising from her mouth. "For as long as you can."

Arrows whistled into the water around them. One cracked a scale on her back, but she kept whipping her tail, driving herself onward. She plunged deeper until her belly skimmed the bottom. Bim kept swimming at her side, cheeks puffed out, his tail and wings propelling him onward.

Her lungs ached for air, but she kept moving. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she raised her nostrils from the water and spurted up fire. Bim followed suit.

At once arrows rained.

The dragons sank back underwater.

"Come!" Til said to her brother, tapping him with her tail.

They spun around in the water and began swimming back from where they had come, diving deep, moving against the current. Above her, Til thought she could see the fire streaming in the opposite direction—the chariots following the current.

There was only one way to be sure.

Til released her magic, returning to human form underwater. Bim followed her lead, becoming again a scrawny boy, his cloak fluttering in the water.

They swam toward the riverbank and raised their heads from the water. They gulped air.

Til stared eastward down the current and saw the chariots flying there, firing arrows into the water. The Overlord flew above them, brighter than the others, wings as wide as a dragon's.

She forced herself to look away. She grabbed Bim, and they raced out of the water and back into the forest.

They ran through the shadows, silent, jaws clenched, trying to ignore the pain of their wounds. The fire still crackled in the east, and the yips of serpopards sounded in the west, but here the forest was empty, dark, a place to run and hide.

Because that is what we're best at, Til thought, smiling grimly. That is what you trained us for, seraphim. That is what five hundred years of survival gave my race. We run. We hide. She clenched her fists as she raced between the trees. But one day, Overlord . . . one day we will rise again. And that day we will fight.

They moved through the forest, crossing miles, until the sounds of pursuit faded in the distance. Finally, in a shadowy ravine, they crawled under an outcrop of stone, and they built a wall of snow to hide themselves from pursuit.

They huddled, holding each other for warmth, weak, wet, hurt, still bleeding.

"We're safe, Bim," she whispered, holding her brother, their cloaks wrapped around them. "We're safe now. We're safe."

They held each other until dawn, trembling with cold and weakness.

They kept walking south. To safety. To a dream of hope . . . a dream Til never wanted to wake from.

MELIORA

The dragons of Requiem were flying north across the plains, hundreds of thousands strong, when the rancid creatures rose like a storm cloud, shrieking for death.

They had been flying for three days now across the deserts of Saraph, moving fast, fleeing the inferno of captivity. Meliora had been driving her dragons hard, allowing no rest. They had not touched ground since her speech on the mountain outside the walls of Tofet. Thousands of dragons now flew across the sky, a shimmering veil of scales and fire. On each dragon's back rode two Vir Requis in human forms, sleeping, nursing their wounds, and feeding from their sparse supplies.

Flying at their lead, Meliora glanced at the sky. The sun had reached its zenith, casting down blinding light and heat that spun her head and baked her silver scales. She couldn't even imagine how hot the black-scaled dragons felt.

But soon we'll be in the north, she thought. In the cool air of Requiem, flying in a gentler sky. Soon we'll fly over forests, not rocks and sand. Soon we'll be home.

Her foot still throbbed, pierced by Ishtafel's spear. She tried to let the pain motivate her, keep her flying, keep her strong. Jaren had prayed over the wound, and it had closed and was healing fast, yet the pain still blazed up her leg with every flap of her wings.

She reared in the sky, raised her head, and blasted up a pillar of fire. Most dragons, born of two Vir Requis parents, blasted crackling red dragonfire. But Meliora, born to a seraph mother, blew white flames like a pillar of starlight. The column rose high, a beacon for her people.

She turned to face them—thousands of dragons bearing riders. They were children of Requiem, an ancient nation, but they were also her children. Hers to protect, to lead across the miles to their lost home.

I was born of both Requiem and Saraph, she thought, but I left the ichor of seraphim in Tofet. Here let me be woven of pure starlight, a mother of Requiem.

The dragons were weary, Meliora knew. Puffs of smoke rose from their nostrils. Their eyes were glazed. They began to dip in the sky. But Meliora would not let her people camp. There was nothing below but sand and rock, and Ishtafel was following them. Meliora could not see her brother's hosts from here, but she knew that Ishtafel would never let them flee. He would be flying over the horizon, even now, determined to slay them. Meliora would not let him catch her.

"Children of Requiem!" Meliora cried. "A new shift begins. Rest now, dragons, and rise, riders!"

Across the cloud of dragons, the human riders rose. Wings burst out from their backs. Scales flowed across them. The number of dragons now doubled in the sky. The newer dragons flew with fresh vigor, their eyes brighter, fire in their jaws. They glided downward, flying below the wearier dragons, those who had been flying since dawn. Those weary dragons lowered themselves so their bellies skimmed the backs of the new flyers, then released their magic. The Vir Requis lay down on their comrades in human form, ready for rest.

Like this we can fly forever, Meliora thought. At least until hunger kills us.

They had taken their meager supplies from Tofet—some dry oatmeal, some bags of flour, a few gourds of water. Not enough. Constantly, the dragons were duplicating the food in the Chest of Plenty, but with only one chest, it was slow work—too slow to feed half a million souls. Soon they would have to find more food and lots of it, or they wouldn't have to worry about pursuit.

Lavender scales flashed in the sun, and a slim, one-eared dragon came flying toward Meliora. Elory was smaller than most dragons, but Meliora knew that her sister was just as fierce. She had seen the violet dragon slaying many enemies with her flames.

"Do you think that tonight we can sleep on solid ground?" Elory asked. "The people need time to build fires, to bake bread from our flour, to feel earth below us."

Meliora shook her head, her pearly scales chinking. "No. We will not rest. We will dip down only to drink from the river, only to hunt any wild animals we see across the riverbanks. But we will not place our feet on solid earth. Not until we reach Requiem."

She looked ahead toward the north. Requiem—if truly that fabled land existed—still lay across countless miles. Past deserts, plains, mountains, seas, and forests—impossibly distant. The ancient homeland. The prayer of her people, their beacon, their heart. The only place where they could be free, rebuild their kingdom.

A memory stabbed Meliora like a spear. Once more, she stood in darkness before Leyleet, queen of the Rancid Angels, a cursed seraph with bat wings and cruel white eyes. Once more, Leyleet's demonic voice echoed in her mind.

You will never see Requiem, daughter of dragons. With my dying breath I curse you.

Meliora grimaced, the horror of that night returning to her. She had slain Leyleet in the shadows, ridding the world of her malice. But did the dark queen's final words truly carry power?

Will I truly die on this journey? Meliora thought. Am I truly cursed to lead my people to freedom, only to fall before entering our homeland myself? Or will Ishtafel and his hosts reach us in the wilderness of Saraph, slaying us all in these hot southern lands?

She shook her head wildly. Foolishness. There were no such things as prophecies. Requiem had always forged its own future—from the first King Aeternum to the great Queen Kaelyn and finally to her, Meliora, a daughter of their dynasty. Those old monarchs had defeated their enemies.

"And I will defeat mine," Meliora whispered. "Requiem will not fall on my watch. She will rise again."

Even if I must give my life to her, she thought and shuddered.

She was about to lead the dragons down to the river, allowing them to dive and scoop up water before soaring again, when the shrieks sounded in the north.

Meliora caught her breath. She stared ahead, eyes narrowed.

She could still see nothing, but a stench filled the air, rancid, the smell of rotten meat and sulfur and mold. The distant cries rose again, reminding her of vultures fighting over corpses. When Meliora squinted, she could see a cloud rising from beyond the hazy horizon. Many dark specks flew there like flies over filth.

"What are they?" Elory asked. The lavender dragon wrinkled her snout. "I can smell them even from here."

Smoke washed across them, and with flashing red scales, Lucem darted up to fly between the sisters.

"Meliora, you really need a bath," the young red dragon said. "The whole damn nation can smell your stink."

Meliora glared at the dragon. "You're the one who's been living in the wilderness for ten years. But no, Lucem. This isn't dragon stench, as potent as yours is." She pointed her claws to the north. "Your eyes are sharp. What do you see?"

Mumbles rose across the crowd of dragons; more of them were now noticing the cloud ahead. The dark flecks were flying closer, moving at great speed across the sky. Their stench churned Meliora's stomach, and their cries made her wince. The sound was so high-pitched, so cruel, it seemed to twist her very bones.

"Whatever they are," Lucem said, "I wager they're not friendly. And sadly, not very edible, judging by the smell."

Meliora looked over her shoulder and cried out. "Warriors of Requiem! Forward! Fly with me!"

Dozens of dragons rose from the crowd, soon hundreds, then thousands. This nation of freed slaves—their freedom only days old—had no army. But they had already fought one battle, defeating the seraphim over Tofet, and already they knew who their warriors were. The stronger dragons now flew forth—those who had wielded pickaxes or hauled bitumen in the fields of their captivity. The elders, the children, the weak, the wounded—they moved back to fly behind the defenders.

When Meliora looked across the crowd of fighters, she saw her father flying there. Jaren, a green dragon, was a healer, a priest, not a warrior. In human form, he was tall and haggard, and as a dragon he was long, thin, older than the others.

She flew up to him. "Father, I need you to fly back, to protect the elders and children. I—"

"I fight." Jaren stared at her, eyes hard. "I'm a healer, yes. And I'm old. And I'm thin. But my fire is still hot, and my faith in Requiem strong. I fight with you."

The shrieks from the north rose louder now, morphing into twisted laughter. Meliora sneered. The distant beings were closer now, only several miles away. They had large, feathered wings, dark colored, indeed like vultures. They seemed the size of dragons, and she estimated their number at a thousand. Dark clouds gathered above them, as if the sun itself hated the sight of them, shielding its light from their wretchedness. With every mile they crossed, coming closer, disgust grew in Meliora.

"Ugly buggers," Lucem muttered.

Meliora swallowed the instinct to gag. She could finally see the creatures clearly. Indeed, they were as large as dragons, perhaps larger. Yet their bodies were humanoid, female and withered. Dented slabs of armor covered their chests. They had no arms, only wide wings with oily, rotting feathers, tipped with claws. The creatures' heads were massive, large as dragon heads, yet still human—the faces of crones, wrinkled, covered with moles, the noses long, the teeth sharp. Serpents grew from their heads instead of hair, hissing, tongues darting. Worst of all, however, were the creature's legs. While their bodies were those of giant women, the legs were those of vultures, ending with black talons the length of sabers.

"Harpies," Meliora said. She spat out fire.

She had heard of such creatures. Every son and daughter of the Thirteenth Dynasty of Saraph had. Thousands of years ago, they said, the ancient gods of Edinnu had tried to create life, to forge servants of beauty and holiness. Their first attempt had failed. Instead of beings of beauty and nobility, their creations had bloated, withered, rotted. The gods had envisioned pure immortals, their skin soft and unblemished, their hair golden and flowing. Yet boils covered that skin, and nests of snakes topped their heads instead of halos. Disgusted, the gods had caged their deformed daughters, deeming them harpies—cursed creatures. The gods had learned from their mistake. Their second creations flourished, the mighty seraphim. Yet the harpies lingered on, caged, growing mad over the millennia.

And now they're here, Meliora thought, staring at them. Creatures of purest hatred, creatures who lived for nothing but slaughter. There was only one soul who could have freed them, who could command them.

"The King of Saraph," she whispered. "Ishtafel. These are his servants now."

The thousand harpies screeched and raised their talons. Their wings beat, blasting their stench onto the dragons. Their jaws opened wide, dropping halfway down their chests, exposing rows of fangs and white tongues. Their talons reached out, tipped with dry blood, and the snakes on their heads writhed and added their shrill voices to the chorus.

"Weredragons, weredragons!" the harpies cried. "Creatures foul, creatures cruel. Slay them, slay them, sisters! Slay them for our master."

The harpies cackled, and their saliva fell like rain. Their eyes blazed, bugging out, veined and bloodshot. They stormed forth, crossing the last mile toward the dragons. The creatures were outnumbered but seemed to know no fear, only rage and hatred.

Meliora reared and blasted her fire skyward, her white pillar of light, a beacon of strength for her people.

"Requiem!" she called. "Hear me, Requiem! A new battle approaches. Fight! Fight for your nation, for your stars, for your lives!"

Meliora charged, roaring fire. Her fellow dragons flew around her, hundreds of warriors. Elory and Lucem flew to her left, fire blazing. Her father flew to her right. Above, bellowing with rage, flew Vale, her brother; the blue dragon blasted a great stream of fire that rained sparks.

As the flames raced across the sky, the harpies opened their jaws wide. Jets of ice blasted from their mouths, casting out frosted clouds. The frozen pillars thrust toward the dragons, icicles the size of oaks.

Fire and ice slammed together.

The dragonfire scattered, dispersed into fountains that rained down as sparks. Some of the icy shards melted, but many spears of ice made it through the inferno, dripping and still sharp.

Dragons screamed as the ice slammed against them. An icicle, large as a battering ram, drove into a dragon at Meliora's side; it pierced his chest and burst out from his back. The dragon screamed and lost his magic, returning to the form of a young man. The icy shard tore the smaller human body apart, and the man tumbled down, halved and gushing blood. Other icy shards flew all around, cutting into other dragons, ripping wings, tearing scales.

Meliora howled. Instinctively, she banked left, dodging a pillar of ice. Guilt and terror filled her as the ice slammed into a dragon behind her, sending a woman plunging down toward the desert. More bodies rained. Smoke, frost, and fire filled the sky.

"Burn them down!" Meliora shouted. "Burn them all!"

She inhaled deeply, prepared to blow more fire. Ahead of her, several harpies emerged from clouds of frost and fire, cackling and flying toward her. Massive talons—larger than her claws—reached toward Meliora.

She screamed and blasted fire, but her flames missed the harpies. She tried to bank but slammed into another dragon. Harpy talons scraped across her shoulder, ripping out scales. Blood spurted and Meliora yowled in pain. Another harpy swooped from above, landed on her back, and dug its fangs into her.

Meliora nearly lost her magic.

She growled, refusing to lose it.

She swiped her tail like a scorpion, driving it into the harpy on her back. She felt the tail's spikes pierce rotted flesh, and gray blood sprayed. With a roar, Meliora swiped her claws, knocking back a harpy ahead of her. She blasted more fire, her wings scattering sparks and smoke, trying to hold them back.

Yet the creatures were everywhere. Their faces, bloated to obscene size, leered all around Meliora. The eyes bugged out, bloodshot. The snakes on their heads thrust forward, snapping their mouths. Another harpy thrust its talons, slamming them into Meliora, cutting her again, ripping her chest. She yowled.

She blasted more dragonfire.

Her white flames washed over the harpy assaulting her. The creature's wings ignited. The snakes on its head burned. For a moment the harpy seemed like a phoenix, woven of nothing but fire. Then it fell. Another flew forth, and Meliora spun around, lashed her tail, and drove the spikes into its head.

The harpy's head shattered, leaking its innards, but the snakes upon it still lived. They coiled around Meliora's tail, biting her. Pain pierced Meliora. Poison spread through her. She bellowed in agony, twisted around, and blasted more fire.

Her own flames washed across her tail, burning the snakes, cauterizing her wounds. The shattered harpy fell.

For a brief moment, Meliora could breathe, could spare the battle a glance. It seemed barely any harpies had fallen, yet the corpses of Vir Requis still rained. Hundreds already covered the desert below. Whenever the dragons blasted fire, the harpies responded with clouds of ice, blocking the flames. Whenever the dragons charged, the harpies spat out their icicles, piercing scales. Every instant, another dragon lost his or her magic, falling down in human form, frozen, bleeding, dead or dying.

We're not an army, Meliora realized, heart sinking. We're only freed slaves. Too weary. Too famished. Too weak. They will slay us all.

She tossed back her head and roared.

If we die, we die fighting.

"Light the sky with fire!" she cried. "Dragons, fight for your stars! Fight for your lives! Fight or Requiem!"

She beat her wings with all her strength, driving forth toward the enemy.

Her family fought with her. Her sister, a slim lavender dragon. Her brother, a great blue dragon, his fire a mighty stream. Her father, green and wise, now roaring with fury. Hundreds of other dragons—they were all her family now.

A harpy flew toward Meliora, blasting not icicles but a cloud of frost. The frozen miasma flowed across Meliora, and her scales chipped, and her muscles stiffened. She could barely breathe, but she managed to blow her dragonfire, piercing a way through the frozen cloud. She stormed forth, snapped her jaws, drove her teeth into the harpy's neck. She pulled back, tearing out rotted flesh. The harpy fell. More flew around her, freezing her scales with their breath. Meliora spun in circles, spreading her fire, melting the ice. Her claws lashed, scattering the gray blood of the creatures.

Her blood spilled but her hope soared. Slowly, one by one, the harpies were falling. Elory roasted one with dragonfire. Vale cast another down, tearing the beast open with his claws. Lucem and Jaren fought back to back, flames forming a ring around them, burning the harpies. Thousands of other dragons fought with them, finally overwhelming the enemies. Meliora's flames were down to sparks, and her blood dripped, and with her final drop of strength she slew the last of the creatures.

She had vowed not to land until they reached Requiem, but Meliora could barely cling to her magic. She flew down and all but crashed onto a rocky plain. Corpses spread around her, some smashed beyond recognition; what the harpy claws hadn't done, the fall from the sky had. Meliora released her magic and lay among the dead, lacerations and frostbite covering her.

Other dragons landed around her and released their magic. They too were wounded. Gashes bled across them, left by talons and fangs. Frost covered some, and others nursed swelling serpent bites. Hundreds of wounded lay among the dead. Healers rushed among them, bearing what meager supplies they had—the bandages and ointments they had taken from their humble huts in Tofet.

So many dead, Meliora thought, staring into the eyes of the fallen around her. Only three days out of Tofet, and so many fallen already.

Jaren came walking toward her, back in human form. The tall priest still wore his burlap robes from Tofet, and he leaned on his wooden staff, limping from an old wound. Frost covered his beard, melting as the clouds parted and the sun emerged. He knelt above Meliora.

"I will pray for your healing, daughter." He placed his hands upon her.

"No." Meliora struggled to her feet, removing his hands. "Heal the others first. Heal those who followed me to war. I'll wait."

Those words hurt him; she saw that. She could see the thoughts in his eyes.

You are my precious daughter. I lost you before you were even born, only to meet you twenty-seven years later. I can't lose you again.

"I'm fine," she whispered, though every word hurt to utter. "Pray for the warriors of Requiem. They need you more than I do."

As he turned toward the others, praying to the stars to heal their wounds, Meliora raised her eyes, seeking more harpies in the sky.

Instead she saw two distant figures—dragons, their scales bright—approaching from the south.

A red dragon and a black dragon. Meliora's breath caught. She raised her hand, summoning them.

The two dragons flew closer and saw her signal. They spiraled down and landed before her, winded, puffing out smoke and spurts of flame. Both were young and slender, their scales clanking as they breathed raggedly. When they had caught their breath, they released their magic, becoming two young women clad in white livery—one with dark hair and olive skin, the other pale and sporting red stubble on her head.

Meliora stepped closer to them. "Kira! Talana! Tell me what you saw."

A lifetime ago—stars, it had been only months!—the two young women had served Meliora in the palace, her loyal handmaidens. Meliora still felt shame at remembering who she had been then—a pampered, ignorant princess who had treated Kira and Talana as one might treat pups. She had saved them from Malok, the bronze bull, and burn marks still covered their arms, the scars perhaps permanent. That had been the day Meliora had changed, the day her innocence had burned away in the bronze bowels of Malok. Today Kira and Talana served her not as handmaidens but as scouts, two of the fastest dragons in Requiem, their eyes sharp, their wings swift, their loyalty unquestionable. As the nation of Requiem flew across the wilderness, Kira and Talana were its eyes in the distance. But the two looked not to the north, their destination, but south—back toward Tofet, the land they were fleeing, the land where Ishtafel still lurked.

"My queen!" they said, kneeling before her. "You're wounded!"

"I'm not queen of Requiem," she told them. "I am her beacon, her voice in the wilderness. Never mind my wounds. Tell me what you saw."

They rose, eyes darting.

"We saw an army," Kira whispered, her black eyes wide. "A great army that darkened the sky, with more warriors then grains of sand in the desert."

Talana shivered, even more pale than usual. "Ishtafel leads them, my que—I mean, my lady. But he's no longer fair. He's all clad in steel and gold—not just armor but new skin, even covering his face, and his wings are now featherless like the wings of a bat. But the creatures he leads are even fouler." She hugged herself. "They . . . They . . ."

"They look like this," Meliora finished for her, voice soft, and pointed at the steaming corpse of a harpy.

The two scouts turned to look and shuddered. The harpy lay only a few yards away, the size of a dragon. Gray blood and maggots seeped from its wounds, and its tongue hung from its mouth, long and white and bustling with ants. A few snakes still lived on its head, hissing and spitting venom.

Kira and Talana nodded.

"Harpies," they whispered together, for they too—once slaves in the palace of Saraph—had heard the tales of these creatures.

Meliora stepped closer to her scouts and placed her hands on their shoulders. She looked into their eyes, one after the other.

"How many were there?" she asked. "By your best estimate, how many?"

Kira gulped. "More than the seraphim who flew against us in Tofet. I'm good at counting. I always used to count seraphim from the window of the palace. But here is a greater army than I've ever seen, ten times the size of the greatest garrisons of Saraph. A million harpies fly toward us, moving fast. As fast as dragons."

Talana nodded, lips trembling. "A million."

Frost seemed to flow across Meliora again. She stared into the bulging, bloodshot eyes of the harpy corpse. Her wounds flared with pain, and the voices of the dead Vir Requis seemed to cry out to her.

You promised us freedom! You promised us a home. Now we die. Now we all die.

Meliora turned away and closed her eyes.

A thousand harpies ravaged our ranks, she thought. A thousand nearly tore through our defenders, nearly reached our children, nearly crushed our hope. A million will kill every last dragon.

"We must rise," she whispered, opening her eyes. "Jaren! Vale! Raise the dragons. Let the wounded ride on those dragons strong enough to fly. Rise, dragons of Requiem! Fly! Fly with all your speed. Leave the dead."

Meliora tried to shift into a dragon, tried to fly with them, but she was too weak. Her magic petered away. Elory rushed forth to grab Meliora as she wavered.

"Ride me, sister," Elory said, turning into a dragon. "Ride me until you're well enough to fly."

A few dragons began to rise. Others were digging quick graves—with dragon claws and sandy soil, the work didn't take long—and soon they too rose.

Perhaps Meliora would never know how many had died here—thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. But as the dragons of Requiem flew onward, she knew one thing: If Ishtafel caught them, none of them would survive.

Bleeding, grieving for their lost, the dragons of Requiem flew into the north. Just beyond the southern horizon, just out of the dragons' sight, the foul army followed.

VALE

We were a nation in the dust,Vale thought as he flew. We've become a nation of the sky.

He looked across his people. Hundreds of thousands flew around him, dragons in every color. On their backs rode others in human forms, living out their lives in the air. Mothers nursed their babes. Elders sang old songs. Healers changed bandages and chanted prayers. Every once in a while, dragons would spot a herd of animals below—wild deer or sheep sweeping across the land, sometimes merely a stray rabbit—and then dragons would swoop, capture the prey, rise with it again. On scaly backs, men and women lit braziers and cooked the meat. All life—eating, sleeping, praying, singing, dreaming—all in the sky.

Vale rose higher, ascending until the air thinned and he could barely breathe, until he flew above all other dragons. Then he turned to look behind him.

From up here, the horizon spread farther, and he could just see them. Just a hint. A dark stain across the miles, its details invisible. If he hadn't known better, he'd have called it a dark cloud.

But Vale knew what that distant, southern darkness was.

"Harpies," he muttered. "A million harpies following a twisted king."

He looked below at the dragons gliding northward, seeking their homeland—a home that still lay days, maybe weeks, maybe even months away. He might never know how many dragons the thousand harpies had slain. Some estimated—those good at counting great numbers—that ten thousand Vir Requis had fallen to the ice and talons.

If only a thousand harpies slew a myriad of dragons, Vale thought, this southern army will kill us all.

He dipped lower in the sky, beat his wings, and darted forward. He flew over the other dragons—this flying city spread for miles—until he reached the head of the camp.

Meliora flew there, her scales silvery-white, touched with gold when the sun hit them right. Every few miles, she raised a pillar of white fire that soared like the fabled King's Column in the north, a beacon for her people to follow.

Can Ishtafel see that beacon from the south? Vale wondered.

He descended until he flew by his sister.

"He's still following," Vale said. "I can now see him when I fly high enough. I flew as high as I could, higher than any bird, so high I could barely breathe and the air was cold even under the sun. The horizon must be a hundred leagues away from up there, and Ishtafel is just on its edge."

"Too close," Meliora said.

Vale nodded. "We must prepare for meeting him, Meliora."

She spun her head toward him, and her eyes narrowed. Smoke plumed from her nostrils. "No. We will not face him in battle. Not here. Not in Saraph. If we must face him, it will be in Requiem. In our homeland. If we must have a final stand, let it be in our holy sky, fighting beneath our sacred stars."

Vale closed his eyes for a moment, remembering that day—that day of more horror and awe than any other. The day he had beheld Issari Seran, the Priestess in White, the Eye of the Dragon. The day he had died.

Ishtafel had nailed him to the top of the ziggurat, driving the spikes deep into Vale's hands and feet, leaving him to die in the sun. As his last breath fled his lungs, as his heart stilled, Vale had seen her.

Issari.

A woman woven of starlight.

Thousands of years ago, Issari had fought alongside King Aeternum himself to found the kingdom of Requiem. She had risen then to the sky, forming the eye of the fabled Draco constellation, the stars they said shone upon Requiem—the stars one could not see here in the south. For millennia, they say that Issari gazed down upon Requiem, and she had decended to heal Vale, to return him to life.

As he flew here, Issari's words to him echoed in his mind.

A great battle awaits you, son of Requiem, she had said, placing her luminous hands upon him, healing his wounds, returning his soul into his body. Live, child of Aeternum. Your war has not yet ended.

Vale opened his eyes, looking again across the kingdom of dragons in the sky. He had thought his life's battle had been in Tofet. Yet now it seemed a greater war awaited. Had Issari meant that his great battle—the reason for his rebirth—was his battle with the army of harpies, a battle for Requiem's own rebirth?

"Meliora, sooner or later, we'll have to face him again." Vale looked into her eyes. "Either in our sky or here in his. This is a battle we cannot escape, and a battle that, right now, we would lose. Requiem can no longer rely on impromptu defense, nor can we rely on ghosts or erevim to save us. We need an army. Not just a horde but a true, trained military like Requiem's Royal Army of old."

The white dragon shook her head sadly. "Armies require months, even years of training. Armies require ranks. Structures. Units within units—flights and battalions and commanders for each. Ruthless discipline. Hardened souls."

Vale smiled grimly. "All things that we already have."

Meliora stared at him, frowning, and slowly her eyes widened. "Of course."

He nodded. "The strongest among us, going back centuries, have been organized into teams and sub-teams. All our lives, we practiced ruthless discipline, hardened our souls and bodies. Every dragon here who's strong enough to lift a pickaxe or yoke already has a team. Let our old slave teams become our new military units. Let that routine—working together, wielding tools, every man and woman knowing their place—become the foundation for our army."

"Yes." Meliora bared her teeth. "Yes, we will have an army. And you, Vale, will lead it."

In dragon form, he had no eyebrows, but he gave his best attempt at raising one. "Surely there's a better choice for general. Somebody older, wiser, stronger."

Meliora herself raised a scaly brow. "Who? Father? He's a priest and healer, not a warrior. Me? I am as a savior to these people, not a general. You are of royal blood, Vale. You are an Aeternum, the descendant of our great warriors of olden days—the blood of King Benedictus, of King Elethor, of the hero Relesar flows through your veins. But there's a far more important reason, Vale, why you should lead." Her eyes darkened. "You faced Ishtafel before. You're the first dragon to have defied him, to burn him. You fought Ishtafel twice and lived."

Her words stabbed him like daggers. He grimaced and looked away. "Yes, I faced Ishtafel in battle twice. I died the first time, sister. I live now only because Father prayed to the Priestess in White to heal me. When I faced him again, I would have died if not for . . . if Tash hadn't . . ."

He could say no more, and tears stung his eyes, and his throat tightened.

Tash.

He lowered his head, the pain overwhelming.

I miss you, Tash. I love you. Always.

It had been several days since her death, and the grief only seemed to grow. Tash—the woman who had infuriated him, the woman he had come to love. Tash—the woman who had almost betrayed him, the woman who had given her life to save his. Tash—the woman who had freed Meliora from her prison, who had found the Chest of Plenty, who had assured Requiem's escape from captivity.

Yet you will never see Requiem, Tash, Vale thought. I will never hold you again, never kiss you again, never laugh with you, perhaps never laugh again. I love you always, Tash. Your loss is forever a hole inside me.

Meliora seemed to notice his pain. Her eyes softened, and she flew closer and nuzzled him, her snout hot against his neck.

"I'm sorry, Vale. Her loss pains me too. I cannot imagine how much worse it must be for you."

He raised his eyes, looking at the sky. The sun was setting and soon the stars would emerge. The Draco constellation did not shine this far south, but Vale knew that Tash's soul would rise to that place—those celestial halls he had glimpsed upon the ziggurat.

I know that someday, I will see you again, Tash.

He returned his eyes to Meliora. He nodded. "Requiem will have an army again. And I will lead it."

LUCEM

The dragons of Requiem flew over the wilderness of Saraph, hundreds of thousands strong, covering the sky—a great nation of fire, tears, and blood.

As they flew, leaving so many dead behind, many dragons shed tears. Many others still bled from their wounds. On their backs, children wept, their mothers trying to comfort them, crying too. Elders prayed. Men and women spoke in low voices, eyes darting with fear, seeking enemies on the horizon. Fear, grief, pain—they filled the exodus, spreading from the slowest dragons in the rear to Meliora's pillar of white fire which led the camp, miles in the north.

Yet as Lucem flew here on the wind, he could feel none of that grief or fear.

For the first time in his life, he felt joy.

A feeling pure. Wonderful. Greater than anything he had thought possible to feel.

He inhaled deeply, gave his wings a sturdy flap, and rose higher. At first, he had wobbled while flying, but now it felt as natural as walking. He looked across his nation, trying to count them, unable to. So many dragons—dragons that flowed from one horizon to the other, filling the sky, all flying together after that pillar of white dragonfire, that column in the north, seeking the true pillar of marble.

For so many years, Lucem had languished in his cave. Alone. Afraid. The hero of Requiem, the only one who had ever escaped Tofet—only to become an exile, nearly mad with loneliness. For so many years, hiding in the wilderness, he had dreamed of this. Dreamed of the rest of his nation escaping, rising together as dragons, flying as one.

"Enemies may fly in pursuit," Lucem said. "And many enemies may await us in our fallen homeland. But right now, here, in this sky—we are free. We are dragons."

A high voice spoke on his back. "Not me! And stop talking to yourself. You woke me up."

Lucem looked over his shoulder to see Elory stretching and yawning with all the glorious grace of her human form. She wore a cotton tunic, and her brown hair was growing longer—it was now almost long enough to cover her missing ear, the mark Leyleet had left on her. Several days of flight had been kind to Elory, he thought. She no longer seemed as gaunt as before, and a rosy hue tinted her cheeks.

"Good," he said. "It's my turn to ride you. Into a dragon with you."

She blinked and rubbed her eyes. "No. Not a chance. I didn't sleep nearly long enough."

Lucem snorted and released his magic.

He tumbled down in human form. Elory fell, squealed, and shifted. Soon she flew as a one-eared dragon, scales gleaming violent in the sunlight, the spikes on her tail white as milk.

"Lucem, you bloody pest!" she cried.

He shifted back into a dragon and rose to fly beside her. "Best way to wake up."

She groaned and slapped him with her tail. "Best way to get me to clobber you."

He winced as her tail kept thumping him. "All right, all right! I'm sorry." He reached his own tail around to his sides, rubbing the sore areas her spikes had left. "I suppose I deserved that."

Elory's eyes still flashed with rage. "I forget sometimes that you spent ten years in the wilderness. Probably raised by monkeys, you were. No idea how to behave among us dragons."

He grinned and puffed out smoke. "I'm a wild beast in need of taming."

The violet dragon obviously struggled to remain mad, to keep glaring at him, but when Lucem reared and gave out a squeaky little roar—something that sounded a lot more like a puppy yapping than a dragon bellowing—she relented and laughed.

"I don't know whether to hate you or laugh at you, Lucem."

"Definitely laugh at me." He winked. "Laughter is always better than hatred."

She sighed and moved to fly closer to him, so close their cheeks touched, and their wings flapped one atop the other. Lucem's smile then turned sad, and he closed his eyes, basking in her warmth and presence.

"I'm so happy here, Lucem," she said. "And yet I'm so scared. I'm so scared this dream will end."

"Dreams are never everlasting things. They always end. That does not diminish their beauty. That does not make them less important."

"I know, but I want ours to last for more than a few days! Stars, Lucem. We spent five hundred years in captivity. Will we die before we ever reach Requiem?"

He looked at her, their cheeks still pressed together, their eyes only inches apart.

"This is Requiem," Lucem said. "Even if we cannot reach our homeland in the north, even if we never see our stars—this here, right now, this nation in the wilderness, this is Requiem reborn. And I will savor every moment I have with this nation. Every moment that I have with you, Elory. Because I love Requiem, but even more, I love you."

She sighed. "Oh you silly thing. Such a silly, wild beast to tame." She slapped him again with her tail. "You make me love you, don't you? You make me hate you, you make me slap you, you make me laugh at you . . . and you make me love you. Wild beast indeed."

He grinned. "So now can I ride you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Fine! But be careful, or I'm likely to fly upside down as you sleep, sending your slumbering backside down to its death."

As Lucem released his magic above her, landing on her back in human form, he turned to look south. Beyond the horizon, he knew that they were still flying. Ishtafel. A million harpies, a force to slay every last dragon.

I won't die by falling off Elory, he thought. But we might die before the sun sets and rises again. All of us. Here, far from our homeland.

He lay on his stomach and draped his arms across Elory, caressing her lavender scales.

I will do whatever I can. I will fight. Kill. Fly to the end of the world and back. Only to spend another moment with you, Elory. Only to live this dream a while longer.

The white pillar of fire rose in the north, and the dragons of Requiem followed. Lucem closed his eyes and slept.

ISHTAFEL

The harpies shrieked, storming across the sky, their rot dripping across the plains, their eyes blazing white under the shadows of the clouds that forever shadowed their flight. A million strong, they had languished for millennia in their prisons—the gods' first, failed attempts at life, older siblings to the seraphim, deformed and cruel, nursing their hatred through the eras.

Yet now they were free from the prison cells of Edinnu. Now they flew here in Saraph, this new realm of godly light Ishtafel had forged. Their talons gleamed. Their feathers churned their stench. Their withered faces, covered in boils and hair, twisted in hatred—the faces of crones, bloated to obscene size, the mouths full of teeth, the throats thirsty for the blood of dragons. Onward they flew, foul life, beasts who knew nothing but hatred.

Yet they were beasts that would serve him, Ishtafel thought. For he had given them freedom. He had given them the chance to prove their strength. The dark seraphim failed him, as they had failed to topple his mother's reign. But the harpies knew no failure; all they knew was to hunt, to kill, to feast upon the flesh of their enemies.

"Soon you will eat dragons!" Ishtafel cried, standing in his chariot of fire high above the land. "Soon the blood of Requiem will fill your bellies and stain your lips."

His voice emerged strangely from his golden mask, metallic, almost like the sound of the bronze bull Malok. More metal covered his body now, a new skin, replacing the skin the dragons had burnt off. No more feathers grew on his wings; only thin membranes stretched across the bones, the feathers burnt off, leaving him almost like a dark seraph, cursed and foul. And yet his halo still shone, a beacon of his dominion and retribution.

The harpies cried out in joy, horrible sounds, the caws of vultures, the grunts of rotting beasts, the wails of slaughtered hogs. They were larger than him, as large as the largest dragons. A single harpy could, perhaps, crush even him, the King of Saraph, the mightiest of the seraphim.

They will devastate Requiem.

For too long, he had shown the dragons mercy. Slaying them only one by one. Allowing them to live in their miserable huts, to reek and rot in Tofet, staining his empire with their wretchedness. He would have to burn down and bury that entire land to cover the stench. For too long, he had let the weredragons languish in their pathetic excuse for life.

That mercy was over.

"You will die long before you reach your homeland, weredragons," he said. "All but you, Meliora. You will live. You will return to your true homeland . . . to Saraph. To the ziggurat. To your prison cell. And there, my sweetness, in darkness and chains, you will bear my heirs."

He grinned inside his mask, the movement stretching his wounds, leaking blood, shooting pain through him. Good. The pain kept him alive. The pain kept his hatred burning hot. He stared ahead, and he could just see them on the horizon—a wake of smoke. The trail of dragons . . . getting closer every day.

"No more slavery, dragons," he whispered. "Only death. Only mountains of your bones."

MELIORA

"No." She shook her head as she flew, crossing the mountains of Khalish toward the distant valleys. "We cannot stop. We cannot land, not even for an hour. Not with Ishtafel on our tails."

Her father flew at her side, scales green as the fabled forests of Requiem. Jaren looked at her with sad eyes.

"We're out of food, my daughter. The fish and animals we hunt below are not enough to feed a nation. The Chest of Plenty cannot duplicate food fast enough for half a million dragon mouths. We need more flour. Fruit and vegetables. Milk and cheese."

She narrowed her eyes, puffing out smoke. She looked behind her at the hundreds of thousands of dragons, then back at her father. "Then we'll tighten our belts. We can endure a few more days of hunger."

"But can we endure disease?" Jaren asked. "An illness runs through the camp, and fewer dragons can fly every hour. They ride the strong, shivering in their human forms, and the fever is spreading—even here in the sky. We need medicine. Medicine that can be found in the city ahead."

Meliora spat out smoke. She stared ahead. There, in the distance, she could see it on the horizon. A great mountain rose ahead, crowned with a city of limestone, sandstone, and bronze. Walls surrounded the mountain's base, and brick structures sprawled across the slopes. On the mountain's crest perched a great, round fortress, shaped as an egg.

The city of Keleshan. Home to Saraph's largest garrison of troops outside the capital. If Shayeen was the heart of the empire, here was its fist.

"We're not ready to fight another battle," Meliora said. "Not here, not in Keleshan. We veer west. We avoid this city and travel over the western deserts. I would not approach Keleshan, not even for food and medicine. Not even our new army can face these foes."

Jaren gazed at her with sad eyes. "They never told you, did they?

She frowned. "Tell me what, Father?"

He turned to stare toward the distant city. "Why do you think there are walls around Keleshan? The seraphim have wings and can easily fly over them, and no enemies threaten them, not in this world they so easily conquered. Those walls are there to keep people in. More slaves. More Vir Requis." He lowered his head. "The people of Requiem were chained not just in Tofet. They serve in this city too, and in the cities along the northern coast."

Meliora inhaled sharply.

More slaves. More Vir Requis.

And she knew: She could not simply fly by. She would fight for Keleshan, this city on the mountain. She would test her new army. She would kill.

She would raise more dragons.

She spun in the sky and flew toward her brother. Vale flew among a hundred dragon warriors, the vanguard of the camp—all Vir Requis who had once labored in the mines. Thousands of other warriors now flew around the camp, organized into their old units. The brickmakers guarded the eastern flank. The bitumen diggers—Elory among them—flew in the west. Other units—once bitumen refiners, masons, farmers, shipwrights, and many other laborers—flew in their own formations. The new Royal Army, formed from the strongest slaves, surrounded the weaker Vir Requis—elders, nursing mothers, children, babes.

Now they will fly to war, Meliora thought.

"Vale," she said, "ready your troops. We're about to test their mettle."

She repeated Jaren's words to him, and while he listened, the blue dragon sneered and puffed out smoke, staring at the city ahead.

"So we fight for food," Vale said. "For medicine. And for freedom. The blood of Saraph will spill today . . . and new dragonfire will rise." With a roar, the blue dragon reared and blasted fire skyward. His voice rolled across the camp. "Royal Army, rise, rise! Fly with me at the vanguard. Fly to war!"

With thousands of roars, the new army of Requiem stormed to the head of the camp. Their cries shook the sky. The sun began to set, but their fire lit the darkness.

They stormed across the miles, and Meliora flew with them, roaring out her fury. Her family flew at her sides: Vale, a blue dragon, commander of the Royal Army; Elory, a lavender dragon, smaller but just as fast, her fire just as hot; Jaren, her father, his scales green, a healer who did not hesitate to fight to save lives. Behind them flew thousands of others. Their captivity had weakened their bodies but hardened their souls, instilling deep wrath within them. Now this fury would wash across their enemies of light.

From the walls and roofs of Keleshan they rose—hosts of seraphim, bearing lances and shields. From the oval fortress on the mountaintop rose many flaming chariots, their firehorses storming toward the dragons, and the seraphim riders raised bows and arrows. As the dragons flew closer across the mountains, more and more seraphim kept emerging, an erupting volcano, a host that covered the sky like clouds of red and orange and flaring white. Thousands soared, prepared for battle, flying in formations, spears glinting, halos burning, chariots thundering like a storm.

"Hear me, Requiem!" Meliora cried. "We fight to free our brothers and sisters. We fight for our freedom. To war! To war! For stars and column, fly!"

"For stars and column!" they answered her call. "For Requiem!"

Thousands of their roars sounded together. Thousands of flaming pillars rose in a blazing forest. The dragons stormed forth, howling with rage, no longer slaves, no longer broken and afraid. Here were no refugees, no broken souls.

Here was an army of dragons, an army like the great hosts of Old Requiem, charging for glory.

Ahead of them, the seraphim stormed across the sky. Their wings spread wide. The light of their halos flared out. The setting sun gleamed on their gilded breastplates, and their chariots rose above, forming a great canopy, a sky of fire. The distance shrank between the two hosts. The earth itself seemed to shake, the heavens to burn. Only a league separated the forces, then a mile.

"Blow your fire, Requiem!" Vale shouted, rearing at Meliora's side. "Burn them down!"

Arrows flew.

Lances thrust.

Dragonfire washed across the sky.

VALE

A great battle awaits you, son of Requiem.

As he stormed across the sky to the wall of fire, words of starlight echoed inside him.

Live, son of Aeternum. Your war has not yet ended.

As he flew to blood, pain, killing, maybe death upon the plains, Vale thought of Issari. A priestess of starlight. A mother of Requiem. A kind, guiding light, the woman who had given him life, who had birthed Requiem thousands of years ago.

I fight for my family, he thought. I fight for my people. But I also fight for you, Lady in White.

He stared at the enemy ahead—countless seraphim, some in chariots, others flying with their own wings—and blasted his dragonfire.

Thousands of flaming jets blasted from the dragons around him.

Arrows flew from the enemy host, darkening the sky. The projectiles—each was longer than a human arm, tipped with blades to dwarf daggers—slammed down into the charging dragons, some snapping against scales, others driving through and finding flesh. Dragons roared and lost their magic and fell, screaming, as men and women.

Vale kept flying, roaring his flames.

The dragonfire washed across the first ranks of seraphim. Feathered wings kindled. Gilt melted off steel armor. Skin peeled and seraphim screamed, flesh burning, but still the immortals charged. Their lances thrust, the blades like longswords.

Vale bellowed and swerved. A lance scraped across his side, shattering scales, and he kept flying. He swung his claws, tearing through armor, digging into a seraph's torso, tugging out the innards, and casting the man down.

"Fight, sons and daughters of Requiem!" he cried. "You are an army! You will slay the enemy!"

Lances drove forth all around him. The blades slammed into dragons. One lance scraped across a dragon's underbelly where no scales grew, ripping the beast open, spilling the organs. All around, men and women fell, screaming, many already dead, their magic lost. The corpses slammed against the hills below.

More seraphim stormed toward Vale. He bucked in the sky. He whipped his tail around, driving the spikes into a seraph's side, piercing his gut. He rose higher, dodging a lance, and propelled himself forward. He closed his jaws around a seraph's head and shoulders, bit down, tore the man in two, and spat out the arms and head. Another seraph shoved his lance forward, and the blade scraped across Vale's back. Scales flew like coins from a cut purse. Vale roared, grabbed the seraph's shield in his claws, and shoved it aside. He blasted his dragonfire, washing the seraph with the flames, sending him falling down to the ground like a comet.

Fire, godlight, smoke, scales, blood, fangs, steel—they swirled through the sky, a great dance of death. Though bodies fell, though lances thrust, though countless seraphim still swooped from above, the dragons never lost their composure, never broke formation. All their lives, these Vir Requis had danced this dance macabre. All their lives, they had toiled in the valley of death, allowing the seraphim to beat them, slay them, and still they had toiled.

Now, in the sky, no enemy would shatter their strength.

Still they worked together—worked not at cutting stone but cutting flesh, not at mining black bitumen but the golden ichor of immortals. They sang again—no longer their songs of slavery, songs of straw and clay and tar and sweat, but songs of Requiem, songs of pride, of marble, of starlight, of a home among the birches and in the northern sky. A song of dragons.

Before them they fell—a rain of seraphim, wings ablaze, and the corpses of the immortals littered the fields of Saraph, as plentiful as the crops that grew there. The crops the Vir Requis had planted; the crops they would claim.

The food in this city is ours, Vale thought as he lashed his claws, swung his tail, blew his fire. The medicine in the houses of healing. The bricks of the temples, fortresses, silos. The cobblestones on the roads. The wine in jugs, the water drawn from wells, the wealth and work of this city—all these were made by Vir Requis slaves. All would belong to free dragons.

They fought through the night.

In the darkness, the chariots of fire cast out their light. Their firehorses tore through the ranks of dragons, wings aflame, sending men and women plunging down. The seraphim riders fired their arrows, slaying warriors, breaking the lines, and storming through the ranks of elders and children, cutting them down. Nursing mothers. Babes. Elders who had survived decades of servitude. As the lines of Requiem's army crumbled, they fell to their deaths below.

Yet even as Vale's army regrouped and charged back into battle, those they protected joined the fight.

Young dragons, no larger than ponies, blasted out streams of fire. Old dragons, their teeth fallen and their scales cracked, slammed into the ranks of seraphim. Every dragon fought this day, and in the fires above the city of Keleshan, all of Requiem became an army. All fought for their nation, for a memory of their stars—a memory that had passed through the generations. None here had ever seen the stars of Requiem, and none had seen King's Column, but those lights still shone in their hearts.

Dawn was rising when the seraphim began to fall back.

Those chariots and seraphim that still flew retreated into the city, their light vanishing behind the walls. The dragons of Requiem cheered.

"The city is ours!" they cried. "Requiem rises! Requiem rises!"

A rumble rose ahead.

The city shook.

As the dragons cheered, Vale stared at the city with narrowed eyes, his belly churning.

Light grew within the massive, oval fortress that crowned the city, leaking through the windows and doors and between the bricks.

Vale sneered.

"Hold your ranks!" he cried. "Warriors of Requiem, rally here! Hold the lines!"

On the mountaintop, the egg-shaped fortress shook, then began to crumble. Bricks rained from its rounded facades. The arches collapsed around the base. The towers that rose upon its crest cracked and tumbled. Soon the entire structure was collapsing, casting out beams of light.

The great stone egg was hatching, and a creature unfurled from within.

Vale stared, hissing. His heart sank and fear thrummed through him.

A colossal beak, large as a dragon, thrust through the disintegrating stone shell. A wet, feathered body emerged, and wings spread out, large as fields. The massive bird rose upon the mountaintop, claws the size of houses, and raised its head to the rising sun. It let out a great cry, a sound that rolled across the city, scattering stones, bending trees, cracking the walls and flattening the farms below.

"He is Ziz!" Meliora said, darting up to fly by Vale. The silver dragon's scales were cracked and bleeding, burns spread across her wings, and blood stained her claws and mouth. "The ancient sunbird of Saraph, a great symbol of the nation. They say he sleeps for a thousand years, only to rise again. I thought it only a tale."

Vale grumbled. "Well, that tale is taking flight before us, and he doesn't look too happy that we woke him up."

As Ziz's wings flapped, they snapped palm trees, toppled roofs, cracked walls across the city. The wind buffeted the army of dragons, tossing them back in the sky. Ziz rose higher, and his wings spread wide like storm clouds, hiding the sun. Darkness fell across the land.

"Ziz, Ziz!" chanted the surviving seraphim upon the walls.

Vale sneered, puffing out smoke.

We have no time for this. Ishtafel gains on us every hour that we delay. He glanced behind him, and in the darkness he could see a sickly smoke on the horizon—Ishtafel's troops. Coming closer.

He looked around him. Many from his army had fallen. Hundreds of Vir Requis lay dead upon the fields and city roofs below, perhaps thousands. Those dragons that still flew hurried to form new lines in the sky, readying what flames they could muster. Most were too weary for full blasts of dragonfire; only weak puffs of smoke left their nostrils, and only sparks left their jaws.

The sunbird shrieked again, circling above. The cry was deafening. Vale couldn't help it; he screamed in the noise, his ears thundering, feeling ready to shatter. Several dragons lost their magic and fell, covering their ears, nearly hitting the ground before rising again as dragons. Flames burst from Ziz's eyes, and the sunbird turned in the sky . . . and came swooping toward the dragons.

"Ziz, Ziz!" the seraphim cried. "Feed upon the dragons!"

Fear—icy, overpowering—flowed across Vale.

The bird plunged down, covering the sky, its beak large enough to swallow dragons whole. The dragons of Requiem cried out and began to scatter. Vale stared skyward and saw his death.

Live, son of Aeternum. Your war does not end here.

He let starlight fill his mind.

Vale roared, his cry rising so loudly all the Royal Army could hear, even over the shriek of the mythological beast swooping from above.

"Fly, Requiem! Fly and burn him down!"

Vale soared.

Hundreds, soon thousands of dragons soared with him.

Their dragonfire rose, and Ziz's wrath fell upon them.

Pillars of dragonfire slammed into the bird's wings and rained, showering back onto the dragons. Claws tore at feathered flesh. Yet Ziz did not burn, and his blood did not spill. His talons swung, as large as dragons, plowing through the hosts of Requiem. Their blows knocked the magic out of Requiem's warriors; they fell as men and women. The wind stormed, slamming into dragons, sending them tumbling through the sky, crashing against one another. The sunbird screeched again, and more men and women fell, eardrums pierced and bleeding.

"We can't hurt it!" Meliora cried, flying by Vale as the wings beat above them, and the storm buffeted them. "None can slay Ziz."

Vale roared and flew higher.

A great battle awaits you, son of Requiem.

"We will slay him!" he cried.

He flew higher, rising among falling dragons, until he flew before the head of the beast. Above the span of its wings, the sun shone brilliantly, nearly blinding him. Ziz cried out, beak opened wide, large as a temple's nave.

Head spinning, barely clinging to his magic, Vale blew his dragonfire.

He had been breathing fire all night, and he had to reach deep inside him, to summon all his pain, the pain of his captivity, his torture in Saraph, to reach for all his grief over the loss of Tash, the loss of thousands, to raise all his pride, his honor, his love of Requiem and her stars. With mourning, fear, nobility, and fury, he cast out a great jet of dragonfire, hotter and brighter than any he had blown.

The inferno shrieked across the sky and crashed into the great bird's eyes.

Ziz tossed back his head and cried out again, but this time it was a cry of pain.

Vale stormed forth and lashed his claws at the great bird's neck.

It felt like clawing a granite cliff. Vale roared, feeling like his claws would snap off. He barely dented the beast, and the beak plunged down. Vale flew backward, blasted fire again. The beak snapped shut, missing him by inches. The talons rose, lashing at Vale. He tried to fly backward again, but he was too slow.

The talons slammed against him.

Each of those sharp, yellow nails was as large as a dragon. Thankfully, the sharp end missed Vale, but the polished surface of the talons crashed against him like the columns of a crumbling temple.

The pain seemed to shatter every scale across him.

Vale lost his magic.

He fell as a man.

He tumbled between dozens of soaring dragons, their fire rising around him. Dozens of other Vir Requis fell with him, dead or dying.

"Vale!" With a flash of red scales, Lucem soared and caught Vale in his claws. "Vale, old boy! You all right?"

Vale groaned and shook his head, hanging in the red dragon's grip, still in human form. "Just stunned a bit."

Dipping to avoid another lash of the great talons, Lucem snorted. "That's what you get for trying to be a hero like me. There's only one legendary hero in Requiem, old boy, and that's Lucem the Red. But come, let's be heroes together." The red dragon grinned toothily. "I'm the only one who ever scaled the walls of Tofet. What's killing a giant bird the size of a mountain?"

Vale took a deep breath, clearing the pain, and shifted back into a dragon, tugging himself free from Lucem's grip. They were now flying below Ziz. The massive bird's wings hid the sun again, casting darkness across them. Hundreds of dragons were rising around them, blowing fire, trying to burn the beast, but Ziz kept flying. The talons kept lashing, and Vale grimaced to see the bird's beak close around a dragon and swallow.

"Fly with me," Lucem said and began diving, moving away from the great bird.

Vale growled. "Do you flee from battle?"

The red dragon snorted and looked over his shoulder at Vale. "Dive as a hero or soar and die as a martyr."

With a grunt, Vale followed. The two dragons plunged downward, weaving between their comrades. The other warriors of Requiem, all rising to attack the bird above, cried out in rage and fear.

"Vale the commander and Lucem the hero flee from battle!" one dragon cried.

"Our prince and hero are cowards!" said another dragon.

Across the battlefield, dragons looked around in dismay. Some began to flee the battle.

"Lucem—" Vale began.

"Trust me!" said the red dragon.

Eyes narrowed, smoke blasting between his teeth, Lucem kept swooping. The ground rushed up toward them, littered with corpses of both Vir Requis and seraphim, cloaked in shadows under the veil of wings. An instant before he could hit the ground, Lucem curved his flight, reached out his claws, and grabbed a lance from a fallen seraph.

"Grab one!" Lucem said, rising again.

Vale spread his wings wide, trapping air, and reached out to pluck a fallen lance like a raptor grabbing a fish.

Again they soared. Their fellow dragons parted before them. The two dragons, red and black, rose with spears in their claws, heading back toward the massive sunbird that hid the sky.

"Take the right!" Lucem cried.

Vale grumbled. He thought he knew what Lucem was thinking. "Meet you in the middle."

The red dragon grinned. "Not sure our lances are long enough, but I'll try."

The dragons parted ways, Vale curving his ascent toward the right, Lucem to the left. As hundreds of dragons blew fire all around, Vale rose above Ziz's wings again. Once more, he emerged into the blue sky.

The head of the bird shrieked above, the beak crushing more dragons. Several warriors of Requiem were flying around the head, blasting dragonfire, but none could burn the great sunbird.

Ziz is impenetrable to claws and fangs, fireproof, impossible for dragons to cut, Vale thought. When the bird screeched again, Vale grimaced, his eardrums thrumming so madly he thought they'd rip. It hurts our ears. Time to hurt his.

He flew closer, dodging the snapping beak. Other dragons flew all around, and streams of dragonfire crisscrossed the sky. The beak lashed again and again, fast as striking vipers, devouring dragons. In the distance, across the great feathered head, Vale could glimpse a soaring red dragon, clutching a lance.

There! Vale stared. He saw it. When Ziz's wings blasted air, raising the feathers on the head, the hole revealed itself—no larger than a man's head.

Its ear.

A few hundred yards away, Lucem was charging toward the head. Vale bared his fangs and charged too.

The great bird spun its head from side to side, finally settling on Vale. Its eyes narrowed balefully, and the bird thrust its head forward, beak snapping.

Vale cringed.

The beak opened wide, prepared to grab him.

Wincing, Vale released his magic.

He shrunk at once to human form and fell. The beak snapped shut inches away. The lance tumbled and spun through the sky.

Before the beak could snap again, Vale shifted back into a dragon. He grabbed the spear and soared. Lucem came flying forth.

"Now, Vale!" the red dragon cried.

Vale whipped around in the sky, dodging the snapping beak, rose higher, ascended above the head . . . then released his magic again.

As he fell in human form, he grabbed the lance.

There.

Wind gusted, raising the feathers on Ziz's head.

There!

Falling as a man, Vale thrust his lance.

The blade—long and sharp as a sword—drove into the massive bird's ear. Vale pushed with all his might, feeling the blade tear through the eardrum, driving deeper, and he kept pushing until the shaft sank deep into the head.

Across the great head, Lucem shoved forth his own lance, driving the blade and shaft into Ziz's opposite ear.

The sunbird screamed.

It was a sound so horrible, so loud, so anguished, that Vale covered his ears and fell, still in human form. He thumped down onto the creature's wing. Above, the massive head thrashed, the lances still embedded into it. Blood leaked. The wings trembled, struggling to beat.

Vale rose as a dragon. He flew higher. Lucem flew with him. Below them, the great bird cried out—a sound that seemed almost afraid, almost human.

Vale expected to feel triumph, pride in Requiem, maybe only relief—but instead he felt pity. He felt guilt.

We slew a mythological beast. We slew a frightened animal, newly hatched.

Below him, Ziz's head swayed, and the great bird the size of a city began to fall.

Vale had to look away, his eyes suddenly damp.

All across the sky, the surviving dragons cheered. Many fired down dragonfire, roasting the sunbird as it fell. The earth and sky shook as Ziz slammed against the land, its one wing draped across the city wall, the other across the fields. The animal gave one more cry, weaker, softer . . . and then fell silent.

"Damn yeah!" Lucem cried. "That's how it's done."

The red dragon flew in circles, hooting with joy. But Vale only lowered his head.

A great battle awaits you, son of Requiem.

"But it was not this battle," he whispered. "Not this slaughter far from our home."

As Lucem still yipped with joy, and as the dragons cheered all around, Vale turned to look south. The gray cloud in the distance was moving closer—Ishtafel's hosts. They had fought a bloody battle here, one that had tested Vale's new army and all his resolve. But the greatest battle still awaited—one that Vale hoped he would never have to fight.

MELIORA

We must move fast.

She glanced toward the south, where a shadow approached. Ishtafel and his host of harpies, a million strong. Only an hour or two away.

Meliora pulled her wings close to her body and dived. The city of Keleshan rose below upon the mountain, the egg-shaped fortress on its crest broken, the great bird itself dead upon the walls and roofs. The last few seraphim fled from the city, scattering in all directions.

But there was still life in Keleshan. Still many souls. Awaiting her. Awaiting salvation.

In the dawn's light, evil rising like a tidal wave behind her, Meliora Aeternum, Mother of Requiem, descended into the city of Keleshan with a pillar of white fire. From homes, huts, fields, and refineries they emerged—the slaves of the city. Hobbled. Collared. Beaten and broken down, but singing, calling out her name.

"Meliora the Merciful! The Queen of Requiem arrives!"

Meliora had not known her tales had spread this far, yet these people sang for her, weeping in the city streets and on the roofs. Her people. Her children. Children of Requiem.

Kira and Talana flew at her sides, her trusted handmaidens-turned-comrades. The two young dragons carried crates, which they shattered in their claws. Keys—thousands of keys—rained onto the city.

"Open your chains, children of Requiem!" Meliora cried, flying above the homes and temples and fields. "Unlock your collars, Vir Requis. Summon the magic of starlight, and fly with me! Fly with your nation."

Hundreds of thousands of dragons, freed from Tofet, flew above the city. Thousands more rose from Keleshan below—wobbling, afraid, flying for the first time in their lives. Their chains fell. Their collars lay smashed on the streets. And they rose, dragon after dragon, scales bright, fire hot, tears in their eyes and their songs filling the sky.

"Requiem!" they sang. "May our wings forever find your sky."

The ancient song of Requiem—the song their people had sung for thousands of years, since King Aeternum and Queen Laira had raised a column in a northern forest, since Priestess Issari had shone her light. Past the eras, the generations that had fought and fell and wept and prayed, the song of dragons remained. That song spread across the camp, filling their hearts—the prayer of a nation.

Yet in the south, a different song rose.

Meliora could hear it now, and she shivered.

A demonic buzz. Shrieks. Jeers. Cackles. The song of harpies, and above it a distant voice—almost impossible to hear—deep, calling out to her. Vowing eternal pain. The voice of Ishtafel.

Meliora sneered.

That is one battle I will not fight, not yet, not here. This day we slew a great enemy, but Ishtafel is an enemy we cannot defeat.

"Fly, dragons of Requiem!" she shouted, rising higher in the sky. "Fly north. Fly with me. To the coast. To the sea. To Requiem!"

She raised her pillar of white dragonfire, a twin to King's Column in the north. The camp gathered around her beacon.

She flew north, leaving the city of Keleshan behind, and they followed. They had lost many, and they had gained many more. Together they flew, moving as fast as they could, seeking a home, fleeing the darkness.

ELORY

As the dragon flew northward, leaving the sacked city behind, Elory kept glancing over her shoulder and seeing, hearing, remembering.

Ishtafel's host of harpies flew perhaps fifty leagues away—just close enough to cover the horizon. And they were closing the distance quickly. Every hour that Elory looked behind her, the enemy seemed a mile closer. Before fighting in Keleshan, only Requiem's scouts or highest flyers—those who dared rise until the air thinned to nearly nothing—had been able to see Ishtafel in the south. Yet now he was always there, seen even from normal altitude.

Even with one missing ear, Elory could hear them. Cackles. Chants. Shrieks. Their stench carried on the wind, assaulting her nostrils even from here. Even with so many dragons flying around her, Elory could not feel safe. Not with that host of killers on her trail.

Only a thousand harpies devastated us, slaying ten dragons for each one of them. Elory shuddered as she flew. Now a million of those creatures fly in pursuit, gaining on us.

She forced herself to look away, to gaze around at her fellow Vir Requis. The dragons flew in a great camp, a kingdom in the air. About a third of them flew as dragons; the others rode their comrades, resting in human forms. The new arrivals from Keleshan had swelled their numbers. The Royal Army surrounded the weaker dragons, and at the head of the column flew Meliora, raising her white flames into the sky, a beacon that even the southernmost dragons—several miles behind—could see and follow.

And Ishtafel can see it too, Elory thought.

Worse than the sight of that distant cloud, than the noise, the stench, the fear—were the memories.

The images kept flashing before Elory—when she stared into the distance, when she slept, sometimes surprising her, creeping up on her. Whether they pounced, lurked, cut, taunted her, the memories were always there.

Ishtafel tossing down the bruised, ravaged body of Mayana, the young laborer from Tofet, Elory's dearest friend. Ishtafel's lance thrusting into Mother, slaying the dragon who had only been trying to protect her daughter. And Ishtafel dragging Elory into the ziggurat, promising to invade her body once her training in the pleasure pits was complete.

I don't know how to forget, Elory thought. I know how to fight an enemy who flies in this sky, but how do I fight an enemy inside me?

She craned her neck around to look at her back. Upon her violet scales they slept: three young children, their parents slain in this war. The eldest was barely a youth, the youngest a babe.

There will be many more orphans before we reach our homeland, Elory thought. I promise you, children, that I will fight, kill, even die to build you a home. A place where you can be free, safe, where you can grow up like the Vir Requis of old, proud and strong.

She flapped her wings and flew faster, gliding over thousands of dragons below, until Elory reached the head of the camp. Meliora still flew there—she hadn't slept for days, it seemed. Farther back glided a long, green dragon—Jaren, Priest of Requiem.

"Father," Elory said, coming to glide at his side.

He seemed to hear the hurt in her voice. He turned toward her, eyes soft, and caressed her with the tip of his wing. "My daughter."

Elory had been strong through her battles. She had faced the lashes of the overseers and stayed standing. She had fought in the most cursed of days, the decimation in Shayeen. She had battled the seraphim over Tofet, she had faced the Rancid Angels in the darkness, and she had slain harpies and battled a bird the size of the sky. Throughout her wars, she had roared in fury and pride, and she had fought as a warrior. Yet now, with these children sleeping on her back, with her memories free to fill her in the clear sky, tears filled Elory's eyes.

"Father," she said, "can you tell me the story again? The one I always loved the most? About Queen Laira?"

The green dragon nuzzled her with his snout, smiled sadly, and nodded. "Of course."

Again, Jaren told her that tale—a tale over five thousand years old. The tale of Laira, the Mother of Requiem, the kingdom's founder and first queen.

"Laira grew up in a tribe of hunters who roamed the northern plains," Father said. "She was a frightened girl, blessed with the magic of starlight, magic she had to hide. The other tribesmen tormented her, starved her, beat her, slew her mother, slew all others with her magic—the magic to become a dragon. Laira escaped her tribe of nomads, and for many days, she wandered the wilderness. She was cold. She was hungry. She was wounded. The nights were dark and she thought that dawn could never shine."

Elory nodded, her tears falling. "But she found something."

"She found something." Jared smiled. "A hidden canyon in an escarpment. A waterfall. And a group of others—others hunted, exiled, others the world called 'weredragons.' People who could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, rise as dragons. They fought a great war, those early outcasts hiding in the canyon. King Aeternum led them to battles against the demons of the Abyss. Issari, the Priestess in White, healed their wounds, then rose into the sky, becoming the eye of the Draco constellation. And it was Laira, first queen and great mother to our family, who prayed to our column, who blessed that pillar that still calls us home."

Elory now repeated that prayer. Laira's Prayer. The prayer that now belonged to all of Requiem.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

Elory was descended of Laira and Aeternum, they said—the many generations running unbroken from those early founders to her. To Vale. To Meliora. And Elory whispered a prayer of her own.

"May we find that home again," she whispered. "May we see those birches, those golden mountains. May we pray again in the light of our column, and may our wings again find the sky of Requiem."

"We will find Requiem," Jaren said. "I promise you, Elory. Our road is long and strewn with thorns. Like Laira, we are in darkness, but we are not lost. Our homeland awaits us, and we will raise her halls again."

The sun was setting. The children on her back awoke, and Lucem flew up to carry them onward. Elory released her magic for the first time in a night and day. She lay on her father's scaly back, closed her eyes, and slept. For the first time in many nights, Elory did not dream of the horrors of Tofet; she dreamed of a lost girl, wandering a dark forest in the north, seeking a home, moving by the light of the stars.

BIM

Claws reached out from the darkness, grabbed him, shook him, cut him.

"No," he mumbled in the shadows. "No. Release me. Stop!"

But the creature kept shaking him, a beast in the darkness.

"Up, Bim!" the troll said. "Up. Run!"

Bim's eyes fluttered open. Shadows spread around him, and orange light crackled in the distance. The trees swayed, branches creaking and scattering snow. His sister knelt above him, gripping his shoulders and shaking him.

"Up, Bim! We have to run."

Bim moaned. He didn't want to run again. He wanted to return to sleep. He wanted to sink into the snow, to let them burn him. To finally die, finally rest.

But groggily he rose. He rose like he did every hour or two. And he ran through the darkness with his sister, fleeing the fire.

He didn't look over his shoulder. He never looked anymore. But Bim heard them. Thunderous hooves in the sky, beating wings of fire, and the voices of seraphim, calling to him, calling for his blood, vowing to bugger him and his sister with their spears, to snap their bones, to tug out their entrails. He smelled them too—the smell of burning wood, of brimstone, of sulfur, of dried blood. The light of their chariots painted the forest red, and still Bim and Til ran.

"Here!" Til whispered.

Her hair was red as the flames, and snow dusted her cloak. Her pieces of armor, collected from many corpses, lay strapped across patches of fur, silent as they ran. She pointed toward a fallen tree, its roots rising like a wooden fairy fort. Below the roots, under the trunk, gaped a black burrow. The firelight grew closer behind, the chariots closing the distance.

His sister all but shoved him into the burrow. He crouched in the den, the icy trunk above him, the roots rising like the bars of a cage. Til crawled in next and huddled beside him, pushing herself deeper.

The chariots stormed above.

Ash fell outside the burrow like gliding snow.

The wooden burrow creaked, and the seraphim laughed above. Bim cringed, hugging his sister. Her arms nearly crushed him. He screwed his eyes shut, the smell of them filling his nostrils.

"Find the weredragons!" cried a voice above.

"Skin them alive!"

"We'll make coats from their skin and flutes from their bones!"

Bim huddled deeper, pressing his back against the tree. Til squeezed him so tightly he could barely breathe.

"It's all right," she whispered into his ear. "They'll fly by. Count with me. One . . . two . . . three . . ."

Shuddering, he counted with her, forcing the words out in a hoarse whisper. He had to just think of the numbers. Just numbers and nothing else. Not the blades peeling off his skin. Not the hooks cutting into his belly, pulling out his insides. Just numbers, that was all. He pretended that he was counting dragons.

His heartbeat slowed. Til's grip relaxed and he forced himself to breathe.

"Twenty-three . . . twenty-four . . ."

Moments until life or death. The number of breaths before torture or another hour of dreams.

"Twenty-seven . . ."

And their sounds faded. The firelight died down. The seraphim flew onward, leaving only ash, shadows, and echoes in their wake.

Bim relaxed, closed his eyes, and slept in his sister's arms.

Again he dreamed, the troll lurking in the shadows, circling him, sniffing. Again its claws grabbed him, tugging him, the fangs biting.

"Up, Bim! Up. We have to move."

The troll kept shaking him, burning him with torches, and his eyes snapped open. Firelight blazed all around, and heat drenched Bim. He still lay under the log, the roots rising before him. Beyond them, the forest was burning in the night.

"Burn them down! They hide here. Burn them!"

His sister pulled him out of the burrow, and again they ran. Through flames. In shadows. Down valleys and up hills, moving between the trees, fleeing the inferno. They ran until they found ruins—a village of Old Requiem, a mere well and silo and the shells of a few homes—and they hid between crumbling brick walls. They shivered in the darkness as the fire burned below the hill, and they slept again.

"We'll reach the coast," Til vowed, holding him close, smoothing his hair. Her voice rose in his dreams—the voice of the clawed beast, of a mother, of an ancient queen. "We'll find safety, Bim. I promise. We'll find a home."

LUCEM

As he flew with the camp, Lucem kept looking over his shoulder at Elory; she slept in human form, curled up on his scaly back. Again and again, every mile, he turned his head to check on her, to see that she still rode him, that she was real.

Every time he looked, he half expected her to vanish, half expected this all to be some fever dream. He kept waiting to find himself back in his cave, talking to his clump of wood, or to a pinecone, or to a rock he had painted a face on. He kept waiting for a brief moment of clarity, just enough to realize he had finally gone completely mad.

How can this be? Lucem kept thinking as he flew with the dragons. How can she be?

He didn't deserve this. This couldn't be real. He was a coward! He was the boy who had climbed the wall of Tofet, had escaped, had abandoned his people. He was the man cursed to linger in a cave, to go mad with loneliness, his punishment for his betrayal. What had he done to deserve this blessing? To fly with so many dragons, fly by Meliora the Merciful herself, Queen of Requiem? To bear on his back Elory Aeternum, princess of dragons—a woman he loved and who loved him?

He could not imagine a better life, a more precious moment. This couldn't be real. He had lost his mind. These dragons must be leaves in the wind, and Elory must be another block of wood with knots for eyes. He must be back in his cave. He was not a good enough man to deserve this.

Neck twisted around, he watched her as she slept. Elory lay across his back, her cheek resting on her palm. Her face was calm as she slept, and her brown hair was growing, no longer stubble but a messy mop that fell across her brow; soon it would be long enough to completely cover her missing ear. Her burlap tunic was tattered, revealing many scrapes, cuts, and bruises, and her frame was still too thin, her skin burnt. The marks of her collar and manacles still showed around her neck and ankles.

Gazing at her, both love and pity filled Lucem, and he knew: This was real. He truly was flying here, Elory on his back, and she was hurt, and she was scarred, and though her wounds would heal her soul might not.

While I was in my cave, all those years, safe from pain, she was suffering under the whip. For ten years as I lingered—just a few miles away—she was suffering.

The old guilt filled Lucem, worse than ever—guilt mingled with love.

He began to descend in the sky. He flew below the other dragons of Requiem, heading lower in the sky, leaving the others above. A forest sprawled across the land of Saraph, and he kept gliding down.

"Lucem!" Meliora cried above. "Lucem, you all right?"

He looked up at the white dragon who flew above. "Just a quick break to water the trees!" he called back to her.

She nodded and Lucem kept gliding down. Despite their haste, few dragons had agreed to act like birds, dropping their waste from above, and many commonly dipped down for some quick privacy before rising again.

Elory rose on his back, stretched, and blinked. "Lucem, why are we flying down?"

He spotted a clearing in the forest below, and he spiraled down toward it. "Because I wanted to tell you something."

She raised an eyebrow and scampered onto his neck. "You know, I can hear you in the sky too."

"And so can thousands of other dragons. This stuff's private."

He glided into the clearing. Cedars and pines rose around them, and dry needles and pinecones lay strewn across the earth. Cyclamens grew in the shade of chalk boulders. The sky was bright with thousands of streaming dragons in every color. Elory climbed off Lucem's back, and he released his magic, returning to human form too.

He took her hands in his. "Elory."

She stared at him with soft eyes, her hands warm. "Lucem?"

She's beautiful, he thought. She's kind. She's strong and brave and wonderful. And I don't deserve this.

"Elory, I want to say that I'm sorry." He gazed into those brown eyes, marveling at their beauty, still holding her hands. "I'm sorry for everything."

"For what?" she whispered.

"For running away. For leaving you in Tofet—leaving everyone. I knew the agony of Tofet for the first eleven years of my life, and I can't imagine suffering another decade in that fire. I'm so sorry, Elory, and I don't know if this is real. I don't know if the dragons above us, if you here, if your hands in mine . . . I don't know if this is real or just a dream. Because this is too good. Too wonderful. More than I deserve."

Her eyes softened, and she kissed his cheek. "It's real. And we all deserve this—a homeland. A nation. A family."

He kissed her lips. "I love you, Elory." He caressed her cheek, marveling at its softness, at how large her eyes were, how her soul shone through them. "I love you more than I thought it possible to love another. I love you always."

They kissed again, arms wrapped around each other, a long, deep kiss as dragons flew above. She felt so frail in his arms, half his size, small and thin from her years of servitude, but stronger than great queens and heroines.

"So that's why you brought me here." Elory bit her lip. "To ravage me."

Lucem couldn't help but grin. "If I tell you the world might end tomorrow, that this might be our last moment, would you allow the ravaging to continue?"

She tapped her cheek and tilted her head. "I might just be the one ravaging you."

He glanced up at the sky. Thousands of dragons were still flying above; it would be a while before the camp passed them by. Lucem took Elory by the hand, and he led her under the cover of a twisting pomegranate tree, its canopy rich and rustling. He had barely made it under the tree before Elory grabbed him, all but leaped onto him, and kissed him again.

They fell onto the grass, lips locked, and Lucem closed his eyes. He reached under her tunic, and her hands slipped under his, and he pulled his cloak over them. Their naked bodies pressed together under the burlap, and his hands explored her body. Her frame was slender, her bones delicate, and he winced when his fingers passed over the many scars on her back.

"Does it hurt?" he whispered.

She shook her head and nuzzled his neck, kissing him. "Keep stroking me."

Their hands explored each other and they closed their eyes. They had never made love before, but it felt natural, as if they had been made for this, had waited years for this. He moved atop her, her short brown hair tickling his nose, and she wrapped her limbs around him. It felt better than flying, better than blowing fire. It was joy—pure, distilled, perfect.

This is real, Lucem thought. Thank you, stars. Thank you. I don't know what I did to deserve her. But right now, this moment is perfect. Right now is pure joy. Tomorrow the world might burn, but here, now, this instant in time—this is purest joy I never thought I would feel.

"I love you," he whispered.

She nibbled his bottom lip. "Right back at you, O hero of Requiem."

They lay together under his cloak, holding each other, still naked, watching the dragons fly above beyond the branches.

"I never want to leave this place," Elory said, nestling against him.

He kissed the top of her head. "When we reach Requiem, I'm going to build us a little home. Not too large, not too fancy. Just a comfortable little house. And we'll have a garden, and we'll plant a pomegranate tree like this one." He frowned. I'm not sure if pomegranate trees can grow in the cold north—they say Requiem is very cold. But they have birch trees there, and they say birches are beautiful too. And in the summers, we'll lie like this under our tree, in our garden, outside the house. And we'll just lie all day, being lazy, and naked, and—" Suddenly he felt his cheeks flush. "I mean, I don't want to dream too far ahead. I don't want to pressure you. Maybe you'll want to live with Meliora, not with me, and . . . oh dear, I'm not scaring you away, am I? Because if I am, I—"

"Oh, hush." She kissed his lips. "Of course I want you to build me a home. And of course we'll live together and have a little garden."

"And . . . the being naked a lot part?" he asked hopefully.

She rolled her eyes. "Depends how much housework you do."

Finally, as the last few dragons flew above, they shifted back into dragons and flew again. Heading away from their pain, away from guilt, from fear. Flying to a promised homeland. To a dream of a house, a garden, and more moments of joy.

TIL

For the first time in a month, the sun emerged from behind the clouds, shining down upon the ruins of Requiem, but it brought no warmth, no joy, no beauty to this land.

Til and her brother walked across the scorched earth, their few belongings slung across their backs—fur pelts, an iron pot, some rope, an old canteen, and two scrawny rabbits on a rope. Their tattered cloaks billowed in the wind, and ash filled their hair and smeared their faces.

Around them, the landscape was in no better shape. In the old tales and songs, Requiem was a land of beauty—her forests pristine, her plains blooming with flowers, her skies full of birds and dragons and golden light. All that was gone. The fabled birches were burnt, shattered, fallen, and soot covered the hills and valleys. Only a few scattered ruins rose in the distance—the stubs of columns, the shells of walls, crumbling towers. Even the sky had lost its beauty; red smoke coiled there like clouds, and ash rained.

And every mile, they found them.

The dead.

"Don't look, Bim," Til whispered as they walked by the gallows on the hill. "Just look ahead. Just look and imagine the coast over the horizon."

Yet she knew that he looked. He always looked, sneaking glances. The cages hung from the wooden posts, rusty, creaking as they swung in the wind. The skeletons languished within, jaws still open in screams. Most of the skeletons were bare. One still had some thawing flesh, and the crows bustled, tugging skin off the bones. Wooden signs were nailed onto the gibbets, written in the tongue of Requiem: "Weredragons."

"You did tell me that we'd find others," Bim said.

Til frowned and looked at him. He kicked a stone, not looking at her.

"Don't joke about that." She kicked the stone into a rut before he could kick it again. "All right?"

Still he didn't look at her. He only shrugged. "Someday we'll join them. Just two more skeletons in two more cages."

Til stopped walking. She grabbed Bim's shoulders, spun him toward her, and glared at him. The boy was only eleven years old, shorter than her but not weaker. Perhaps in some ways stronger, for his hope was lost.

Hope drives us onward, Til thought, but it hurts. Hope hurts so much. The hopeless feel less pain.

"We will not end like that." Til grabbed his chin and raised his head, forcing him to stare at her. "Do you understand? We will not. Father did not die so we could too. He died to let us escape, to continue this quest. To find a safe place. To find other survivors."

Bim stared at her, his eyes sunken into his gaunt face. His hair was red like hers, but it now seemed white with ash and snow. No emotion showed on that face. No life filled those eyes. No fear, no hope, no anger—blank eyes.

I'm looking at the dead, Til thought. He's dead already.

"All right, Til," he said. "All right. We'll go south. We'll find others."

But he doesn't believe, Til knew. I promised to take him south, to give him a better life, but he doesn't believe there's a reason to live.

Still holding his shoulders, Til looked around her at the devastation of Requiem. The burnt forests. The ruins of old towns. The smoke and skeletons in cages. Countless more skeletons lay strewn across the valleys and hills, some buried, more beginning to show themselves as the snow melted. Spring was near, but would any flowers still bloom here, or would only death sprout from the earth?

She looked back at Bim.

What could this do to a child—to always run, hide, never sleep for more than an hour, face death with every breath? When Til had been his age, a full decade ago, she had lived among other Vir Requis, a thousand souls. Their life had been hard, but they had tunnels to hide in, they had warmth, they had company and dreams and songs. What kind of life could Bim still have, and would the scars inside him ever heal, even should they find safety from death, an end to constant running and fighting?

Til sighed. "You're right, Bim. You're right. Sooner or later, we all end up as bones. We all die. Perhaps we'll die tomorrow. Perhaps we'll die in sixty years, and those years go by quickly. Death is final. Death is unforgiving. Death—whether now or in a few dozen more winters—is certain. But so long as we draw breath, as our hearts beat, as our legs can walk and our wings beat, we will fight. We will believe."

"Believe what?" Bim said, voice softer now, cracking.

"That we can still build a new world. That we can find joy. That life is beautiful." She embraced him. "It's hard to see here in this ruin, but there is so much that's beautiful and good in this world. So much that our ancestors fought for and won, so much that we can still find. Do not let your eyes see only ugliness. Let them weave new landscapes of what can be."

Yet as they walked onward through the desolation, Til wondered. Was the southern coast but a dream, a fool's hope, and would she find only ruin there too? If that was so, Til vowed that she would move on. She would travel to the east or west, or gather enough food and fly across the sea, or make her way north to the arctic and the cities of ice they said rose there.

We move onward, until we find a home—a hope of peace or a rusted cage.

She sang softly, the old songs of Requiem, and told her brother stories of the old heroes and heroines. The ash kept raining, the skeletons swayed in their cages, and the ruins spread out before them into the south.

ISHTAFEL

The boy cowered under the bed, panting, trembling, praying so hard to the Eight Gods to save him.

"I never rebelled against you," he whispered again and again. "I was born here—here in Saraph, never in your garden. Please, gods, please, don't let her find me, don't let her hurt me."

Yet of course she found him. She always found him. There were hundreds of rooms in the ziggurat, hundreds of beds to hide under, but she always found him. He heard her shriek in the hall, the cry of a dragon. He heard her footfalls patter through the palace. Seeking him. Sniffing him out. A wolf hunting her prey. The door swung violently on its hinges, slammed into the wall, and tore free from the doorframe. It crashed onto the floor with a shower of splinters, and the boy started. He scurried deeper under the bed, pressing himself against the wall.

Please, gods, please, gods, please, let her go away, please help me. Please. I'm sorry.

Yet the gods had banished his mother, and they would not save him from her.

"Ishtafel, you little piece of filth!" Queen Kalafi screamed. "You miserable little worm, you wretched scum!"

She knelt and reached under the bed, a rabid beast, her fingernails like claws, her golden eyes shining like two suns, her teeth bared. The boy wailed and tried to dodge those hands. He tried to escape from under the bed, to race to safety. But his mother had always been able to grab him, and she grabbed him now. She tugged him out from under the bed, lifted him into the air, and shoved him down onto the mattress.

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "I didn't mean to eat the cake. I'm sorry. I can bake another. I—"

She slapped him. "Shut your maggot hole. I'm sick of your lies. I should toss you into the bronze bull and hear you sing. But I want to hurt you myself. You who ruined my body, who ruined my life, who ruined this family, a weak, pathetic link in a great dynasty. Shameful, shameful! You should never have been born." She shook him wildly, and his head whipped from side to side. "You should never have lived."

She beat him then. She beat him as he screamed, until he could barely breathe, until he felt like every bone in his body was breaking. And even then, as a boy, he knew that a madness lurked inside Queen Kalafi. He knew that she was raging against herself, her life, her banishment, not against him. But he was small. He was weak. He was hers—her precious heir, hers to torment, to blame for all the pain of this exile, of this hot land so far from the locked gates of Edinnu.

And so she beat him. She beat him until he slumped onto the floor, blood dripping from his nostrils and mouth.

"Next time you disobey me, I'm going to send you into Requiem, and I'm going to let the dragons rip out your guts and feed them to you. You won't like that nearly as much as the cake you stole. You will not shame me again."

Kalafi, Queen of Saraph, stepped out of the room, leaving her son bleeding on the floor.

For a long time he lay, struggling to breathe, to wait until the bleeding stopped. But long after the pain faded, his mind stormed, and he trembled, the fear refusing to leave him.

I should escape, he thought. Escape this palace. Escape this city. Fly across the wilderness.

He had wings—the feathered wings of a seraph. He could fly away. He could cross the deserts and sea, find a safe place where Mother could not reach him, and—

No.

The boy shuddered.

There was danger out there. Across the sea, they waited—the weredragons. Bloodthirsty men and women from a land called Requiem. People who could turn into dragons, their wings so much larger than his, their claws and teeth even sharper than Mother's.

They would rip him open, Ishtafel knew. They would tear out his entrails and feed them to him. His mother had told him this, and his mother never lied. Whatever punishment she vowed, she carried out.

"I have to stay," the boy whispered to himself, tasting his blood. "I have to stay here. Mother will protect me from the dragons. I have to be good."

He limped toward the window, and he stared north. There, across the city, across deserts and seas, it lay—the land of dragons. The creatures who would hurt him, from whom only his mother could protect him.

"But I will grow," the boy whispered. "I will grow stronger every day, until I can kill them all. Kill everyone who hurts me. Kill the dragons . . . and kill you, Mother."

His eyes snapped open.

He breathed out shakily.

Just a dream. Just a memory.

Once more Ishtafel was an adult, a great king, five hundred years old. His mother was dead—he had killed her himself. The boy was dead too. A man, a king, a god now lay under the sky.

Ishtafel rose from his blankets, his new metal skin creaking. He stretched out his dry wings, looked around him, and beheld a field of bones and blood.

The city of Keleshan, once home to a great garrison of seraphim, lay in ruins before him. The dragons had come here. The dragons had left death. The walls of the city had fallen, and the great egg-shaped fortress on its crest had hatched. The city's inhabitants were gone—the seraphim dead or fled, the slaves escaped.

But new denizens had come here.

The harpies swarmed across the city. Ishtafel stood on the mountainside, watching them. They bustled across the fields like vultures, gnawing on the corpses of seraphim, ripping off skin, dragging ribcages through the dirt, guzzling down innards. Thousands of other harpies scuttled across the walls, roofs, and streets of the city, seeking both the living and dead, ripping into the flesh. Blood stained the harpies' withered faces, and bits of flesh clung to their talons.

Ishtafel spread his burnt wings, the feathers lost to the dragonfire. On the mountaintop, where the stone egg had hatched, the harpies had built their own mountain of corpses. The dead seraphim rotted in the sun, limbs slung together, and the harpies bustled above, digging into the meal. As Ishtafel approached, they hissed, snapped their teeth, and squealed with bloodlust and hunger. The beasts were larger than him, larger even than most dragons, their talons like lances. Yet they knew him as their lord. Shrieking, they retreated, their bloated heads—the heads of crones, covered in warts—bowing.

He flew to the top of the rotting pile. The harpies returned, surrounding him, feeding. And Ishtafel fed with them, tearing into his meal, letting the meat fill him, the ichor stain him. Because it was not his blood. Because it was not his pain. He was strong now, and none would ever hurt him again.

You hurt me, Mother, and now you lie dead and rotting. He licked the ichor off his lips. You burned me, dragons, and so you too will soon rot. Your mountain will rise into the sky, and we will feed upon it.

He tore off flesh, swallowed, and grinned. He beat his wings and soared, and his host rose with him, a foul army that covered the sky. A new day rose and their hunt continued. They would not rest until their next meal was the flesh of weredragons.

MELIORA

Dawn rose, and she saw it in the north, gold and blue, a sight so beautiful her eyes dampened.

The edge of Terra, Meliora thought. The edge of this cruel southern continent.

Thousands of years ago, her mother's family had fallen from Edinnu, the blessed realm in the firmaments. The Eight Gods had cast out the seraphim, the immortals who had rebelled against their makers, banishing them to exile in Terra—a massive continent beneath the sky, a desolate land of rock and sand and heat. In the unforgiving land, they had forged a new kingdom, had raised a nation called Saraph, and they had spread across the world, crushing all other nations.

Terra, this southern continent, had always seemed like Saraph's true earthly home. The place where the seraphim had cowered, nursed their wounds, built, grown strong. It had always seemed to Meliora that lands across the sea, while now part of her family's domain, were somehow not truly parts of Saraph but mere colonies—foreign, conquered lands.

She did not reach the border of the empire here, for that empire now spread across the sea too. But in her mind, this coast, this edge of a continent—here the heartland ended, and there across the sea, Requiem began.

"Beyond the water it waits," she whispered. "Requiem."

Around Meliora, the other dragons cried out in joy and hope.

"The coast!" rose a voice.

"The edge of Saraph!"

"Requiem is near!"

They called out with joy. Old dragons wept. Young dragons spun in circles, whooping. On the dragons' backs, those who rode in human form played drums and timbrels, and their voices rose in song.

Yet as the camp celebrated, Meliora remained silent. Again Leyleet's words returned to her.

You will never see Requiem, daughter of dragons. With my dying breath I curse you: You will never see Requiem.

Meliora narrowed her eyes. She would ignore those words. There was no use for them now. So long as she could fly, she could fight, she could lead. That was all that mattered now.

"My lady!" The high voice rose from the south. "My lady Meliora!"

Meliora turned in the sky to see a slender black dragon flying over the camp.

Kira.

Meliora's former handmaiden, now her scout, wobbled as she flew over the thousands of other dragons. Smoke spurted from her nostrils in short blasts. The young dragon was exhausted, but Kira still flew fast, streaming over the other dragons, calling out to her.

"Lady Meliora!"

Kira shot across the last mile, then descended to hover by Meliora at the head of the camp. The young black dragon panted, puffing out great clouds of smoke, barely able to speak.

"Ride on my back, Kira." Meliora dipped to fly beneath her. "Rest and speak."

The dark dragon gratefully thumped down onto Meliora's back, releasing her magic, becoming a slender woman with black hair and dark eyes. Kira crawled onto Meliora's neck and lay on her belly, limbs dangling, probably looking to the world like a monkey slung across a branch.

"My lady, he grows closer!" Kira said, still breathing heavily. "Ishtafel and many harpies. They're flying faster than before, and a stench of blood rises from them, and blood stains their mouths and talons. I was barely able to fly back faster than they chased." Kira shuddered. "They'll be upon us within hours."

Meliora clenched her jaw. Harpies flew faster than most dragons. Kira perhaps was young and quick, but most in Requiem were larger, older, slower dragons. Since leaving Tofet, Meliora had relied not on speed but on uninterrupted flight. Ishtafel's harpies still needed rest every day, but Vir Requis could fly in shifts, the dragons bearing those in human forms, taking turns flying and sleeping. Hope had begun to rise in Meliora that, if they only kept flying, they would flee Terra and leave Ishtafel's forces behind.

Yet now, at the coast, would their short days of freedom end?

She turned to look toward that northern coast. It still lay thirty leagues away. Only moments ago it had seemed close to Meliora, but now every mile seemed the length of an empire. As she stared north, she saw another dragon flying toward her, this one red.

"Talana!" she cried.

The red dragon, Meliora's second handmaiden-turned-scout, came to fly before her. She too panted, spurting out smoke, and her eyes were wide with fear.

"My lady Meliora!" Talana said, hovering before her. "Great armies muster on the northern coast! Thousands of seraphim, my lady! And . . ." The dragon shuddered, scales rattling. "The Seven fly with them."

Meliora hissed. "Impossible. The Seven died thousands of years ago."

Talana would not stop shaking. She glanced back toward the coast, then looked back at Meliora. "I saw them!" she whispered. "Great figures of light. Towering. Burning. Hurting my eyes. Seven suns. Like in the stories. They are here."

Meliora's heart sank into her belly. Ice seemed to encase her bones and lungs.

No. It can't be. Not them. They died. They died millennia ago, back in the rebellion against the gods.

"Kira, Talana, go rest." Meliora had to force the words past her stiff lips. "Go to the center of the camp. Regain what strength you can before we reach the coast."

The pair nodded and flew off, leaving Meliora with her fear. She stared ahead toward the coast. It was closer now, close enough to see its cities, great settlements of stone that rose before the water. And there, even in the searing daylight, shone beacons of light, clustered together.

The Seven?

A large blue dragon came flying toward her, eyes hard, staring north.

"Who are these Seven?" Vale rumbled, fire flicking between his teeth.

Meliora gulped. "Thousands of years ago, when we rebelled against the gods in Edinnu, great champions fought among the seraphim. Some called them Amesha Spenta. Others called them archangels. Only seven fought with the seraphim; only seven ever lived. Great beings of liquid light, larger, stronger than seraphim; we were as toddlers by their glory. But nobody has seen the archangels since our rebellion. Most seraphim assumed them dead, while others claimed that the Eight Gods had forgiven them and welcomed them back into Edinnu. They became to us things of myth—mere paintings on frescos, sculptures in temples, not beings of this world." She stared ahead, teeth clenched, breath heavy. "Yet I see bright lights ahead. And I saw truth in Talana's eyes."

Vale grunted. "We slew Ziz. We will slay them."

She turned to look at her brother. Vale was staring ahead, eyes hard. Many scars and wounds covered the blue dragon—welts on his underbelly, holes in his wings, and raw patches where his scales had fallen. Yet still he flew with bared teeth, fire in his nostrils, the warrior of Requiem, head of her hosts, ready to spill more blood.

"Yet Ziz was still a beast of this world," Meliora whispered, her fear not allowing her to speak any louder. "Now we face unearthly terrors. Creatures woven not of flesh but of light itself." She turned to look behind her, staring across the thousands of dragons. "And in the south, they gain on us—creatures of darkness. We are trapped between light and shadow."

Vale sneered, jaws opening to release a short burst of fire. "We will shine our own light. We will roar our fire. Our homeland lies beyond the water. We will shatter any who come between us and Requiem."

The dragons of Requiem flew onward, crossing the last miles between harpies and sea, between Ishtafel and the light ahead, trapped between two hosts. When she looked behind her, Meliora could see the rotted host, closer than they had ever been, a cloud of dark specks in the distance—no more than an hour's flight away.

"Take all our forces and put them at the vanguard," Meliora said to her brother as the coast approached. She could now see walls and towers ahead, and she sneered.

Vale stared at her. "Ishtafel gains on us. We might be facing a war on two fronts."

"If we are trapped, we are dead. No, brother. We cannot fight on two fronts. We cannot. All forces ahead! We smash through the enemy and we make to the sea."

There was no hope to evade this enemy, Meliora knew. The entire coast of Terra was settled, and the enemy knew they were flying this way. They had been waiting.

Meliora growled and blasted her pillar of dragonfire skyward.

"Hear, O Requiem!" she cried. "We near the sea! We near our home! Fight the enemies of Requiem, fight for your stars, fight for your lives. To war!"

Around her, the Royal Army stormed forth, thousands of dragons with fire in their mouths. "To war, to war! Requiem rises!"

Ahead, they rose from the coastal walls and towers. A wall of fire and light. Thousands of seraphim ascended, some in chariots of fire, others flying fast upon their own wings. Meliora sought those beams of light, those Seven Suns, but she didn't see them. She prayed that Talana had been wrong, that she had just imagined the great lights.

They're dead. They died thousands of years ago.

"Requiem rises!" the army called.

With dragonfire, with flying arrows and lances, with blood and flames that filled the sky, the hosts of Requiem and Saraph slammed together.

The skies burned. Blood rained on the coast.

Meliora roared as she fought. She blasted her fire, lashed her claws, bit into the flesh of seraphim. She cried out for Requiem, and she cried out wordlessly—for death, for victory, for her stars, for rising from ruin. Yet even under this blinding sky before a blue sea, she was back there—in the darkness outside Tofet, fighting the Rancid Angels, hearing the demon's words.

You will never see Requiem.

The wings of dragons darkened the sky. Their fire rose in great forests and columns—a rebuilt Requiem of flame. The seraphim circled everywhere, and the firehorses plowed through the hosts of dragons, and seraphim thrust their lances from blazing chariots. Corpses rained onto the coastal cities and sank into the sea.

"Cut through them!" Vale cried in the distance. "Requiem, cut through the enemy, to the sea! To our home!"

Meliora blasted out fire, melting a seraph who flew toward her. She soared, spinning, cutting other seraphim down with her whipping tail. She rose higher, higher than any eagle could fly, and stared south, and there she saw them—the harpies approaching, darkening the sky.

She stared back down, and the battle looked to her like a different coast—a sea of fiery waves slamming against a land of scales. The seraphim were a terror, thousands of them crashing into the lines of dragons, yet as Meliora stared down, the hint of hope rose in her.

Requiem was breaking through.

A handful of dragons tore between the seraphim and made it across the water, only to turn back and charge against the seraphim still attacking the hosts. Elsewhere, chariots crashed into the water, raising pillars of smoke and steam, and dragons roared and fought with more vigor. Below in the coastal cities, Vir Requis were racing between the buildings in human forms, finding slaves and opening collars, and soon a thousand new dragons rose—only just freed, already flying to battle, slaying their masters.

We can make it through, Meliora thought. We can leave this cruel land. We can cut through them, we can cross the sea. I will see Requiem.

"I will see Requiem!" she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I will see our stars."

And then she saw them—the lights rising.

White, searing lights, burning her eyes.

Seven suns rising.

Her hope burned in their radiance.

"The archangels," she whispered.

LUCEM

He was flying beside Elory, crying out for victory, when the archangels rose from beyond the city.

Lucem cringed.

"Bloody bollocks," he muttered. "One sun's bright enough in Saraph. Damn seven of them just rose."

He beat his wings, hovering in place, and forced himself to stare into the light. He could barely see past the glare of the creatures. When he squinted, he could just make out their forms. They were humanoid and winged, slender and well-formed, but much larger than men or seraphim, larger even than dragons. They seemed woven of pure light, luminescence taken form. They were pure white like the noon sun in summer, but golden eyes blazed in their heads, barely visible past the glare of their bodies. In their right hands, each archangel held a mighty sword that seemed forged of molten metal that did not drip. The blades were as long as the spine of a dragon. In their left hands, they held great whips woven of fire, each lash thrice the length of even the longest dragon tail.

"Take them head on!" rose Vale's voice from above, and the blue dragon charged, roaring. "Burn them down!"

Across the sky, hundreds of dragons—the vanguard of Requiem—stormed to battle.

"For Requiem!" Elory shouted at Lucem's side, charging forward.

"Wait!" Lucem cried and tried to grab her tail, but she flew too quickly, racing across the sky toward the archangels.

This won't end well, damn it.

Lucem grunted, curbing the urge to flee. Every fiber in his body wanted to turn around, to escape this light, to fly to safety, to hide again in his cave.

No. I fled once. I abandoned my people before, and they called me a hero. This time I fight.

Lucem roared and flew after his comrades.

Ahead, the archangels plowed through the dragons as easily as trained soldiers cutting through toddlers.

One archangel swung his massive whip. The flaming white thong cracked the air and sliced through a dragon, cleanly cutting the beast in half. For an instant, both halves of the dragon tumbled through the sky; then they shrank into human form, the arms on one half, the legs on the other, falling toward the coast. Another archangel lashed his sword. The blade cleaved a dragon from back to belly. The dragon too lost his magic, falling as a lacerated woman.

The archangels' light intensified as they fought, spinning madly, coiling and blazing, emitting a hum. Lucem had thought them made of sunlight, but now they seemed almost like beings of living lightning, crackling the air, their humming inferno almost melodious, almost like the song of Malok. They stormed through the lines of Requiem, scattering dragons, cutting them down. Vir Requis tumbled through the air before them, falling as men and women.

Lucem stared in horror.

I have to flee. I have to fly away. I have to hide. Oh stars, I have to hide.

"Burn them down!" Vale was shouting in the distance. "Burn them down!"

"Burn them!" Elory roared, flying above, streaming down with a flash of lavender scales.

Hundreds of other dragons joined the charge, blasting their flames. The streams of dragonfire crackled through the air, slammed into the archangels, and showered in fountains.

The godly beings seemed unfazed. They kept lashing their massive whips. One thong tore through three dragons with a single swing, cutting them all down, scattering limbs. Another archangel rose high upon his mighty wings, then swooped, blade plunging, cutting through dragon after dragon. The corpses thumped onto the city below.

Lucem flew closer to one of the archangels. It loomed above him, larger than he had thought, dwarfing him. It turned its terrible golden eyes upon Lucem. Those eyes swirled like smelters of molten metal, gold touched with white, seeing all, digging into him, burning him like shards of hot metal.

The whip crackled the air, casting out bolts of lightning, and swung toward him.

Lucem blasted his fire and dived.

The whip swung over his head with a shriek that nearly shattered Lucem's eardrums. The air boomed like thunder. The blade swung, and Lucem swerved, soared, blasted more flames. His dragonfire crashed into the archangel and showered back onto Lucem, burning his scales.

The whip lashed again, and Lucem ducked his head.

Pain.

White, searing light.

Lucem screamed.

The agony raced across his head, and he lost his magic.

Lucem fell, a man again.

He cut me. He cut open my skull. I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm sorry, Requiem.

The city rushed up below to meet him, walls and towers and courtyards, and everywhere the dragons flew. More corpses fell all around Lucem. Maybe he was dead already. He could barely see the battle above, just flashes of light and spurts of fire and the roar and hum.

"Lucem!" rose a voice.

Violet scales streaked. A dragon plunged down, wreathed in smoke. Claws reached out and grabbed Lucem mere feet above the city roofs.

They soared.

"Lucem, can you hear me?" Elory cried.

Clutched in her claws, he blinked and touched his head. He felt nothing. No pain. No blood. He was unhurt.

"I . . . I'm fine." Lucem pulled himself free from her claws, fell a few feet, then shifted back into a dragon.

At once the pain flared again, and he screamed. Flying before him, Elory gasped.

"Your horns . . ." she whispered.

Lucem reached up with his claws, seeking his horns.

He touched pure fire and agony.

He screamed and nearly lost his magic again.

And he knew—the whip had severed the tips of his horns. Just a few inches. Enough to sear him with pain.

"Your ear, my horns," he muttered. "What will they take next? Better not be anything . . . special. I need my special parts! And I haven't even shown them off to you yet, Elory."

She rolled her eyes. "Focus on killing those archangels, O great hero of Requiem."

Kill them? Lucem looked up at the battle raging in the sky. The dead were still falling. Lucem winced as a disemboweled corpse plunged down only a foot away; he had to swerve aside to dodge it. No. You could not kill these beasts. At least not with fire or claw. As he watched, several dragons slammed into an archangel, lashing claws, biting into the flesh of molten light, only to scream and burn.

"We might as well try to cut fire," he muttered.

Elory winced. "So it's impossible. We cannot win this."

Lucem grunted. Impossible. Impossible! Yet they had also said it was impossible to scale the walls of Tofet. They had said that nobody could escape that land of pain.

Yet Lucem had scaled the wall. He had escaped. He had done the impossible.

He would do it again.

"Not with dragonfire," he said. "Not with claws or fangs. Fly with me, Elory! Follow my lead."

The lavender dragon nodded.

Leaving the dragons and archangels to battle above, Lucem and Elory swooped.

Every heartbeat, Lucem knew, Ishtafel was drawing closer. They would do this quickly. He dived across the coastal city, traveling over the roofs of homes, workshops, manors, courtyards, seeking, eyes narrowed.

There!

A portico of columns rose along the coast, supporting a roof over a limestone veranda that faced the sea. Lucem dived low, skimming the ground. He roared, narrowed his eyes, and slammed himself against a column.

The pain bloomed inside him. He yowled. An instant later, Elory slammed into the column too.

The limestone cracked.

Ignoring the pain, Lucem backed up, then slammed himself into the column again.

The column shattered and fell.

Panting, Lucem grabbed one end of the heavy limestone pillar. "Elory, help!"

She nodded. She understood. She grabbed the second edge of the column.

They flapped their wings mightily, scattering sand across the beach. They grunted, jaws clenched, barely able to rise. Yet slowly, foot by foot, they flew higher, carrying the column in their claws.

They rose higher. The battle swirled around them, a symphony of sound and light. A corpse fell, slammed into Lucem's back, and rolled down toward the city. He grimaced but kept rising with Elory, carrying the column.

An archangel loomed above, its hum deafening, its light blinding. Its whip swung forward, ripping through five dragons. Its blade lashed, tearing through other dragons that charged toward it. Behind this giant of liquid light, its comrades were slaying other dragons, plowing through the lines. Several dragons were trying to escape but wailed in fear, for in the south, clearly visible now, the host of harpies was charging forth, their shrieks and stench carrying in the wind. Some dragons tried to fly north, to cross the sea, only for the whips and blades of light to cut them down. The bodies fell into the water and washed ashore.

"Ready?" Lucem shouted.

Elory nodded. "Together—now!"

The archangel ahead noticed them, turned its golden eyes toward them, and advanced through the sky, wings blasting out beams.

Lucem and Elory roared with effort, pulling the column backward . . . then drove it forth with all their might.

The limestone capital slammed into the archangel's head.

The giant being shrieked.

It was the sound of ten thousand bones shattering, of oceans boiling and steaming away, of the sky itself cracking. The column kept driving forward, plowing through the head, shattering it. The sun seemed to burst. Luminous chunks of skull scattered through the sky. The innards of the head leaked, molten metal, purest white rimmed with gold.

The archangel's colossal corpse fell through the sky, almost graceful, silent, like a great feather.

It hit the city and blasted out, exploding with fury, knocking down buildings for several blocks, casting shockwaves that roiled the dragons in the sky.

Those dragons cried out in victory.

At once, hundreds dipped in the sky, gathering columns that had fallen in the explosion. They rose, three or four dragons carrying each pillar.

The archangels shrieked, fighting back. A whip tore through one column, halving the stone. Another archangel swung its blade, shattering another column. But it was too late to stop the dragons of Requiem. Six archangels remained, and thousands of dragons were now dipping to grab stones—some lifted columns, and some dragons merely grabbed chunks of the buildings.

A pillar drove into another archangel, cleaving through the effulgent torso. The beast screamed and fell and blasted apart. A roaring red dragon swung an entire stone balcony, ripped off a manor below, cleaving through the wing of another archangel. A second dragon cast forth a stone statue of a goddess, driving it into the archangel's head, shattering the skull. All across the sky, the dragons were fighting, using the city as their weapons.

We do not defeat the hosts of Saraph with our dragonfire, Lucem thought wryly, but with the monuments we built for them as slaves.

"Requiem rises, Requiem rises!" the dragons chanted as the last archangel fell, shattering against the city, then going dark.

Yet the cheers died quickly.

In the south they flew, only several miles away now—a host of harpies, hiding the sky. Their voices cried out, shrill, thirsty, promising death.

Lucem's heart sank.

"Fly, dragons of Requiem!" cried Meliora, streaming above, and blew her white pillar skyward. "Fly with me—over the sea! Fly after my light."

Leaving the city, leaving their dead, leaving the continent of Terra, the dragons of Requiem flew across the water—a nation escaping their centuries of captivity, a nation heading home. Behind them, the hosts of darkness cried out and laughed and buzzed and hid the sun behind their wings.

ISHTAFEL

He stood on the coast, licked his lips, and watched them flee across the sea into the northern distance.

"Good, Meliora, good," Ishtafel whispered. "Let your hope build. Fly toward your home. Dream of Requiem. Very soon now, just as you think you've grasped your dream in your claws . . . I'll be there to snatch it away." He clenched his fists. "Just as you snatched her away from me."

He cringed in sudden pain, the memories of Reehan filling him. His strong, noble, vicious Reehan—a great light among the immortals. Ishtafel had been fighting for five hundred years, and he had never met a warrior as deadly and proud as his Reehan.

I would have married you, he thought. I would have made you my queen, the mother of my children, and damn the royal blood of my line. He shut his eyes. But they murdered you. The weredragons. They took you from me, my most precious prize.

Ishtafel looked around him at this city on the northern coast of Terra, the hot continent where Saraph had first risen. The city, once a jewel of the empire, lay in ruins around him. Palaces, silos, temples, manors—all lay shattered. Palm trees, vineyards, gardens—all had burned. The slaves of this city had escaped with the reptilian horde, leaving the corpses of seraphim—corpses the harpies were now consuming. The rancid creatures bustled about the ruins like carrion crows, guzzling the dead. Ishtafel had allowed them this meal, a feast before the slaughter. The ichor would strengthen them before the great war to end all wars, the extermination of Requiem.

"I've never loved another soul, Reehan, and I've never met any stronger woman . . . until my sister was born. Until Meliora."

Reehan had fought with him against the weredragons—and fallen. He had thought her strong. Perhaps he had been wrong. Bloodthirsty, rabid, and beautiful, yes—but ultimately not strong enough.

But Meliora . . . his sweet Meliora . . .

Once Ishtafel had thought his sister not even capable of strength—like expecting a kitten to hunt as a tigress. Meliora had always been like a pet to him, a sweet little princess to laugh with, play with in the gardens, to listen to her silly songs and chatterings about butterflies, cupcakes, and fairy tales. He had at first recoiled from Mother's request that he should marry his sister, had agreed only to preserve the royal blood of their dynasty.

"And then . . . then the kitten roared," he whispered.

When Meliora had first defied him, it had surprised Ishtafel, then enchanted him. Suddenly the naive girl had shown her bite, and he had begun to see her not as a mere womb but as a prize to conquer. And when she had revealed herself to be half weredragon, tainted with the very blood of the beasts who had slain Reehan . . .

"I can think of no sweeter prize than you, sweet sister. I can think of no greater joy than fighting you, breaking you, making you pay for all the sins of your people. The more you defy me, the more of my hosts that you slay, you prove your womb even worthier for my seed."

Finally, here on the coast, his archangels slain around him, Ishtafel saw Meliora for what she truly was—a conqueror, a killer, his sister.

You and I, Meliora—the two greatest killers this new Edinnu has ever known. How I will enjoy breaking you!

Creaks sounded behind him, and Ishtafel turned to see Kelaksha, Queen of the Harpies, approaching. The creature was massive, as big as the mightiest dragon, walking on talons that cracked the cobblestones. The harpy, oldest among them, lowered her withered head toward Ishtafel. That head was as large as a curled-up man, wrinkled and covered in boils and hairs. Cruel eyes, no larger than his, stared from folds of flesh. Serpents coiled on her head instead of hair, and she opened her mouth, revealing a white tongue and dagger-like fangs. The stench of her breath assailed Ishtafel—the stench of the rotten bodies Kelaksha had been consuming.

"The sea is wide, Master," the harpy hissed. Rot dripped from her mouth with every word. "It is too far to cross."

Ishtafel stood facing the massive beast. He was barely taller than her talons. He reached out a metal-encased hand and caressed the withered cheek of the harpy.

"You were the first, were you not?" Ishtafel asked. "The first creature the Eight Gods created, their failed attempt at life?"

Kelaksha stared at him with those small, pale eyes. Upon her head, the hair of serpents hissed and stared too.

"I was the first," she hissed, saliva dripping down to burn holes into the cobblestones of the city.

"How must it feel," Ishtafel said, "to be considered a shame, a failure, a deformity? To spend thousands of years imprisoned because you are ugly?" He stroked her bristly cheek. "To be without pride, without a home?"

The harpy bristled. Her dark wings spread out, dripping rot from their oily feathers. Her talons dug deep into the earth. Her hair of serpents shrieked.

"The gods are cruel. But you give us a home, Master. You see our strength."

Ishtafel had no more eyebrows within his face of metal, but he raised what remained of the burnt, swollen flesh above his eyes. "Do I, my dear? These ruins? This continent? No, my sweetness, for you and your kind are far too foul and rancid to live in Terra, the great continent of the south. Requiem will be your home. Across the sea, in the cold north, you will reign above the corpses of the weredragons. But only, Queen of Harpies, if you dare fly across the sea. If you prove yourself weak . . ." He hefted his lance. "I will make you miss your prison in Edinnu, and I will make you think the Eight Gods merciful."

The harpy hissed and beat her wings. Her talons shattered stones, and she rose toward the sun, crying out in fury. Across the coastal ruins, the other harpies rose like flies disturbed from a carcass, darkening the sky, raining their rot. Ishtafel rose with them, burnt wings churning smoke.

"To the sea!" he cried. "To the greatest flight of our lives, a flight the poets will sing of! To war! To victory! To Requiem!"

The sea was wide. Even flying with all their speed, it would take three days and nights to cross. There would be no food, no water, no rest along the way, and Ishtafel knew that many of his harpies—the weak ones to be culled—would fall along the way, and the sea would bury their shame.

But for those who survived awaited their greatest trophy.

"The extermination of a race," Ishtafel whispered as he flew. "The genocide of Requiem in their very homeland, and their flesh to feed our bellies.

They flew across the ruins and beach, and the sea spread below them. The harpies and their snakes screeched and clawed the air, and their wings beat in a storm. Ishtafel flew at their lead, a god of metal, wings spread wide.

Soon, Meliora. He smiled thinly. Soon I will feed your limbs to the harpies . . . and the rest of you will be mine.

The sea spread to the horizon, and beyond it . . . the land of weredragons.

JAREN

The nation of Requiem flew over the sea, and Jaren flew at their lead, Meliora sleeping on his back.

For days now, Meliora had flown at the head of the camp, daring not sleep for more than brief moments. For days, she had blown her pillar of white fire, leading her people in their exodus.

"Sleep now, my daughter," Jaren whispered, looking over his shoulder at her. "I will lead them onward as you rest."

Behind them spread their ancient nation—the Vir Requis flying between sky and water, spreading out for miles. Jaren had heard many tales of Old Requiem, had even read the old scrolls which Queen Kalafi had kept in her chambers. He knew the story of Requiem from its founder, King Aeternum, to its captivity in Saraph. Never in its history had so many dragons flown together, had this entire, ancient race risen in a single great flight.

My ancestor, King Aeternum, founded a small tribe of only several souls . . . and now we are as plentiful as grains of sand upon the beach, flying to our ancient homeland that Aeternum gave us.

It was a day of great history, of uprising, of danger, yet Meliora seemed suddenly like a child, almost peaceful as she slept on his back. Her body was cut and bruised, thinner than it had ever been. Her cheek rested on her hands, and her hair was growing back, still barely long enough to cover her ears, soft and gold. Even as she slept, her halo crackled, a low flame that warmed Jaren's scales. She wore humble burlap, and a string of beads adorned her neck, made from the clay and bitumen of Tofet. Some in Requiem had offered her fine gowns of muslin and silk, taken from the sacked city of Keleshan, but Meliora had refused the garb.

"I wore kalasiri gowns as a princess of Saraph," she had told her people. "Today let me wear rough burlap and clay beads, for I am a freed slave, a daughter of Requiem, and these garments have more nobility than any fine imperial raiment."

Meliora was descended of two noble houses—the Thirteenth Dynasty of Saraph and House Aeternum of Requiem—and she bore their nobility in her countenance, her conduct, and her courage.

"But now rest, Meliora," Jaren whispered. "Now sleep. For the road ahead is still long."

He knew that many in the camp wanted to crown Meliora, to name her Queen of Requiem, yet she had refused. Not until they arrived in Requiem, until they stood in the light of King's Column, would they choose another to rule them.

Let her just be my daughter until then, Jaren thought.

He returned his eyes forward, staring across the water. The sea now spread to all horizons, and Terra was no longer visible in the south. No Vir Requis had ever left that southern continent, not in five hundred years, but according to their stories, Requiem lay ahead. Still distant. Still several days of flight away—the weak riding on the strong. But awaiting them. Their ancient homeland.

"Requiem," Jaren whispered.

He wondered what they would find there. Hosts of seraphim and beasts they could not imagine? Piles of rubble? Perhaps even other Vir Requis, some who had survived the slaughter and captivity five centuries ago?

Sometimes Jaren wondered if Requiem existed at all. In his darkest moments, he began to worry that Requiem was but a myth, a legend told in Tofet to give workers hope. That they would find nothing here at all, only water and death.

He closed his eyes, summoning that memory. The night he had buried Elory's ear, the night he had nearly lost hope, lost his life. The night his soul had risen to the celestial halls, seen the fabled Queen Gloriae, the day she had told him to still fly, still fight for Requiem.

"Was that only a dream?" Jaren whispered. "Only the hallucination of a broken mind?"

The sun was setting, and as darkness fell across the sea and sky, so did shadows seem to engulf Jaren's soul. He had seen so many die—countless thousands perish in Tofet and the fields of Saraph. He had lost his wife to Ishtafel's lance. Would now the last Vir Requis perish, chasing a mere dream, a land that was but a myth? And even should they reach land again, would they find only more enemies, trapped between a new host and the harpies that still gave chase?

"Why do you let so many perish?" Jaren whispered, staring up into the indigo sky. "If you're truly up there, spirits of Requiem, why do you let us die? Why do you let so many suffer? Why did you let the yokes and whips break our backs for five hundred years?"

No voices answered him. No celestial columns shone above. No ancient kings and queens appeared before him in the shadows. Perhaps they did not exist; perhaps they had always been only hallucinations, dreams, hopes. Foolishness.

The sun dipped below the sea, casting red light like blood, and Jaren's chest tightened, and his head spun to remember so many dying in his arms.

He raised his eyes, seeking to look away from the water below. The last sunlight faded, and there above he saw them.

At first they were dim. At first Jaren doubted his eyes, thought that surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. He kept flying, kept staring, and tears filled his eyes.

Voices rose across the camp, one by one.

"Bless Requiem!"

"Requiem, our wings find your sky!"

Old, grizzled warriors wept. Children prayed. Dragons danced in the sky, calling out in joy, and the tears of Requiem fell like rain. Those Vir Requis who rode in human forms, sleeping or nursing their wounds, rose as dragons too, their voices rising in song.

Jaren's tears fell.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry to have ever doubted you, Requiem."

Above him it shone, brilliant in the night, and for the first time in five centuries, the children of Requiem gazed upon its light—the Draco constellation.

The stars were arranged as a great celestial dragon, rising in the northern sky, skimming the sea. Brightest among them shone the eye of the dragon, Issari's Star, a beacon said to be formed of Issari's soul itself.

Roused by the song of dragons, Meliora rose upon Jaren's back and shifted. She flew beside Jaren, her eyes damp, staring at the distant lights.

"Our stars," she whispered. "Our fabled stars. Their light guides us to Requiem. The celestial dragon calls us home."

Meliora rose higher in the sky, spinning as she soared, wings spread wide, a great silvery dragon the color of starlight. Jaren rose with her, his green scales bright in the night, the color of Requiem's forests that he now knew awaited them. With them rose Vale, dark blue, and Lucem, red as fire, and Elory, deep purple in the night. They flew together, leading the others onward—away from the blinding heat and sunlight of captivity, toward the gentle light of stars.

"Home," Jaren whispered. "Requiem is real."

VALE

The Draco constellation rose throughout the night, ascending toward the sky's zenith, shining bright. As the other dragons sang and prayed, Vale gazed upon those stars, and more than pride or joy, he felt grief.

In the night, the dragons of Requiem sang and danced in the sky. The sea spread below, the starlit sky above. The dragons raised no fire, letting the light of their constellation shine bright, guiding them home. They sang together in a one voice, the ancient prayers of their people, the prayers that had sustained them through centuries of toil. Yet Vale did not join them, could not feel that holiness.

"You should have been here with us, Tash," he whispered as he glided on the wind. "You should be seeing these stars with me."

He lowered his head, looking away from the light, missing her, aching for her.

She appeared in his memories, so real, as if he could reach out and touch her. Her long brown hair which he loved to stroke. Her mocking brown eyes that could see into his soul. Her coquettish smiles, her small pale hands. Her body pressed against his, clad in her silks, a jewel shining in her navel. And he thought of her kindness—the woman who had risked her life to save Meliora, who had found the Chest of Plenty, and who had fought just as hard to heal Vale's heart, to soothe the pain she had seen within him.

Yet how can I remain strong with you? Vale thought. You healed the hurt inside me, but now you're gone, and now the pain seems too great to bear. I miss you so much, Tash. I love you so much.

He imagined her here with him, gliding at his side, a slender golden dragon. She would grin at him, eyes alight, and they would gaze at those stars together, knowing that soon they would be home, that soon their wars would end, that soon they would be wed, grow old together, pray to their stars every night.

But you'll never grow old, Tash. You'll always stay young in my memories. I promise that I will never forget you, that I will think of you whenever I look at our stars.

Chinking scales sounded beside him, and Vale turned to see a white dragon flying at his side, her horns and scales shimmering with hints of gold and silver. The dragon smiled at him, her golden eyes sad, their pupils shaped as sunbursts.

"You don't sing with us." Meliora's eyes were sad, and she glided closer, nuzzling him with her snout. "Can I fly with you, brother?"

Vale looked at the white dragon, his older sister—the sister he had just met this year. He spoke softly.

"Throughout my life, toiling in the inferno of Tofet, I would sometimes gaze south toward the distant lights of Shayeen. As the chains chafed my ankles, as the whips tore into my back, as the thousands cried out around me, I would try to imagine the palace rising in Shayeen, the City of Kings. I would try to imagine my sister there—Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, Great of Graces, Princess of Saraph."

Meliora lowered her head, and now tears streamed down her scaly cheeks. "I'm sorry, Vale. During those years, I would live in the palace, and I would stand on the balcony. And I would gaze north—north to Tofet. From my balcony, I couldn't see much that lay across the river, only a haze. I imagined that the slaves lived like my handmaidens. In comfort. Always with food, with drink, with shelter, with song. When I first entered Tofet and saw the bronze bull, saw your broken bodies, the despair in your eyes . . ." She shuddered. "I never forgot how much grief I felt then. How much guilt. To know that I had grown in comfort over the blood, sweat, and tears of the Vir Requis. I didn't know then that I'm one of you, but I knew that my life had been a lie. I knew that I was no beloved princess, but that I was a tyrant."

Vale nodded. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known. Father always told us that—told Elory and me. 'Meliora does not know who her father is,' Jaren would say. 'Nor do any others in Shayeen or Tofet. But she's one of us. A Vir Requis. A daughter. A sister. A great light that we pray will return to us someday.' Jaren repeated these words to us again and again in our little hut."

Gliding at his side between sea and stars, Meliora gazed at him through the veil of tears. "And did you believe him?"

He smiled grimly. "For many years, I wondered if those stories were true, if indeed you're my sister, or whether Father simply told a story to comfort me and Elory. I often prayed to whatever gods might listen to see you, Meliora, if only a glimpse from the distance. If only another seraph in the sky above Tofet. I thought that if I could gaze into your eyes, I'd know the truth."

Meliora nuzzled him again. "I'm real. And I fly here with you. And I love you, Vale, my sweet little brother."

He bristled. "Sweet little brother?" He smiled wryly. "I don't know if anyone would call me sweet."

The thought popped into his mind, unbidden: Tash would.

It seemed like Meliora could read his thoughts. She smiled at him sadly, raised her eyes, and gazed at the stars.

"She looks down upon us, Vale," she whispered. "The woman we love, the woman we miss, the woman we will never forget. Tash is up there, and we'll see her again, and we'll sing of her in the halls of Requiem." She paused. "No, wait. Those are the wrong words. Tash is not just some heroine for our people, a figure for legends." She looked at him. "She was a woman you loved, who you lost, and I have no words of proper comfort, and I cannot ease that pain. All I can say, Vale, is that I'm sorry for your loss, and that I love you dearly, and that I'm always here for you. Some shadows do not pass. Some hurts do not heal. All we can do is kindle new lights—together."

He gazed at those stars above. It seemed to him that Issari's Star, the eye of the dragon, gazed down upon him, that the silvery light was sad yet loving.

You too gaze down upon us, Issari, you who returned me to life, you who still blesses us.

"The stars never forgot us," Vale said softly. "I realize that now. They were with us always, through our long captivity, and the souls that dwell there wept for our pain. Those stars are real, and so are the spirits who dwell there. We will make them proud, Meliora. You and I. We will lead our people on, and we will rebuild our home, and we will raise new temples for those stars, and—"

"Enough!" She nudged him. "Forget talk of great nations and legends. What matters now is you. And me. Brother and sister. All right, little brother? Don't make me slap you."

He couldn't help it. He grinned, and his pain seemed to wash away with that grin, and he knew: Things would be all right. There was still joy and family and love in the world.

"If you slap me, I'm going to annoy you to death. We little brothers are good at that, you know."

She growled. "We have many years of bickering to catch up on, don't we?"

Vale laughed—one of the very few times in his life he had laughed, all of them this year. "We do and we will."

They flew onward, brother and sister, leading a nation of dragons. The sea spread below and the stars guided their way until morning.

TIL

Across ruin, desolation, and a wilderness of death they had traveled, sometimes flying, sometimes crawling, passing through fire and ice to finally come to this place. And there, past a veil of haze in the south, they saw it.

Til's tears fell like the rain.

"The southern coast," she whispered.

The rain fell before her in warm curtains, and mist floated across the forested hills and valleys. The sun glowed behind the veil of clouds. There was no snow here in the south, and the air was rich, warm, scented of trees and soil and the distant sea. A healthy smell. The smell of life. A distant city rose by the water, still leagues away, a day's walk. Only a few of its towers rose through the mist, overlooking the sea.

"We made it." She hugged her brother. "We reached the coast. We'll find safety here."

Bim stared south with her, the rain streaming down his hair and face, washing away the dirt of their journey. His makeshift patches of armor, strapped across his furs, gleamed wet, and he rested his palm on the pommel of his sword. For the first time in months, perhaps in years, hints of hope showed on his face. It was subtle; anyone else would have missed it. A slight widening of the eyes. A slight upward twist to the lips, soon gone. A slight flush to the cheeks. But Til was his sister, and she could read him like a priest reading the old scrolls.

Finally I see life in him. Her tears mingled with the raindrops. His soul is not crushed. He's not a roaming dead. He still dreams. He still can feel hope. He still can be a boy.

She squeezed him between her arms and mussed his hair. "You see that city in the distance? That's Lynport. An ancient, legendary city of heroes, Requiem's southern jewel. What say we go explore?"

He didn't move from the grassy hill they stood on, just kept staring south through the rain. "There'll be seraphim." His voice was soft, cracking. "There are always seraphim."

She nodded. "Maybe. Maybe a few. But maybe some other survivors too. Other Vir Requis."

Bim lowered his head. "Or maybe just more dead."

Til turned him toward her and stared into his eyes. "Listen to me, Bim. Yes, we might find more seraphim here, and we might find more dead. And maybe we won't find any other survivors, and maybe the city will be swarming with enemies. And if that happens, we'll move on. We'll travel along the coast, moving westward, until we find a place. A cave maybe, not just a temporary hideout, but a real home. A place where we can fish, forage for fruit and berries, and live here in the warm south. Far from the Overlord in the north. Far from danger. We can still find a life here. The rebellion might be over, but our lives are not."

Bim nodded. "I never wanted the rebellion," he whispered. "All I ever wanted was . . . to do what you said. Find a cave we didn't have to run from the next day. Find a life away from danger. Just a place to . . . to live. Day by day. Breath by breath. Without a war, without a quest, without even a hope. Maybe that sounds sad to you, having no hope. To me it means just living in a quiet place. In peace. You only feel hope when you're afraid. Hope is our cure to pain. I want our pain to end. And not in a cage or grave. Just in a quiet place where it's warm."

It was the most he had said in weeks, perhaps in years. Til held her little brother close, nearly crushing him against her, and kissed the top of his head.

"We'll find that quiet place," she said.

They kept walking through the wilderness as the rain fell. Unlike the north, a land of maples and oaks and birches, here in the south grew many twisting pines. On a grassy hill they found wild apple trees, and they filled their bellies. When several mourning doves took flight above, Til shifted into a dragon, rose for just an instant, and grabbed the birds. She roasted them with her dragonfire, and she and Bim enjoyed the meal in human form. They walked onward.

As they crossed the last few miles toward the sea, they encountered many remnants of old Requiem, the kingdom that had sprawled here five hundred years ago. An aqueduct snaked across the hills, taller than a dragon but only a few hundred feet long, ending with a pile of bricks. On a hilltop rested the capitals of columns, carved as dragons, but the pillars themselves were missing, perhaps stolen years ago. A massive statue lay fallen in the grass; once it must have stood as large as a palace. It was carved as an ancient, bearded king clad in a flowing robe—King Aeternum, founder of Requiem.

As they talked here, Til tried to imagine what life had been like before the seraphim. The splendor of Requiem would have covered these hills, but the true glory would be above—thousands of dragons in the sky, for the sky had always been the true domain of Requiem, even more than her forests and mountains and rivers. That sky was as lost as the land below. Even as she walked here, Til saw the distant light of halos—seraphim flying.

She and Bim crouched at once, hiding in the tall grass.

"Seraphim are here," he whispered.

"I count only five." She smiled. "Not too bad. And look, they're already flying away. And I see none over that city."

They both peeked from the grass, staring south. The distant ruins were closer now. Til had never seen ruins in such good condition before. From here, a few miles away, she could see buildings—real buildings, several stories high, and towers of stone that soared toward the sky. She was used to seeing the cities of seraphim, and she knew their slender, graceful architecture. But here ahead were the ancient structures of Vir Requis, carved of marble and many columns.

"A city of Requiem still stands," she whispered. "Lynport did not fall to the seraphim."

Hope kindled inside her. Could it be that . . . that Vir Requis still lived here? Many of them? That they had survived, defended this city through the ages, protected a small Requiem in the south?

The sun was setting by the time they reached the city gates, and no more seraphim had risen. Long shadows spread across the land, and crimson stained the sky. In the distance, still a league away, the sea whispered.

The city rose before the siblings. No, not 'rose,' Til thought. Lynport seemed to loom. The city gates were like the mouth of a stone beast large enough to swallow dragons. The portcullis had long ago rusted away, leaving only shards of metal like teeth. The walls were pockmarked and stained with old fire. Beyond them rose steeples, towers, and many roofs, but while from the distance they had seemed fair and gleaming in the rain, in the sunset Til now saw that they were decrepit, crumbling, full of crows. No doors filled the gatehouse, but Til could see only shadows beyond. Wind moaned, expelled from the city like icy breath, ruffling her hair.

"The city is alive," Bim said, and once more that dead look returned to his eyes. "The city is afraid." He turned toward her, eyes blank, staring at Til yet through her. "We must leave this place."

Til couldn't suppress a shudder. The wind moaned again, racing through the city and emerging from the gates, almost forming words.

Shoo . . . shoo . . .

"Maybe you're right," Til whispered.

She turned away from the gatehouse, facing north again, and cringed.

The sun vanished behind the horizon, but new light flared in the distance. Chariots of fire. A hundred or more, moving in from the north, patrolling the wilderness. Seeking her.

"On second thought . . . the city isn't looking that bad now." She cringed. "In fact, creepy place full of shadows to hide in? That sounds pretty good."

She grabbed Bim's hand and began pulling him toward the gateway.

"Til . . . are you sure?"

"No." She walked toward the shadowy gateway. "But I know that outside is fire, outside is light, outside is the wrath of the seraphim. We spent many days running, seeking the smallest of burrows—under logs or boulders or bushes. Here is a full city of burrows." She loosened her grip on him, realizing that she must have been hurting his palm. "And we might still find others, Bim. Let's go exploring. We are creatures of starlight and dragonfire. We need not fear the darkness."

The chariots of fire crackled behind them, moving closer. Clutching their swords, the siblings stepped through the old gateway, entering the city of shadows.

A dark cobbled road stretched ahead, lined with brick buildings. In the distance, the black towers rose toward the clouds. The rain stopped and mist floated through the city like ghosts. The moon was but a haze in the veiled sky, its faded light the only illumination. Til could barely see more than the outlines of the buildings.

"Should we turn into dragons?" Bim whispered. "We can light our fire."

Til stared ahead into the shadows. She couldn't see more than a block ahead. It seemed to her that the mist was a living creature, scurrying down alleyways, peering from behind every building. The wind moaned, so lifelike that for an instant Til was sure a figure was whispering ahead. Something thumped in the distance, just a soft sound, barely audible, soon gone.

"No." She shook her head. "We don't know who lives here. We move quietly, hidden in shadows. We find a place to sleep. Just until the daylight."

They stepped deeper into the city, moving between old brick buildings that rose several stories tall. Taller structures rose behind them, dark steeples cutting across the dark sky. It was hard to see in the shadows, but the buildings seemed dilapidated, no curtains or shutters in their windows, no doors in their frames. All wood and fabric had rotted away, leaving only craggy stone. No lanterns or hearths shone. If anyone lived here, they lived in darkness. When Til trailed her hand against a brick wall, it came back covered in soot.

"Fire burned here long ago," she whispered. "Dragonfire."

"Let's find a place to hide," Bim said. "The seraphim are coming."

The siblings glanced behind them. The city walls loomed there, blocking the view of the wilderness. The gates revealed nothing but darkness beyond. Til couldn't even hear the chariots of fire anymore.

"They're not coming," she whispered, daring not speak any louder. "They don't enter this city. They never enter. That's why it's still standing. They never destroyed Lynport."

She looked ahead again, staring down the shadowy road toward the dark skyline. All her life, Til knew ruins to be crumbling piles of rubble—perhaps a few standing columns, perhaps a section of aqueduct, maybe a single tower or two, but no more. In the north, that was all that remained of Requiem. While Lynport was certainly crumbling and old, the city still stood. Rotted, yes. Lifeless, perhaps. But still standing.

Why did the Overlord never destroy this place as he did all our other cities? she wondered.

"I don't like this place." Bim clutched her arm. "We need to leave. Now."

Til shook her head. "There are seraphim outside. This city is safe. We—"

The wind shrieked, ruffling their cloaks and hair, drowning Til's words. Mist swirled and shadows danced in alleyways and dark windows. Clattering sounded in the distance, echoed, and faded.

"The city screamed," Bim whispered.

"Just the wind." Til drew her sword. "Let's make our way toward the coast. I'll feel better by the sea."

They continued walking, leaving the gateway behind. The boulevard was wide and must have once been fine. Lantern poles still rose alongside, their lights long darkened. Alleyways branched off into shadows. The houses grew larger as they walked, and soon Til saw a towering structure, lined with columns and topped with steeples.

"A temple," she whispered. "A temple to the Draco constellation. This is a holy place to Requiem."

"Nobody but ghosts lives here now." Bim shuddered. "Let's keep walking. I don't want to stop until we reach the sea."

Til paused, staring at the temple. The columns soared before her, embracing shadows. What wonders lay within? Would Til find ancient jewels, books of Requiem lore? Perhaps only the skeletons of ancient priests? She longed to enter the temple, to become a dragon in its hall and light her fire, to explore those secret chambers. After all these years of traveling through ruins—to find an actual temple, a relic of the golden age!

She had taken a step toward the portico when shadows stirred between the columns.

Til froze.

She narrowed her eyes. Had she truly . . . ?

There! She saw it again. A pale figure, moving between the columns, peering with black eyes—then vanishing.

"Mist," she whispered. "Just mist."

Feet pattered behind her.

She spun around. "Bim?"

A scream, high pitched like steam, rose across the city of Lynport.

Til grimaced. She covered her ears, still holding her sword with one hand. The sound rose louder, louder, twisting, rising like a living thing, and Til doubled over and screamed. The sound seemed to crack, then vanish, perhaps just rising too high for her to hear.

She looked at Bim. He stared back, eyes wide, lips pale.

"To the sea," Til whispered.

They continued walking, faster now, almost jogging. And Til saw them. She saw them everywhere. Gray mist in windows and alleyways. White eyes staring and vanishing. Padding feet. Cackling. The laughter of children, a thousand demonic girls, a young boy singing an old nursery song, then screaming, vanishing into shadows.

Til and Bim ran.

From the buildings around them, they rose.

Shadows. Mist. Screams. Twisting faces. Pain.

Til cried out in agony.

Pain. They were pain.

"Stop!" she cried, but they kept rising, flowing from alleyways, from gutters, descending from the clouds. They had no forms but they had faces, and those faces screamed. They had no bodies but they felt pain. They danced around her, hand in hand. They laughed. They wept. They twisted on the ground.

"Bloodstained reptiles!" they screeched, voices demonic, impossibly high-pitched, the sounds of shattered glass coalesced into words. "Bloodstained reptiles, bloodstained reptiles! Run, run, run!"

Til screamed and swung her sword, trying to hold them back. She cut through mist, but the faces floated all around. They formed in the reflections on glass windows. They twisted in the clouds above. They leered from shadows. The ruins came alive around her, writhing, the buildings leaning in. Arms grew from the buildings. Arms reached out. Eyes opened on the ground.

"Bloodstained, bloodstained! Weredragons! Run, run, run!"

They ran. The creatures laughed. They tugged at Til and Bim's cloaks, they danced between their feet, they danced around, a great ring of them in the sky, surrounding a great face, and the buildings laughed and wept, and the sky wept, and the arms reached toward them, dripping black blood, and the arms wept. They were happy. They were sick. They were in agony. They raged. They lusted. They begged for death.

"What are they?" Bim cried.

Pain. Pain. Just pain.

"Just run!"

Her head spun. Her pain throbbed inside her, living demons inside, tearing her up. Souls. They were souls.

Just run.

Just run.

"Run, run, run!" the creatures cried.

She knew their name. She wept. She fell. She rose and ran again. She knew them. She knew them.

"Dybbuks," she said.

Bim screamed and doubled over, creatures tugging at him, pulling his skin, pulling his eyes.

"Stand back, dybbuks!" Til shouted, sword lashing.

The ring of them spun around her, and the city creaked, bricks rearranging themselves, steeples leaning forward, eyes blazing within them.

She had heard of these creatures—a disease of Edinnu, taken down into the world, infecting all they touched, ripping feelings from dead souls they consumed. Hungry demons, devouring the pain, the fear, the rage of those they slew. They had grown fat on the feelings in this city, had consumed the pain of Requiem, of countless slain Vir Requis. And still they hungered, an infection that ached to spread.

"Til!" her brother screamed. "Til, they're in me. It hurts. It hurts. Bloodstained. Bloodstained. Run, run, run!"

His voice rose higher, twisting, and his eyes bugged out, and he clawed at his face.

Til shifted into a dragon.

She beat her wings and blasted out fire in a ring.

The shadows parted, and the dybbuks laughed.

"Bow down! Bow down!" they chanted. "Bloodstained, bloodstained, bow, bow, bow!"

"Bow!" Bim cried below, twisting on the ground, writhing, smoking, screaming. "Bow down, bow bow!"

They laughed. They danced. Bim rose and danced. They danced around her. They danced inside her. They spun. The arms reached out to her, the buildings laughing, breaking, their eyes staring, and their arms wept.

I don't know.

Til screamed, wept.

I don't know what you mean.

She roared out her dragonfire. It was all she knew. Roar. Roar. Fire. Fire. Run, run, run.

The dance. They danced. They spun all around her, and she danced with them, and they were inside her, and they lied. They lied to her. They felt things. They were feelings. They were things. They were buildings with arms.

"Lie, lie!" she cried. "Not mine. Not mine! Not feeling. Not my feelings. Not my pain."

"Your pain! Pain of Requiem. Pain of dragons."

She fell to her knees, human again, dead again, a thousand dead again. A city dead again. A nation falling. Inside her. Inside her. She felt them, the disease spreading, the chunks torn off their deaths gushing through her, new blood inside her, pumping through her veins. Pumping through her belly.

Lie, lie, they lie! They lie!

"Lie!" they cried. "Run, run, run!"

She screamed. She clawed at her face. She reached into her mouth. She reached inside her.

Take them out. Take them out!

Bim smiled. He stared at her. White eyes. Toothless smile. He reached his hand toward her. It bled. It healed. It was nothing but bones. It bled. It healed. His skin vanished. His skin appeared. He was in daylight. He was in darkness. He was a living one. He was a dead one. He danced. He sang. He died and screamed. He smiled and reached out to her.

"Tell a lie," he whispered and took her hand.

She lied. She danced. They all danced. They were dragons, dead, broken. They were shadows. They were buildings with arms. They were the sea.

The sea.

She saw the waves. Waves with faces. Screaming waves of blood.

She stared into the water.

The screams rose around her, shattered . . . fading. Fading. Floating. Fading.

She stared at the waves. The sea was breathing. The waves were breath. There were bodies beneath them. The dead breathed. The world breathed. Requiem breathed.

She stared.

"Tears," she whispered. "The sea is made of tears. The sea is breathing. The waves are breath."

She remembered. She had been traveling to those waves, to—

"Father."

The dragon died upon the lance. She screamed. "Fath—"

The sea breathed. The waves were its breath.

For so long, she had traveled, hiding, trying to reach that sea. And now she floated here. Floated above the buildings, dancing with the dybbuks. A dance of dybbuks. A dance in the sky. But the waves did not dance. She—

"No!" the girl screamed. And her father lost his magic, returning to a human, a human impaled, staring at her, coated in blood. And she ran. She ran through the forests. She ran in the wilderness. She ran cross ruins. Run, run, run.

Run, run, run. Run. Hide! Hide. Kill. Kill, kill, kill.

She shivered in tunnels among the bones of dead dragons, and she prayed, and—

The sea breathed.

She stared.

The waves were its breath.

She floated among the feelings, and her brother danced with her, and he laughed, and he was alive, and finally he felt. Finally he felt so much.

She turned in the air, and she stared across the walls to the northern darkness, and she saw the fire. The fire of ten thousand chariots, filling the sky. Fearing this place. They dared not enter. Not this city. Not this darkness. Not these feelings. Not this place where seraphim feared to tread. But she had entered. She could hear the sea, calling to her. It had always called her. It still breathed.

She flew as a dragon.

"I'm sorry." She wept. "I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry. I couldn't save you. I'm sorry. I couldn't. I had to run. I had to run, run, run."

Run, run, run.

Fly.

She tried to beat her wings, but she died.

She tried to blow her fire, but the seraphim burned her, shoved their lances inside her.

She tried to grab her brother, but she was born in pain, screaming. Her father beat her. She tried to fly, but she was afraid, trapped in an alleyway, a man holding her down. She died. She died a hundred thousand times. She died in the fire of seraphim, screaming, lingered on, fled, died at the walls, drowned in the sky.

The disease spread into her. The dybbuks laughed, carrying with them the devoured pain of Requiem, spewing it into her, grabbing her pain.

Bim screamed, laughed, danced with them. He was but a shadow. Only a face in the darkness, that was all. Only mist. And above him shone the stars.

"The stars of Requiem," Til whispered. "Issari's Eye. Staring. There's no pain there. No pain in starlight."

The sea breathed.

There was no pain in the sea.

There is pain in life. Life is pain. We are born in pain. We are drenched in pain from birth. We die in pain. We are but glimmers of starlight between pain and pain. There is no pain in starlight. There is no pain in the sea.

Til forced herself to stare at the star, to let it consume her. To rise above the buildings with arms. To rise above the clouds. To be—

Run, run, run!

Bow, bow, bow!

—to be nothing but starlight. Nothing but sea. Nothing but breath. Breath. Waves. The waves were its breath.

She flew.

She reached out and grabbed the shadow. She held her brother in her claws.

"Lies, lies, lies."

She flew through them, holding him.

They clawed inside her. They tore at her skin from the inside. They died a thousand times. They made her die a thousand times. She died a thousand times over every street, but still she flew. She stared up at the stars. She stared at the sea. She refused to fear them. She would not fear. There was no fear in starlight. There was no pain in the sea. The waves were its breath.

She flew over the city, holding Bim in her claws, and there on the edge of the water, she saw it. A towering fortress on a hill. A fortress with white arms that reached out in the black night. A fortress with eyes. A fortress where Vir Requis had been dying for thousands of years. A fortress that died. That made her die. That felt. Its arms wept.

Til roared out her fire.

Her flames slammed into the building, showering up, spraying onto dybbuks that still danced around her. The massive creature laughed, rising higher, built of bricks and mist and flesh, eyes blazing like furnaces.

Now you will die, Til of Requiem. Its voice spoke in her head. Now we will feed upon your pain too.

She flew.

There is no pain in starlight.

I am woven of starlight.

There is no pain in the sea.

The waves are its breath.

She blasted her dragonfire and charged headfirst into the towering fortress of demonic shadow.

Bricks showered around her. One of her horns snapped. Her scales cracked. She screamed and kept flying, tearing through it, a great lance like the lance that had driven into her father.

The building collapsed around her. Turrets slammed down and shattered. Bricks rained. She flew through the dust, the screams, the fleeing demons within, casting back their shadows with her firelight, until she flew over sand and sea.

She dipped down. The wind whipped around her. Her scales bled. But there was no pain in the sea, and the waves were its breath, and she plunged into the water and lost her magic.

The water flowed over her, inky black, washing them away, and they fled her. The dybbuks. The shards of souls. The endless deaths and the endless pain. They rose around her, swirling shadows, vanishing in the cleansing waters of Requiem, until only the waves remained, only starlight above.

The waves breathed, and they bore Til and Bim and laid them upon the sand.

Til rose to her knees, shivering, her sword lost. Bim knelt in the sand, his back turned toward her, his shoulders stooped and head lowered.

Til reached out hesitantly. When he turned around, would his eyes be purest white, his face twisted and dead, still a dybbuk?

"Bim?"

With a shaking hand, she touched his shoulder.

He spun toward her.

He shed tears.

"Til," he whispered.

She cried too, and she pulled him into her arms and embraced him, and they shivered together.

"It's over," she whispered, rocking him gently. "It's over, it's over. We did it, Bim. We reached the coast. We'll be safe here. We're safe. The seraphim dare not enter the city."

"Stars, I wonder why," Bim said.

She laughed through her tears. "You were right to fear that place. But we're safe now. We—"

In the distance, the fires burned.

They did not rise above the city, but they flew along the coast, having skirted that hive of possession. Now they stormed along the beach, heading toward her and Bim.

Countless chariots of fire that lit the darkness. The most Til had ever seen since the failed rebellion five years ago. Countless seraphim flew between them, and above all rose the great light of the Overlord, a sun in the night.

"Hello, Til!" rose a voice from the effulgence. "Welcome, child, to your grave!"

Til and Bim shouted, shifted into dragons, and soared. The countless seraphim flew toward them from all sides, burning the world.

MELIORA

They had been flying over the sea for days now, no food, no water, growing weary, getting scared. And always behind them cried out the harpies, forever on the horizon. Growing closer.

The leagues of water spread ahead, and still no sight of land.

"Will it never end?" Elory whispered, flying at her side.

Meliora glided on the wind and licked her dry palate. Her voice was hoarse. "It will end."

"You should drink," said the purple dragon. "We still have some canteens with water in the camp. Shift with me into human form and—"

"No." Meliora shook her head. "There are those who need water more than I do. The elders and children will drink first. Not us, the young and strong."

Young Meliora might have been, but it was hard to feel strong. Not after this endless flight from Tofet. She had not touched ground since her speech on the hill outside the walls of their captivity, and with each day, her strength waned. Her throat and mouth were so dry that even when she tried to sleep, riding on another dragon, the pain woke her up. Some of her cuts were infected, she thought. The welts leaked pale ooze. She had barely slept since leaving Tofet, barely eaten, and the weariness made her head spin.

But worse than all was her fear.

She feared that Requiem lay too far, that they would perish and drown in the sea, a nation of six hundred thousand souls drowning only leagues away from their homeland. She feared that even should they reach Requiem, that a great enemy would await them there, one too powerful to vanquish. She feared that Ishtafel would catch them, would end their dream of rebuilding their nation.

And she feared Leyleet's words, that curse that would not stop echoing.

You will never see Requiem, daughter of dragons. With my dying breath I curse you.

She forced those words out of her mind. Requiem surely lay just ahead, just beyond the horizon. Soon they would be home.

"Soon it will be over," Meliora told her sister. "After all your pain, Elory—it will be over. For all the children of Requiem. I cannot imagine the pain you went through in Tofet, my sweet sister. I cannot imagine the agony so many endured for five hundred years, while I lived in comfort." She lowered her head. "Leyleet told me that I would never see Requiem, and perhaps I don't deserve to lead our people home. Not I, who dined in palaces and slept on beds of silk while you toiled in the mud. It should be Jaren, or you, or Vale who leads this camp, not I."

The lavender dragon flew closer to her. Her eyes shone damply. "And yet it was you who gave us hope. You who gave me hope. You who marched with us, a multitude of slaves, into the City of Kings to demand our freedom. You who first flew as a dragon, soaring above us, letting us see your majesty. And you who led us out of the land of Tofet. And you will lead us home, Meliora. You will lead us through the gates of Requiem, and you will rebuild our land. And you will be our queen in the rebuilt marble halls."

Meliora's eyes stung. "I don't deserve a crown. I would see Jaren sit upon a new throne in a rebuilt Requiem. Or if not him, then Vale. Or you. Or Lucem, for he is a great hero of Requiem, one who gave our people hope long before I led you in a march. I just . . . I just want to undo all this. Everything that my family—my other family—has done." She stared at Elory pleadingly. "Do you understand? I caused you so much pain. I lived in a palace your hands built, wore clothes you wove, ate food you farmed, lived as a princess of an empire that rested upon your yokes. I need to atone for all that. I must be the one who fights this war, who fights for our freedom. But I deserve no honor. I don't deserve a place in songs of epics, and I should not be the first to enter the gates of Requiem, nor the first to wear her new crown."

Elory smiled thinly. "Let's focus right now on finding Requiem, and then we can argue about who'll wear the crown."

"I volunteer!" A red dragon shot toward them, wagged his tail, and grinned. "Let me do both. I'll be the first to set foot in Requiem, and I'll be her first new king. King Lucem the Lovable. Has a nice ring to it."

Elory rolled her eyes. "You are nothing but a peasant. Perhaps when I'm princess, you can be my lovable servant."

Lucem's eyes widened. "Peasant? Peasant?" The red dragon clutched his chest with his claws. "She wounds me! Do you hear how she wounds me, Meliora? Yet I heard what you called me—a great hero of Requiem. At least somebody respects me."

The sisters sighed and kept flying.

Requiem flew onward across the sea.

The sun set and the stars emerged. High above them, no longer on the horizon but rearing across the zenith, shone the Draco constellation. Meliora was prepared to shift back into human form, to ride for a while on her father or another dragon, when cries rose across the camp.

"The stars!" dragons cried.

"Praise the stars of Requiem!"

The cries swept across the camp, and dragons stared upwards, calling out in joy and awe.

Meliora looked up and gasped. Her eyes dampened.

"It's true," she whispered. "The stars bless us."

Above in the sky, luminous strands were coiling out from the Draco stars, flowing across the darkness like milk spilled from jugs. Slowly the strands of starlight connected the stars of the constellation and flared out in filigree, forming the shape of a great celestial dragon. The Draco constellation was no longer just stars but a beast of the sky, its tail coiling, its head rearing, its claws gripping the firmaments, all woven of light. Draco's eye shone brightest, Issari's Star gazing upon her children.

"The stars guide us home," Jaren said, rising up to fly at her side. "Requiem is close. Look, Meliora. Look ahead."

She gazed northward, and there she saw it.

Tears streamed down her scaly cheeks.

"Thank you, my stars," she whispered, trembling, and she could not stop shedding tears.

You were wrong, Leyleet. You were wrong. I see her. I see her ahead. I see Requiem.

The coast lay on the horizon, still many miles away. But Meliora could see Requiem even in the darkness. Lights lined the coast, shining like the stars. Great cities rose there—perhaps the cities of seraphim, perhaps even settlements of Vir Requis said to have survived the war five hundred years ago.

Once more, Meliora raised her pillar of white dragonfire, a beacon for her people to follow.

"Hear me, children of Requiem!" she cried. "Our homeland awaits us. Requiem lies before us. We are home!"

"We are home!" her people cried. "We are home!"

They flew onward, crossing the last few miles of dark water, the Draco stars shining above. The coast grew brighter ahead, the many lights shining, and joy swelled in Meliora's heart, and—

She gasped.

She narrowed her eyes.

Those were no city lights along the coast, she saw.

The coast was burning.

"Chariots of fire," she whispered. "Thousands of them."

Across the flight of dragons, cries of fear replaced the cries of joy. The dragons all stared ahead, and the firelight blazed, washing out the light of the stars.

Even in the heat of dragonfire, cold fear flowed over Meliora as the dragons flew onward—toward Requiem, toward the seraphim, toward war.

TIL

She flew, an orange dragon, rising above the beach, blasting her fire. Bim flew at her side, a small black dragon, his fire rising with hers.

Around them, the sky burned with the holy light of seraphim.

The immortals rose everywhere, covering the beach, the sea, and more flowing in. They hid the night sky. Their light bathed the world. Flaming chariots flew in rings, their firehorses thundering across the firmaments. Their seraphim chanted from within, raising their lances and bows, their halos shining. Above them all, in the center of the luminous maelstrom, flew the Overlord—a great light, a sun, a god. All other seraphim nearly drowned in his light, and his glory blasted down in great beams, falling upon Til and Bim, searing them.

"Til!" Bim shouted. "Til, what do we do?"

Die, she knew.

Die.

They had fled from seraphim before, but never this many. Here was an army. An army larger than the one that had crushed their rebellion five years ago, slaying all but her family. An army like the one that had destroyed Requiem five hundred years ago, crushing this ancient kingdom.

We die.

The seraphim surrounded them. Til felt that she flew within the sun, light all around her, searing her scales, nearly blinding her. Her brother screamed at her side. The city vanished in the light. The sea no longer whispered, and flames hid the sky.

A melodious voice spoke above, so fair, so holy that Meliora wept to hear it. The voice of a comforting angel, of a kind god, of a father, of a mother. A voice that promised to soothe all pain.

"Come to me, Meliora," said the Overlord. "Come to me, Bim. Fly into my light, children of Requiem, and let me relieve your weary heads. Come rest in my brilliance. Your pain is over."

Til found herself flying higher, ascending toward the light. Her pain could end. She could rise into the Overlord's presence, bask in his light, let him claim her soul, discard her broken body. She could forever seek comfort in his light, burned away, becoming part of his light.

We can ascend, she thought. We can rest. We can become illuminated.

As she flew higher, his figure came into focus, the light surrounding him with a great sphere. The Overlord stood taller than most seraphim, nearly the size of her dragon form. His long platinum hair streamed as if floating in water, and his golden armor shone. His halo hummed with holiness, and he held a great lance longer than a man, tipped with sunlight.

Til recognized that lance.

The lance that had driven into her father, piercing the dragon. The lance Father's human body had hung on.

The lance the Overlord would drive into her and her brother.

"Yes, we die," she whispered. "But not ascending into light. We die as dragons. We die in dragonfire."

She roared and blasted up that dragonfire, a great fountain rising toward the Overlord.

Bim roared with her, blasting his flames.

"For Requiem!" the black dragon cried.

"For death!" Til answered the cry.

For Father. For all those you killed. For a last stand and death in glory.

The Overlord swooped, lance plunging downward, light flaring. The two dragons soared to meet him, breathing fire, rising toward death in flame.

And from the south, countless voices answered their cry.

"For Requiem!" rose a first cry, distant, barely audible.

"Requiem rises, Requiem rises!" rose a thousand other voices.

"To war! To victory! To our home!"

All around, the seraphim shrieked. Their wings beat madly. They spun in the sky, breaking the sphere they had formed around Til and Bim. Their lances thrust toward the sea.

"Requiem!" rose the voices, and countless whips beat, and roars rolled across the sky, and an inferno of fire blazed across the world.

Til spread her wings as wide as they'd go, halting her ascent, and spun toward the south.

Her eyes watered.

There above the sea she saw them.

"Dragons," she whispered, tasting her tears. "Dragons coming home."

VALE

All his life, Vale had been fighting.

In the pits of Tofet, he had fought against the sun that burned him, the thirst that bloodied his throat, the whips that lashed him, the exhaustion that threatened to slay him like so many of his comrades. In the great uprising against the overseers, he had fought his masters, had battled Ishtafel in the sky, had blown his fire against many enemies across the southern continent.

But now, he thought, I fight a different battle. Now I fight for my homeland.

The sky exploded around him.

Fire flared in great streams.

Shadows burst and shattered.

The columns of Requiem had fallen, but great pillars of dragonfire rose.

They stormed forth—six hundred thousand dragons, roaring, breathing fire, crashing into the enemy, coming home.

The royal army was only days old, but it had already fought great battles, and it fought here with its greatest fury.

The hosts of seraphim crashed into them. Flaming chariots drove through the dragons, casting corpses down to the beach. The arrows of seraphim filled the air, their tips as long and sharp as daggers. Lances cracked through scales. The seraphim flew from all sides, and the darkness of night vanished under their light.

Yet the dragons still stormed forth.

Warriors. Elders. Children. They all fought this night, flying over the beaches, burning down the seraphim before them. The immortals fell with blazing wings. The chariots crashed down, slamming into the water and onto the ruins of an ancient city. Towers, roofs, and walls shattered beneath them, and fires burned among the bricks.

Vale blew his fire, knocking the seraphim down, leading the charge into their ranks. He soared through fire that washed across his scales. He fought with his family. He fought with his people. He fought for Requiem and he fought for the women who forever lit his heart, who would forever shine down upon him. For his mother, fallen in the slave pit. For Issari, a priestess of legend. And for Tash.

For the first time in five hundred years, the Vir Requis fought in their sky.

TIL

The sky rained blood and fire, and Til flew, her dragonfire washing across the battle.

Requiem is real. Her tears steamed in the fire. Requiem returns.

Her heart soared and she trembled as she fought the enemy over the ruins. For so many years, she had sought others, hoping against hope to find a handful of survivors, perhaps just one, just another sign of life in ruin. For so many years, she had feared that she and her family were the last, that soon they too would die and all of Requiem's light would perish with them.

But we found others in the south. She flew with them, with dragons who covered the sky, burning down the seraphim. We found a nation.

Her tears kept burning in her eyes. It had been years since she had seen other dragons—true living dragons, actual Vir Requis. Her people. Thousands of them—really here, not just in her dreams. Even though war blazed around them and hundreds were dying, pure joy filled Til, for she was no longer alone. Countless others knew her pain, her hope, her love of Requiem. She would never more hide in shadows.

Til knew at once who these others were. Not survivors of the ruins. Not other vagabonds like her. Here were the ancient people of Requiem, the descendants of those first captives. Freed slaves. Free warriors. New hope and light for their land. They fought for their ancient, stolen homeland. They fought for their freedom. They fought to rekindle the light of Requiem in her sky.

And I fight a second war, Til thought.

She stared above her, and she saw him still there, his light nearly blinding her. The Overlord.

The tyrant of Requiem's ruins, the seraph who had slaughtered thousands, fought in a fury. His lance thrust again and again, piercing dragons, sending them falling to the ruins as men and women. His shield swung, cleaving through dragons, sending scales showering through the air. His light blasted out and his halo shone, brighter than dragonfire. The warriors of Requiem fell before him.

"Bim, stay with the others!" Til said. "Fly to the back line!"

Her brother fought at her side, covered in scrapes, his black scales dented. He roared and blasted his dragonfire against two swooping seraphim, kindling their wings. Two more dragons—a one-eared lavender dragon and a red dragon with sliced horns—flew up to fly around Bim. The three fought together, back to back, burning more enemies.

Til beat her wings, whipped her tail, and flew higher. She charged through the battle, moving toward the light, knocking down those seraphim in her way. An arrow slammed into her leg, and she bellowed but kept flying. A lance scraped her side, and she whipped her tail, slicing a seraph in half. A chariot charged toward her, and Til soared and rained down fire onto its rider. The seraph screamed, armor and flesh melting. She flew onward, heading into the glare.

Ahead of her, the Overlord thrust his lance, piercing a silver dragon. The dragon lost her magic, returning to a human—a young girl, younger than Til. The Overlord swung his lance, tossing the corpse onto another dragon. His shield swung, knocking the second assailant down. Blood stained the great seraph's armor, but his light still shone purely.

"Fight them, seraphim!" the Overlord cried in his deep, holy voice. "Fell the scaly beasts! Rid the world of the evil reptiles, and let the holiness of Saraph shine here again."

Til stared at him, growling.

He truly believes it, she realized. He truly believes that he's good. That we are evil. That he's doing holy work.

For the first time, Til realized that perhaps good and evil did not truly exist. All her life, she had imagined herself fighting a wicked enemy, imagined herself fighting for goodness. Yet in the Overlord's eyes, the seraphim were holy and righteous, while dragons were but monsters, creatures of fangs and fire.

For just that moment, Til doubted herself, doubted her battle.

Then the Overlord slew another dragon, and Til roared and charged, fire blazing.

Her inferno shrieked, spinning madly, and crashed into the mighty lord of light.

The Overlord spun toward her, the dragonfire washing across his breastplate. He screamed in the flames, a deafening sound. He rose higher, emerging from the inferno, and gazed down at her. Molten gold dripped off his armor, and he sneered toothily.

Til stared in horror. Her dragonfire had melted the flesh of many seraphim, yet it had washed over the Overlord like water around a boulder.

"There you are," he said, pointed his lance, and charged toward her.

The blade drove forth, coated with the blood of dragons. The blade that had killed her father.

Til roared out flame and released her magic.

The dragonfire washed across the Overlord again, and she plunged down through the sky, a human. The lance thrust over her head, slicing a lock of her red hair.

She shifted back into a dragon and soared, blasting out more flames. The fire crashed into the Overlord, washing over his legs, and he bellowed in pain.

Til snarled.

There. I hurt him. He can be hurt.

The Overlord swung his shield toward her. The metal disk, wider than a man's arm span, flashed with light, its sharp edge stained with blood.

Til screamed and swerved, trying to dodge the blow, but she was too slow. The shield scraped across her front leg, cutting a deep gash. She screamed. She nearly lost her magic. She forced herself to beat her wings, and her dragonfire burst forth, washing across the Overlord again, but seemingly not harming the seraph.

His shield swung again, slamming into her side, cracking her scales.

Til lost her magic.

She fell, blood spilling from her side, eyes rolling.

The battle spun around her. The sky and sea whirled. Above her the light shone, and he laughed.

No.

Still in human form, Til gripped the hilt of her sword.

"Goodbye, Til!" the Overlord called above her, laughing. "Goodbye, my darling."

No.

The dragons all flew around her and above her. The lost dragons of Requiem, come to rebuild their homeland.

No. No. I will not die now. Not so close to Requiem's rebirth.

She shifted. She soared, an orange dragon. Bleeding. Burnt. Haunted by countless deaths, countless days and nights of running and hiding. A broken woman, perhaps one too hurt to ever heal. But a woman who would still fight. A dragon who would still roar.

She rose toward him through the battle, washed him with flames, and soared higher.

He spun beneath her, raising his lance.

Til kept ascending, rising high above all other seraphim, high toward the stars of her people. The Draco constellation shone above her, strands of starlight connecting its stars, a great silvery dragon watching over her.

Below her he roared, a twisted creature, burning in his own sunlight, his halo flaring and sputtering. His lance rose toward her, prepared to cut out her heart.

Til swooped and released her magic.

She plunged down as a human.

His wings beat and his lance rose

Til drew her longsword.

The lance scraped across her side, cracking a plate of armor, and she thrust her sword downward.

The blade—a weapon of the bellators, Requiem's ancient order of knighthood—crashed into the Overlord's halo.

Light.

Sound.

Fury.

The halo shattered, exploded, cast out thousands of burning white shards. Til screamed as they burned her. She tried to summon her magic again, to lash into him with claws, but the light was too great, the sound washing across her.

As he fell, the Overlord reached out and grabbed her throat.

"So . . . there's some bite to the bitch," he hissed, his voice no longer melodious but ugly, raspy. Broken shards of his halo still sputtered over his head. Other shards, like broken metal forged of light, had lacerated his head, his face, his eye. The luminous blades thrust out from him, leaking golden ichor that flowed down his skin, burning rivulets into the flesh.

Til tried to shift again, but when scales began to rise across her, and when her body grew, his grip tightened around her throat, constricting her, and she lost her magic like a collared slave. The Overlord's wings still beat, holding them high above the ruined city and beach. He sneered, licking the ichor.

"You . . ." Til struggled for breath, rasping out each word. "You . . . lost. Requiem . . . rises."

"No, my little sweetling." He tightened his grip. "Requiem falls now between my host and the harpies flying from the south. And you will die now, at my moment of greatest glory, in the battle where we eradicate all weredragons. Die now, girl. Die. Die."

She couldn't breathe. Her neck creaked. Blackness closed in around her, until she saw only him, only his lacerated face, only his burning golden eyes, the pupils like sunbursts, his bloody teeth. Then stars flowed over her vision—stars like those of Requiem, floating everywhere, rising in columns. Caught in his grip, she floundered, trying to slap him, to kick him, until her limbs lost all strength and hung loosely.

The Overlord screamed.

Horns burst out from his chest, sizzling with ichor, then pulled back.

His shriek tore across Til, leaving only ringing in her ears. His grip loosened and she gulped down breath.

The Overlord thrashed in the sky, clutching at his wounds, beating his wings, wailing in agony and rage. Behind him flew a small black dragon, horns bloody.

"Bim," Til whispered hoarsely.

She shifted into a dragon.

She lashed her claws, ripping into the Overlord's chest, shattering his armor and lacerating the skin. She lashed her tail, driving the spikes deep into his side. She blasted out fire, burning one of his wings.

With a roar that tore across the sky, the Overlord fell.

He plunged down like a comet, a ball of light, tearing through dragons, burning them and still crashing downward, leaving a trail of smoke. When he slammed onto the beach, the world seemed to shake, and buildings collapsed in the city.

Til flew down, weaving her way between dragons and seraphim that still battled around her. She bled from multiple wounds. Her breath rasped. She all but crashed onto the sand and lost her magic on impact. Bim landed at her side and lost his magic too.

For a moment, sister and brother lay in the sand, too hurt and weary to move. Beside them he moaned, twitched, smoked—the Overlord.

Til rose to her feet. As dragons and seraphim battled in the sky, she limped toward him.

The Overlord lay on the beach, his last strands of light flickering. His lance lay at his side. His left wing was lacerated, and shards of his halo still pierced his head and face, their light fading. His armor had cracked and melted, revealing burnt flesh. He seemed smaller this way. Almost human. Just a dying man like the countless who had died in this land.

"Please," the Overlord whispered, voice hoarse, ichor in his mouth. "Please, Til. I only wanted to ease your pain. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Til. I—"

With a sudden movement, the Overlord reached for his lance.

Til kicked his hand aside, crushing his fingers, and grabbed the weapon.

The Overlord bellowed, trying to rise from the sand. Til kicked him down and placed the tip of the lance against his neck.

They both froze. He stared up at her, eyes wide, face pale. She stared down into those heartless eyes. Golden eyes. Sunburst eyes. The eyes that had laughed as he slew her father. Her hands trembled around the shaft of the lance.

"Look away, Bim," she said, voice soft, never removing her eyes from the Overlord.

Her brother stepped closer. He stared down too. "I want to see this."

Til's legs shook, and she tightened her grip on the shaft.

"You murdered him." She stared at the Overlord, speaking through grinding teeth. "You murdered thousands. And you murdered my brother's soul. You are not a god, Overlord. You are a monster."

Lying in the sand beneath her, burnt and bleeding, the lance against his neck, the Overlord laughed.

"You are like I am," the seraph said, sputtering out saliva. "You call me a murderer, yet now you threaten to murder me. You call me a monster, yet you and your brother delight in death. Look at him, Til! Only a boy and already bloodthirsty. We are the same, whore of Requiem. Just killers. Just like your father was. Just like—"

She drove the lance into his neck.

He gave a last sputter, and his breath died. His body loosened, and his eyes saw no more.

"Maybe we are monsters," Til whispered. "But you made us so. We will find redemption in the halls of a rebuilt Requiem."

She turned away from the corpse and faced Bim.

He stared back at her, and she expected to see another blank gaze, a lifeless face, a haunted boy with a heart of stone.

But instead Bim wept.

"Til," he whispered.

She fell to her knees, pulled him into her embrace, and clung to him, smoothing his hair, nearly crushing him, weeping too.

"We did it, Bim," she whispered, shaking, her arms wrapped around him as he wept against her shoulder. "We did it. It's over now. It's over."

MELIORA

"Requiem," she whispered, staring around her. Her body trembled and her eyes stung. "I'm in Requiem."

Dawn rose across the land, illuminating ruin and death. The city on the coast—the fabled Lynport, the ancient jewel of Requiem's south—lay fallen, its halls collapsed under the rain of chariots. Thousands of corpses lay everywhere, both of seraphim and Vir Requis. The battle had ended, leaving the land bleeding and ravaged, blood and death upon the beach, in the water, and on the forests and hills beyond.

And here it was. Even in ruin. Even bloodied and burnt. Here was holy ground.

Requiem.

Meliora knelt on the beach. She lowered her hands. And she felt it. The sand of her homeland. Each grain a miracle.

They gathered around her on the beach. Her family. Her friends. The people Meliora had once oppressed, living as a princess in their tyrant's palace. The people she would now die for, the people who had chosen her to lead them, the people she would always love. Along the coast, the plains, the hills they gathered, the children of Requiem.

Meliora shifted into a dragon and soared.

She rose high, circling her people. They crowded below in human form, as plentiful as the grains of sand on the beach, spreading out for miles. They wore tattered burlap. They were thin, weary, wounded, but their eyes shone, and they prayed and wept and sang with joy.

"Hear me, children of Requiem!" Meliora said, flying above as a white dragon. "For five hundred years, we cried out to the stars. Chained. Beaten. Collared. For five hundred years, we dreamed of our homeland. Through fire and rain, through death and despair, we have traveled here, defeating many enemies. And we have reached holy ground. We have reached Requiem."

Their voices rose together, chanting for their land.

Meliora glided on the wind, staring south. She rose higher, so high the people below faded to but distant specks, then just a blur along the coast. She flew so high the air grew cold and thin, and she could barely breathe. She stared south, and there she saw them, a gray haze on the horizon, still a hundred leagues away.

A cloud of harpies.

Ishtafel.

She glided down until she flew close enough to call to her people again.

"We have traveled for many days, through much danger, and we found our homeland. But our fight is not over, Requiem! An enemy approaches from the south, an enemy greater than any we have yet faced. Ishtafel flies toward us, leading a host of harpies, and he seeks to steal our homeland from us, so soon after we've reclaimed it."

The people below cried out, some in dismay, others in rage.

"We will fight him!" Meliora cried. "Not because we crave war. Not because we crave victory or glory. We will fight him because we have no choice. Because he seeks to destroy us, to slay us all. No longer will he offer us the collar, only the lance. And so we will fight him, Requiem. But not here. Not upon this coast. We fly north! We fly to the heartland of our realm. To Old Requiem, the place where our nation was born. If we must make a final stand, it will be in the light of King's Column. Arise, children of Requiem! Arise and fill your hearts with song. We fly north! We fly to our column! There we will fight this war. Not as slaves. Not as exiles. We will fight as proud Vir Requis defending our home."

They roared. They rose as dragons.

They flew over the ruins, over the corpses of seraphim, leaving the coast behind . . . flying north, flying over Requiem.

ISHTAFEL

They landed on the coast of Requiem under clouds of smoke, so weary they barely mustered the energy to feed upon the corpses of seraphim.

Ishtafel walked across the coast, grinning savagely. His body blazed with an inferno of agony. Every step, every twitch of his muscles, every breath bathed him with the fury of collapsing suns. His muscles ached from the long flight across the sea. His throat was parched and bleeding, his belly roiling with hunger, his limbs shaking with weakness. And yet those pains vanished under the all-consuming flood of pain from his burnt flesh—the burns of dragonfire, the fire of Tash, the reptilian whore.

But still Ishtafel walked across the coast. As around him myriads of harpies collapsed onto the sand, breathing raggedly, gasping for breath, crawling to find food, Ishtafel held his back straight. He crossed the sand onto the solid earth of Requiem. He stood in the shadow of a ruined city under a sky of raining ash.

"Here it was," he whispered, tasting his blood as his face tore within his mask of metal. "Here we landed so long ago."

Ahead, Ishtafel could see it again—Requiem five hundred years ago, on the first day of his invasion. In his mind, these ruins stood again as the great city the weredragons had called Lynport, their southernmost outpost. In his memories, those weredragons still filled the sky, thousands of them, clad in armor and roaring fire—not ragged refugees but soldiers in a reptilian army.

"And we slew them, Reehan," Ishtafel whispered. "We slew them together."

He remembered the glory of that day. He had flown with his lover in one great chariot, its flames red and gold, their eight firehorses pulling them into their first battle. Ishtafel and Reehan had fired their arrows together, felling the beasts. They had raised shields together, blocking the dragonfire, had thrust their lances as one, cracking scales. Together they had led the charge. Together they had conquered this land.

Yet we did not fall together.

He winced to remember her lifeless body in his arms. To remember the light, fury, and love in her eyes go dark. He had slain many weredragons then. He had captured the rest, tormenting them for centuries. And now, here in this land, his revenge could be complete. Here he would grind their bones to dust in the light of their column, and he would send that column crashing down.

He looked across the coast, the city, and the hills. Thousands of seraphim lay dead here, burnt with dragonfire. The harpies were gorging themselves on the dead, gaining strength from the flesh and ichor. Their claws tore into the corpses' torsos, and their mouths dug deep into the cavities, tugging out organs. The snakes upon the harpies' heads feasted too, growing fat on the meat.

Ishtafel beat his aching, featherless wings. He rose higher above the ruins, and he stared north across the land he had conquered, the land he would now crush. There in the distance, many leagues away, they flew.

"The weredragons," he whispered in the hot, smoky wind. "And you, Meliora, future mother of my children. You will live. And you will envy the dead."

He brought Meliora into his mind. Her tall, slender frame. Her terrified eyes. Her waiting womb. He would soon fill that womb, and her children would rule over this land of bones.

He flew toward the feasting harpies. He dined with them, staining his lips, and he slept. In darkness they would fly again. For now he dreamed of burning dragons, of twisting tunnels, and in his dreams it was Meliora traveling the underground with him, not Reehan, and it was Meliora who died in his arms, and it was her corpse that he seeded, and her lifeless flesh from which emerged the glory of his dynasty.

MELIORA

For seven days and nights, they flew over the wilderness of Requiem, cleansing the land.

Hundreds of thousands of dragons, they flew over the southern forests, burning the seraphim who flew toward them, casting their bodies down upon the land.

They dived toward Castellum Luna, the fabled fortress of the south, where Princess Mori Aeternum herself had faced the phoenixes many centuries ago. Here too seraphim lurked, but the new Royal Army of Requiem slew them and burned their corpses, scouring the land of their light.

They kept flying, traveling northward, until the great Amerath Mountains soared to their left, the ancient range where many great battles had been waged. Chariots of fire rose from those rocky crests, and many dragons fell here, but here too the seraphim crashed and burned upon the mountainsides. The host of Requiem flew onward, leaving a trail of death, of ichor, and of a purified home.

Jaren flew with her, leading the camp, a green dragon, a priest and healer, his prayers soothing the wounded. Vale stormed ahead at every enemy that rose, a vicious blue dragon stained with blood, leading the Royal Army in battle, slaying the enemies. Elory and Lucem flew here too, never far apart, the princess and the hero of Requiem, inspiring their people.

And I lead them all, Meliora thought. A woman torn in two. A woman in pain. A woman returning to a home she had never known was hers.

Countless times, Meliora had imagined this day, imagined flying over Requiem, scouring the land from the stain of Saraph, rebuilding a homeland for dragons. Yet now as she flew here, she did not feel the glow of holiness, and the stars had never felt more distant. Requiem was beautiful, a northern land of great forests, mountains, and rivers, and yet as they flew across their land, they stained it with blood.

With the blood of seraphim, Meliora thought. The blood of my second half.

"Daughter," Jaren said to her, gliding to fly at her side. "You do not sing with the others. You do not seem to rejoice in our victories, in our return to our land. Are you all right, daughter? There is sadness in your eyes"

Meliora looked at her father—her true father, the father she had only met this year. The green dragon was a great priest, a holy leader of Requiem, a healer. And yet blood stained his claws, and scratches, dents, and burns marred his body. Flecks of dried ichor still stained Meliora's own claws, and she could still taste the flesh of her enemies in her mouth.

"In my dreams," Meliora said, "I envisioned a pure Requiem. A Requiem like the celestial one beyond the stars, untouched by war, by death. Yet we found a bloodstained Requiem. Perhaps I was an innocent girl. As I had imagined Tofet to be a land of plenty, I imagined Requiem to be a land of beauty. Yet here too I found only agony, only destruction, only bloodshed."

Jaren looked at her with soft eyes. "Requiem has never been a land of peaceful beauty, daughter. For thousands of years, since our ancestor Aeternum raised his column, it has been a land of bloodshed. A land we had to constantly defend, constantly fight for. A land that burned over and over, fell again and again. We did not come to Requiem to find peace. We came to find our home of old."

"And we came as killers." Meliora lowered her head. "We—her sons and daughters—came here not as priests, not as holy pilgrims, but as warriors. We do not cleanse Requiem with light but with blood."

Jaren nodded, his eyes damp, and his voice was soft. "Thus has been our lot. In all our history, men of peace—from King Aeternum to King Benedictus to Queen Fidelity—were forced to blow dragonfire. To raise swords. To become warriors. Killers. Our enemies not only slew our children, but they forced us to slay theirs. That has ever been our greatest curse."

Meliora stared at her father, eyes burning with tears. "But they did not slay their own people!" Her voice rose louder, hoarse. "Vale slays the seraphim with pride, perhaps even with a sort of painful joy. But . . . . oh, Father. The seraphim are my people, just as much as the Vir Requis are. As our ancestors beheld the destruction of Requiem, here do I behold the destruction of Saraph. How are we different from Ishtafel who slew so many in Tofet? Here we too kill. How can we rebuild a holy, pure kingdom when so much blood stains our hands?"

Jaren stared ahead into the distance. The forests rolled for many leagues, fading into hazy mist, and the mountains soared to their left. Even as they flew here, the warriors of Requiem were battling several last seraphim who flew above the mountains.

"We will not be those who rebuild Requiem," Jaren finally said, speaking softly. "Not my generation, nor yours. We have bled too much. We have spilled too much blood. Our souls are forever scarred, our hands forever bloodstained. Our task will not be to rebuild Requiem, daughter. That has never been our task. We—the generation of the whip, of the desert, of the collar—are those tasked with staining our hands, our souls, our homeland. Only those born here, in a land we kill for, can rebuild the marble halls of our forebears with clean hands and clean souls."

Meliora closed her eyes as she flew, and Leyleet's words again echoed in her ears.

You will never see Requiem.

Perhaps Meliora finally understood that curse. She had seen the land of Requiem, but Requiem had always been more than soil and sky. Requiem had always been something beyond the physical. An idea. A dream. A home. Peace. These Meliora would never see, for even should she claim this land and defeat Ishtafel, her soul could no longer be mended. Her hands could no longer be cleansed of blood, even should she cleanse Requiem of the seraphim.

So no, I will never see the true Requiem, a Requiem rebuilt and pure. I will forever be the warrior, the column leading the camp, the one who slew.

"Then let us sin," Meliora whispered and looked at her father again, and tears streamed down her cheeks. "Let us kill. Let us bear this burden. We will sin so that our children do not. We will kill so our children can live in peace. We will destroy so they can build."

They flew onward until Meliora saw it ahead—a great forest of birches, their branches still coated with snow. Countless birches, the holy trees of Requiem, spreading for miles. They had reached the fabled King's Forest, the heart of their nation.

We are near King's Column.

Shrieks sounded behind her, and Meliora cringed. As she flew closer toward the pillar of Requiem, so did her brother.

With blood and fire, the Vir Requis had found Requiem. Soon the great battle to reclaim it would flare.

VALE

"We're near." Til, flying as an orange dragon, pointed with her claws. "We'll be there by sundown."

Gliding on a cold wind, Vale stared ahead but saw only leagues of snowy birches rolling into the horizon. It was so damn cold here in the north. Vale could not imagine how the ancient Vir Requis had ever tolerated this weather. For the first time in his life, he saw snow and ice, felt the chill of true winter, as cruel as the blazing sun of Saraph in the south. Yet he would endure a thousand blizzards for just a sight of it on the horizon—a marble pillar rising, the heart of his nation, the column of his first king.

He turned to look at the orange dragon again. "You saw it," he said. "You actually saw King's Column."

The orange dragon lowered her head. Til had joined their forces on the southern coast, along with her younger brother, a small black dragon named Bim. At first, Vale had not believed her story. Vir Requis who had survived the fall five hundred years ago, who had hidden here all this time, no collars around their necks, avoiding both death and slavery? It seemed impossible, yet for the past few days, Til had predicted every landmark—every old ruin, every mountain, every river and plain. All Vale knew of Requiem's landscape came from old maps; Til knew the kingdom like her own scales.

"I saw King's Column." Til lowered her head, and smoke trailed from her nostrils in two thin streams. "It still stands, but the seraphim have profaned it. They painted its white marble with the blood of dragons, and they hung the skeletons of Vir Requis from it on chains, turning it into a macabre maypole."

Vale grimaced, remembering the mountains of dead the seraphim had raised in Tofet. If some guilt at slaying the immortals had filled him over the past few days, it now burned away in his rage.

"We will cleanse the column," he said. "And we will build many more columns around it, raise the old palace again, and worship the stars. We—"

A yawn interrupted his words.

Til stared at him with wide eyes, then laughed. Vale felt the scales on his cheeks heat up.

"When's the last time you've slept?" Til asked.

Vale considered. "I can't remember. Over Castellum Luna?"

Her eyes widened further. "That was two days ago! And—" Now it was she who yawned. "I don't think I've slept since then either."

Vale looked over his shoulder at his back. Lucem and Elory lay there, cuddled and sleeping soundly. They had been sleeping there since before dawn. Vale curled up his tail and tapped them.

They rose, yawning and stretching and blinking.

"Hey!" Lucem said, shoving Vale's spiky tail away. "I was sleeping."

"You've been sleeping all day," Vale said. "Take a turn flying."

The young man grumbled but dutifully leaped off Vale's back, and Elory followed. Both turned into dragons. Quickly, several young dragons above—Vale recognized Meliora's former handmaidens, as well as the young Bim—landed on Elory's back, shifted into human form, and instantly fell asleep.

That left Lucem's red, scaly back. Vale flew higher, dipped down onto the red dragon's back, and released his magic. He lay down in human form, his muscles aching.

The orange dragon hovered above, released her magic, and landed on the dragon too. For the first time, Vale got to see Til's human form up close. She was a young woman with long hair the color of her scales. She wore pelts of fur, many leather belts and straps, and assorted plates of rusted armor, no one piece matching the other. A sword and quiver hung at her side, and she carried a bow.

Vale knew that he was gaunt, haggard, bruised, that he looked about as healthy as any man who had lived through slavery might look. Til looked just as haggard and weary. Ash stained her freckled skin, dry leaves filled her fiery hair, and haunting pain filled her eyes.

Her life here in Requiem was no easier than ours, Vale thought. And yet she is beautiful. And noble. As fair and proud as Queen Gloriae of old.

Sitting before him on the dragon, she reached out and touched his neck, her fingers slender and callused. The skin around his throat was still chafed from the cursed collar.

"I'm sorry, Vale," she whispered.

He tilted his head. "For what?"

She looked down at the forest. "For not being there with you. With all of you. For hiding here. While so many Vir Requis suffered in slavery." She looked back at him, eyes damp. "I should have been there with you, fighting the seraphim. My surname is Eleison; I am descended from the great knights of Ancient Requiem, who had fought forever at the side of your family, the Aeternums. Yet . . . I failed my duty. I failed to protect you." She lowered her eyes. "My family remained here and hid. We should have been there to overthrow the shackles with Meliora. With you."

Vale caressed a bruise on her cheek. "You too bear the marks of war, of Requiem's suffering. I do not think, my lady, that you fought any less nobly, nor that your task was any less important for our people. In years to come, if we survive this war, the books will speak proudly of the courage of Eleison—the family that stayed, that survived, that fought for Requiem for five hundred years in shadow."

She yawned again. "I fought in shadow. Now I will sleep in daylight." She lay down. "And you sleep too!"

He lay down beside her. Lucem's back wasn't particularly wide, forcing Vale and Til to press together, slinging their limbs across each other. Her red hair tickled his forehead, and their faces were but an inch apart.

"Sleep well, Vale Aeternum, my prince," Til whispered, smiled, and touched his cheek. "Dream of dragons."

"Sleep well, my lady," he replied. "Dream of something nicer than dragons. I suggest fluffy bunnies."

She laughed softly and slept, her arms around him.

Vale was weary yet sleep eluded him. He lay on his side on the red scales, holding Til close.

If I sleep, she'll fall off the dragon, he thought. I have to protect her. To hold her close. Or she'll fall. She'll die. I'll lose her like I lost Tash, like I lost my Mother, and—

He clenched his jaw. The pain flared through him.

Again Vale saw it, the sight he had never stopped seeing. Ishtafel thrusting his spear, impaling Tash, and the young woman dying in his arms, smiling softly, her soul departing.

Vale's chest began to tighten, his heart to beat faster, his mind to storm with grief. Remembering Tash's death seemed worse than all his battles, and in his mind, he saw the rest of them dying. Til slipping from his grasp and falling. Meliora burning. Elory perishing under the lance. Countless dragons dying before the harpy horde and—

He forced himself to breathe.

Breath after breath.

He looked at Til again. She still slept, smiling gently. The wind ruffled her hair, and she nestled closer to him, her leg tossed across him. As Vale gazed at her, slowly his anxiety faded, replaced with soothing warmth.

Til is still alive, he thought. So are my sisters and father. So is our nation. There is still hope here, still life, still love.

He closed his eyes, and he slept too, but he did not dream.

ELORY

Blood.

Searing sunlight.

The crack of whips on flesh.

With cries of agony, with sand and tar, with twisted shoulders and breaking backs, the children of Requiem toiled.

"Faster!"

The flaming whips flew, ripping through skin.

"Up!"

The chains rattled. Slaves fell. Masters roared.

"Toil!"

Elory cried out in pain. She struggled to walk across bubbling bitumen that burned her soles. Chained to her neck, the yoke nearly crushed her shoulders. The baskets of bitumen swayed from the yoke, their fumes burning her nostrils. The whips of fire lashed, again and again, tearing into her back. She screamed. She wept. And around her they died. Her dear friend Mayana. Her mother. A hundred thousand others.

"You will be mine," Ishtafel said in his chamber of gold and jewels. The tall, handsome prince reached out to caress her. "You will be my slave. Your body will belong to me."

Elory trembled, begging, but he showed her no mercy. He hurt her. He burned in fire, rising, covered in metal, shrieking for her blood, and all of Requiem burned around Elory.

"We see it!" cried a voice.

"They have defiled it."

"Curse them! Curse the seraphim!"

The voices danced around her, torn in mourning, and a cold wind moaned.

Elory opened her eyes, shuddering. She forced a deep breath.

A dream. Just a dream.

She was in her human form, lying on a dragon. When she looked up, she saw a night sky strewn with stars, brightest among them the Draco constellation. The moon shone there too, full and silvery. Many dragons flew all around, fire flaring in their mouths, crying out.

"Curse the seraphim!"

Elory blinked, turned around, and stared north.

She lost her breath.

Her hands curled into fists.

With a deep breath, she leaped off the dragon she rode, shifted into her own dragon form, and rose higher.

Curse them.

Ahead of her, it rose from the forest, hundreds of feet tall, the moonlight upon it. King's Column.

In the old tales they had told in Tofet, King's Column was a great monument, purest white, rising from the forest as a beacon for all Vir Requis. Elory's ancestors, King Aeternum and Queen Laira, had raised the column to summon all those hunted for their magic, and the stars had blessed the column with their magic. So long as a Vir Requis lived in the world, the column would stand. Through endless wars—against the demons, the griffins, the phoenixes, and many other enemies—this column had stood.

Like many others before them, the seraphim could not fell nor even scratch King's Column. Yet they could profane it. Even in the moonlight, Elory could see that old blood stained the marble, hiding its shine. Many chains were attached to the column's crest, draping downward toward the forest like ropes from a tent pole. Upon those chains they hung—hundreds of skeletons. The skeletons of Vir Requis.

Requiem's greatest artifact had become a monument to death.

Elory expected to feel rage. All around her, the dragons blasted their fire in fury, and voices cried out for revenge. Elory wanted to feel that anger. She wanted to feel hatred.

But more than anything, she felt grief.

She didn't know who those dead Vir Requis were. The original inhabitants of Requiem, their bones hanging here for five hundred years? More resistors like Til, those who had stayed and fought?

Each had dreams, hopes, people they loved, Elory thought, staring at the skeletons. They did not deserve this.

"We'll bury them," Elory said, flying toward the column. "We'll bury them with honor."

Lucem flew up to help her, and soon other dragons joined their task. Elory had spent years burying the dead in Tofet; she did not shy away from these bones. For long hours, the dragons labored, unchaining the skeletons and gently laying them down upon the holy ground of Requiem.

When the remains had been removed and the chains tugged off the column, they counted over a thousand skeletons. A thousand martyrs of Requiem. A thousand who would finally be at peace.

Requiem was cold, far colder than anything any of them—aside from Til and Bim—had ever felt. Snow still coated the birches, and the ground was frozen. Yet dragon claws were sharp, and Elory and her family labored, digging graves. Not mass graves like the seraphim had them dig in Tofet. Each of these slaves would rest alone upon a hill, a tombstone marking his or her grave.

Jaren moved between the graves in human form, holding his staff, praying over the dead.

"We come from starlight, and to starlight we go." The priest knelt before each grave, placing down a simple stone, for no flowers grew in the winter of Requiem. "May your soul rise to those stars and rest in their light."

A few skeletons still remained to bury. Elory moved farther east, down into a valley, seeking room for more graves without disturbing the holy birches. She walked in dragon form, and she walked alone, the moonlight and the fire in her mouth lighting her way. The sounds of prayer still rose behind her, but walking here apart from the group, she could hear other sounds: the creaking trees, the wind, her chinking scales, and the sounds that never left her memories. The sounds of screaming. Of dying. Of Ishtafel's decimation that had slain sixty thousand souls in the city of Shayeen.

Finally Elory found a moonlit clearing. Here was a good place to dig. She would have to uproot no birches here, and it would be a beautiful place for the fallen to rest, and in the spring many flowers would bloom here. Elory touched her claws to the frozen ground, prepared to dig, but suddenly the pain was too real. Suddenly she could barely even breathe.

She released her magic. She fell to her knees, shivering in the cold—it was so damn cold here in Requiem. Her tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I miss you, Mother," she whispered. "I miss you, Mayana, my friend. I miss you, sweet Tash. I miss you and I love you all, and I'm so scared. I'm so scared without you."

A soft voice sounded behind her.

"You have me."

Elory turned around, at first expecting to see Lucem. But she saw Meliora standing there.

"I know," Elory whispered, rising to her feet.

Meliora stepped closer and embraced Elory. Her sister was much taller—Elory barely even reached her shoulder—and the embrace felt so warm, so safe, that Elory almost felt as she had in her mother's embrace.

"You're safe, Elory, I promise you." Meliora kissed her forehead. "You are loved. You are in Requiem. I did not know your mother, but I know that she looks down upon you now from the stars, and that she's proud of you. As I'm proud of you."

Elory rubbed away her tears. "How can you be proud of me? I'm not a warrior like Vale. I'm not a healer like our father. I'm not a leader as you are. I'm not a hero like Lucem. I'm not brave, not strong, not wise like all of you."

Meliora frowned. "I prefer hugging you, little sister. So don't make me clobber you." She kissed Elory's forehead again. "I could tell you that you are strong, brave, noble, heroic. But I don't need to. Because you prove these things yourself, every day and night, Elory. The harpies will soon arrive, and if we survive them, for many generations the Vir Requis will speak of your courage, and they will love you. As I love you, my sister. Always."

Elory shuddered and laid her head against Meliora's chest. "My courage? So why am I so afraid? I know you want to make our final stand here, to fight the harpies by our column. But I just want to run. To hide. That doesn't sound very brave to me."

"Will you run?" Meliora asked. "Will you hide?"

Elory shook her head vehemently. "I will never run from a fight. I will always fight with you, Meliora. You are my heroine, my leader, my light in the darkness."

"You are your own light, Elory. And a very bright one. And you are braver than I am, and you survived far greater hardships than I can imagine." Meliora squared her shoulders and raised her chin. "We will survive this too. The time comes upon us, only hours away. Our greatest battle. Our final battle. Ishtafel draws near."

Elory stepped back. "Then let's dig the last graves. The old dead will rest before more join them."

She shifted back into a dragon, sank her claws into the frozen soil, and began to dig a grave. Even using dragon claws, it was slow work, for the icy ground was hard as rock, and Elory strained to pull out each chunk.

She had dug three feet deep when the grave collapsed.

Frozen soil tumbled downward.

Elory gasped and stared. She let fire fill her mouth, lighting the shadows.

Meliora shifted into a dragon and peered down, lighting her own fire. "What is it?"

Elory blasted down a short burst of flame. The fire shot into the grave . . . and into darkness beyond.

"A tunnel," Elory whispered.

She returned to human form and made to leap inside.

"Wait," Meliora said. "We don't know if it's safe."

Elory smiled at her sister, tilting over the edge. "As safe as a sky full of harpies?"

"Fair enough." Meliora sighed. "Go on."

Elory jumped into the tunnel. Dust rained around her, and for a moment she coughed. At first she saw nothing. But when Meliora leaped into the tunnel, the half-seraph's halo of fire lit the darkness.

The tunnel walls were paneled with gray bricks. It was too narrow for a dragon but the perfect size for Elory and Meliora to stand abreast.

"What is this place?" Meliora whispered, looking around, her halo crackling and casting its dancing light.

"The fabled tunnels of Requiem!" Elory looked around with wide eyes. "I've heard of them. They say that the Vir Requis built these tunnels thousands of years ago, back in the Griffin Wars. In our stories in Tofet, we tell of the last Vir Requis survivors fleeing here from the griffins, of King Elethor fighting the cruel Solina here, and many other tales."

Meliora nodded, and her face hardened. "Ishtafel would talk of tunnels. He lost somebody here, they whispered in the palace. A lover. Only the chatter of slaves and soldiers. I asked Ishtafel once about the tunnels of Requiem, about what happened to him here. He grew very pale and very quiet, and he refused to say more, and so I knew it was true. This is the place where his beloved was slain." She placed her hand upon the brick wall. "Well, perhaps not this spot exactly, but somewhere here in the underground. This is a sad place."

"But also a place of wonder," said Elory, "if the tales are to be believed. They say that many old artifacts and books of Requiem were stored here." She squinted. "I see something. Come on!"

"Wait—" Meliora began, but Elory was already racing down the tunnel.

The tunnel stretched ahead, roughly a hundred yards, before opening up into a wide chamber. When Meliora stepped in after Elory, her halo cast its light.

Both sisters gasped.

"It's beautiful," Elory whispered, tears in her eyes.

"It's a library." Meliora's eyes widened. "A library of Vir Requis books."

The chamber was large as a temple's nave and lined with bookshelves. Countless books stood here. All were wrapped in green leather, and silver words appeared on their spines. Elory stepped deeper into the room and examined some of the books.

"They're stories." She touched a spine reverently. "The stories of Requiem. Of her old days and heroes. Books of tales. Of songs. Of family lines." She spun toward Meliora. "Here is the greatest treasure of Requiem—all her lore. All those stories we would tell in Tofet were always missing pieces, but here is the full wealth of our nation's heritage. Do you know what this means, Meliora?"

Her sister nodded. Her voice was barely a whisper. "That we can rebuild not only our halls but our lore. That we can restore the culture we lost."

Elory spotted an archway leading into a second tunnel, and she began to walk. Meliora stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"We don't have much time, Elory. He'll be here soon."

Elory nodded, head lowered. She ached to explore these tunnels, to find their many treasures, the heritage of her nation. But Meliora was right. Ishtafel and his harpies perhaps were slower than dragons, since they needed rest along the way, unable to fly on one another's backs, but they were relentless in their pursuit. They would be here within hours. There would be a time for rebuilding Requiem after defending it.

Elory was about to walk back with Meliora, to step out into the world, when a glint in the far tunnel caught her eye. Elory frowned.

"Just one moment," she said and darted forth.

She left the library behind, ran along the second tunnel, and entered another towering chamber. Her eyes widened and she gasped.

"Bloody stars," Elory whispered.

Meliora gasped. "Almost as beautiful as books."

It was an armory. Thousands of suits of armor hung from the walls, their silvery breastplates engraved with birch leaf motifs. Thousands of green shields hung alongside them, emblazoned with the Draco constellation in silver. Finally, countless swords gleamed on racks, their pommels shaped as dragonclaws clutching hilts.

"We need to get everyone in here," Elory whispered. "Now."

She turned toward Meliora, and she saw that tears dampened her sister's eyes.

"My brother flies here, thinking he'll meet a band of ragged exiles." Meliora bared her teeth and clenched her fists. "He will meet the great Royal Army of old."

VALE

Dawn rose over Requiem, shining on a cleansed King's Column, a forest of birch leaves, and thousands of soldiers in armor.

Vale stood at their lead, wearing a full plate suit. Upon the breastplate were engraved three birch leaves, and his shield displayed the silver Draco constellation on a green field. At his side hung his sword, a heavy two-handed weapon with a dragonclaw hilt. Vale had never worn armor before, but it already felt like a second skin.

Like the second skin Ishtafel now wears, he thought, a bad taste in his mouth.

The Royal Army stood behind him, organized into the same units they had worked with back in Tofet. The bricklayers formed one brigade, the bitumen haulers another, and so on—thousands of laborers trained in ruthless discipline and strength, now soldiers.

At Vale's right-hand side stood Elory. The girl was short and slim, barely larger than a child, but she too wore armor and bore a sword. At Vale's left stood Lucem, the legendary hero who had first defied the seraphim, and he too wore steel.

"We fight with you, Vale," Lucem said, voice somber.

"Always," said Elory.

With them too stood Til Eleison, her long red hair blowing in the wind. One of only two Vir Requis who had avoided captivity and survived, she no longer wore her old patches of fur and rusted armor. Instead, she wore full plate armor, and stars adorned her shield. If anyone here was truly a warrior of Old Requiem, it was Til—she who had remained, who had survived, who had never stopped fighting for her nation.

"I fight with you, Vale Aeternum," she said, gazing into his eyes, her cheeks pale and strewn with freckles. "Ever have the Eleisons fought alongside the Aeternum Dynasty, knights to the crown. Today let our old families fight together again."

Ahead of them rolled the forest of birches, silent, still. Even the wind had died, and the snow glimmered under the sunlight like a field of stars.

But soon they will be here, Vale thought. Soon these trees will burn.

He turned to look behind him, and he saw King's Column soaring there, three hundred feet tall, the chains gone, the blood washed off its marble. It shone in the dawn, purest white, unblemished. The heroes Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei, survivors of the griffins, had found this column rising from ruin thousands of years ago, and even then it had been ancient. Its capital was shaped as rearing dragons, carved of marble, and upon it perched a true white dragon—Meliora.

The heiress of Aeternum, half seraph but a true daughter of Requiem, seemed carved of marble herself, her scales shining. She gazed toward the south, watching, waiting. Above the white dragon, Issari's Star still shone, soon fading under the rising sunlight.

But Vale knew that Issari still watched over him. He remembered his death upon the ziggurat, remembered the Priestess in White descending from the heavens to heal him.

A great battle awaits you, she had told him. Live.

And Vale knew that here—here in this forest, under Issari's light, was the great battle he had survived for. The battle to save their column. To restore their sky.

Vale lowered his eyes and looked at his troops. Row after row of soldiers, all in armor, all bearing swords. All staring ahead. Waiting. Knowing that here, after all their struggles, their pain, that here was the battle of their lives. Elders stood here. Young men and women, some barely more than youths. Freed slaves. Proud defenders of their ancient realm.

Vale spoke to them, voice ringing across the silent forest.

"Children of Requiem! We stand in the light of our column. We stand upon holy ground, a free nation. Requiem restored. Yet an enemy flies forth to slay us, to shatter our column! For hundreds of years, this enemy enslaved us. And now we tell Ishtafel: We stand strong! We grew strong in the heat of Tofet. We remain strong in the cold of Requiem. Requiem lives, and we will always find our sky!"

Vale drew and raised his sword. Thousands of warriors drew their own blades, a new forest of steel. Farther back, behind the column, stood the civilians of Requiem, hundreds of thousands of them, and while they had no weapons, they raised their fists in salute.

Upon the column's capital, three hundred feet above the forest, Meliora tossed back her head and raised a pillar of white fire.

From the south rose a foul stench and evil cry.

Vale spun southward. His chest tightened and he gripped the hilt of his sword.

They're here.

He could not see them yet, but they were moving fast, their cries louder every moment. Hideous shrieks. The stench of rotting meat. The thud of oily wings. A sound like a storm.

"We smell them, sisters!" rose a distant cry among them.

"We smell the weredragons!"

"They hide in the forest!"

"They hide by their column!"

"Break them, snap them, eat them, drink them!"

The harpies cackled, screeched, cried out for blood and meat. Above them all rose a deeper voice. The voice of a man. Of a seraph. Of a god.

"I see you, Meliora!" rose the voice of Ishtafel. "I've come to take you home."

She is home, Vale thought. We all are.

He summoned his magic and rose as a dragon.

"Arise, dragons of Requiem!" he cried, soaring higher, emerging from the forest. "Today we fight. Today we die. A day of dragon's blood. A day of harpies crashing down. A day of sacrifice and victory. Requiem rises!"

And from across the forest, they rose. Their armor, shields, and swords morphed with them, melting into their dragon bodies; they would reappear with their human forms should the battle move to the ground. But even as dragons, they wore armor—great spiked helmets, massive breastplates, and heavy greaves found underground—the armor ancient but still strong. The dragons rose. Soldiers. Elders. Even children. Today all of Requiem was an army. Today no man, woman, or child would remain hidden from war.

Today Requiem rose in all her wrath.

Dragons darkened the sky and hid the sun.

Before them they flew, covering the south, swarming forth, a great nation of rot. A million harpies, buzzing, shrieking, spreading back for miles, each a beast devoted to murder, to the ripping of flesh, to the death of dragons. And before them all he flew, his armor burning bright in the dawn, casting back beams of light—a god of gold and steel, a god of beauty, of hatred, of death.

Ishtafel.

Here it begins, Vale thought. The greatest battle of our lives. Perhaps the greatest battle in Requiem's thousands of bloody years.

And it began.

The dragons stormed forth across the sky, soldiers in front, civilians behind, all roaring, wings beating in a storm. The harpies howled, charging, dripping rot, beating rancid wings.

"Fire!" Vale roared and blasted his dragonfire.

Across the front line, thousands of armored dragons—the vanguard, the Royal Army, the strongest in the nation—blasted forth a great curtain of flames, more fire than had ever burned above these woods. The great cloud of flame covered the sky, racing forth, a sea, a storm, a burning holocaust of Requiem's rage.

The harpies changed form, arranging themselves in a massive wall, a hundred beasts high. Their maws opened, lined with fangs, and they spewed their ice. The icicles shot forth, longer and sharper than lances, wreathed in fog.

Fire and ice slammed together.

The sky seemed to crack.

Steam blasted outward. Fire roared and showered down. Thousands of icicles made it through the inferno, dripping, and shrieked across the sky.

One icicle drove into a dragon at Vale's side, piercing the beast's neck. Where a dragon had been, a woman fell, head nearly severed. More icicles flew all around him. Dragons roared, lost their magic, and rained toward the forest. A shard of ice, larger than a sword, scraped across Vale's side, chipping his scales. He barely felt the pain.

"Burn them!" he shouted. "More fire!"

Countless icicles stormed toward him. The frozen fog charged like a living beast.

Thousands of flaming jets streamed forth in reply.

The sky itself burned.

Water bubbled.

Steam burned dragons and they fell, clutching at their blazing armor. More icicles slammed into dragons, tearing through necks, chests, heads, ripping bellies open. Frost coated other dragons, freezing scales, eyes, hearts. The bodies rained, losing their magic in death. Hundreds of men and women fell, cracking the frozen trees below them.

"Fire!" Vale shouted and blasted his flames.

Across the front line, the soldiers of Requiem—men and women who for years had wielded pickaxes and borne baskets of bitumen—blasted forth their dragonfire with the fury of the southern sun. Elory, Lucem, Til, thousands of others—their fire roared with his.

"Rise!" Vale cried. "Form a wall! Wall!"

The fire and ice again slammed together.

The dragons kept charging, rising higher, dipping lower, forming a wall of dragons from the treetops to the heavens. The hosts flew through the inferno of steam, smoke, fire, and ice and slammed together like worlds colliding.

The sky cracked.

Trees shattered below.

All of Requiem shook.

Within an instant, the front lines mashed together, each force driving into the other. Harpies crashed through dragons. Talons drove forth, longer than swords, ripping through scales, cracking dragon ribs, digging out innards. Wrinkled, warty heads spun around Vale, sprouting serpents. Rotted mouths opened, and fangs dug into dragons. The harpies laughed as they fought, tugged out organs, fed upon the wetness, fought again, coated in blood.

Vale roared. He fought like he had never fought. Not over the City of Kings, not in the inferno of Tofet, not in his many battles journeying here had Vale fought with such fury, seen such bloodshed. He bellowed, crying out to his stars, blasting his fire. His flames washed over harpies. His tail swung into their wrinkly gray flesh. His claws tore open their breastplates and the skin beneath, and snakes fled their innards.

They hurt him. Their fog washed across him, freezing his scales. Their talons scraped across his dragon-armor, denting the steel. Their snakes bit into his belly, and their shards of ice pierced his armor. Yet though he bled, Vale kept roaring, kept fighting, kept burning them down.

All around him, the multitudes fought—a great song in the sky, a song of death, of shadow, of light, of rot, of fear, of ascension. Ice and fire danced together. Dragons and harpies rose to the heavens and fell like rain.

And all through the battle, he shone above, laughing, wings spread out—the god of gold and steel, the god of light, the lord of hosts, the King of Saraph and destroyer of Requiem. Ishtafel of the Thirteenth Dynasty. Burned. Rebuilt. His voice ringing across the sky, rising to a shriek, inhuman, the voice of crashing empires and drowning children, of shattering forests and shattering nations.

"Here I capture you, dragons!" he cried. "Here I slay you. Here I shatter your column. Here Requiem will fall, here she will fade from all memory. Slay them, harpies! Slay them all and feed upon them."

The world trembled and the sky wept. The forest burned. The nation of Requiem had fled here to find new life; here they would find a rededication of their kingdom or a death in battle. Here they all fought—from elders to children—and their fire rose together in crackling pillars, as bright as the marble column that rose behind them.

LUCEM

He wanted this to be a dream.

Just a fever dream in his cave.

He missed that cave now. He missed his wooden friends, his drawings on the wall, the river, the birds, the loneliness. This had to be just a nightmare. This could not be real.

And yet still they flew around him. Countless dragons and harpies, blowing fire and ice. The faces seemed to float around Lucem: the bloated, wrinkled faces of crones, covered in warts, snakes on their heads, hissing at him, leering at him, mocking him.

You will dance with us forever, Lucem. You will be as we are.

Fear—overwhelming, all-consuming, colder than the icy fog of the creatures—washed over Lucem. His red scales clattered as he shook. Dragons died around him. Men, women, children—they all fell, breaking upon the trees of King's Forest. A carpet of the dead.

Lucem tried to blow his fire, to kill the harpies, but he could barely even breathe.

I have to run, he thought. I have to land in the forest, to run between the trees, to hide, to escape this place, to return to my cave.

A harpy streamed above him, and Lucem ducked, cringed, blasted his fire. A dragon stormed forth, crashing into the beast. Thousands of others fought all around him, slamming together, blood and fire and ice surrounding them.

I'm not a hero, Lucem thought. I've never been a hero. All I did was escape Tofet. All I did was flee.

Now he just wanted to flee again.

Another harpy drove forward, grabbed a young dragon, and tore her apart. Scaly limbs fell, becoming human again before they hit the trees. The girl still lived, limbless and screaming, until the harpy ripped into the torso. Three more harpies stormed downward, and their talons thrust, piercing the chests of dragons that rose to meet them, emerging from their scaly backs.

Lucem dipped lower in the sky.

He flew down to hover over the treetops.

I can run between the trees. I can escape. I can hide.

He trembled. He had survived one tragedy before. He had been the only Vir Requis to have fled the seraphim, to have found safety, found life. Here was just more death, more disaster, and he could flee this time too, he could again be the one who made it out. He could find a new cave here, maybe make his way south and return to his old cave, or—

A cry above, high and pained, tore through his thoughts.

He stared above and saw her there, fighting above him, a slender lavender dragon blowing yellow fire.

Elory.

And she was hurt.

A harpy talon had scratched her leg, and her blood dripped. Several of the rancid beasts surrounded Elory now, reaching out more talons. The lavender dragon spurted her fire and swung her tail, struggling to hold them back.

Lucem's fear vanished under a wave of guilt.

I abandoned my people ten years ago. I will not do it again. I will never more leave those I love.

He howled and soared.

His fire blazed skyward.

Several harpies dived down to meet him. Their wings spread wide, dripping disease. They had no arms, but their talons stretched down, massive and gleaming. Their shrieks tore at his ears.

I fought dark seraphim. I slew archangels and a massive bird the size of a mountain. And I will slay these beasts.

His dragonfire slammed into one harpy, igniting the foul creature's feathers. Lucem curved his flight, dodging reaching talons. One harpy managed to slam into him, and her teeth dug into Lucem's shoulder. The snakes on her head bit too. Lucem roared and clawed at the wrinkled, feathered skin, tore the creature off, and blasted his fire.

The harpy fell, and Lucem kept rising. His tail whipped around him, knocking back other harpies; each of the creatures was larger than him.

"Elory!" he cried.

She still fought two harpies, and several of her scales were missing. Lucem roared out dragonfire, torching one of the creatures attacking her. The massive beast, half crone and half vulture, blazed and screeched, a great firebird. Elory blew her own flames, burning the second harpy. Their tails whipped side by side, knocking the creatures through the sky.

Harpies fell around them, and the two dragons roared, back to back. Around them, countless harpies and dragons still flew.

"Elory, are you all right?" he shouted, looking over his shoulder at her.

"You mean besides facing a million harpies? Yes, splendid!"

I love that dragon more than life, Lucem thought. I will never leave her. I would die for her.

"Ready to kill those million harpies?" he said. "Just you and me! It'll be romantic."

Elory blasted out fire at one of the creatures, knocking it back in the sky. "Shouldn't we leave some for the others?"

"To the Abyss with them." Lucem raised his claws, and his wings beat back clouds of icy fog. "Half a million for me, half a million for you. Let's keep score!"

They roared and flew together, charging into the enemy.

Dragons fell around them. Countless harpies hid the sky, driving toward them, flying in from all sides, shattering the forest, shattering the sky.

And Lucem knew that he would die here.

He knew that this was real, not a nightmare, but that Requiem herself had always been a dream, a brief moment of wonder, a reality they could never claim.

Requiem lived for a day, he thought. And I am proud to die for her. A single day here in our land, fighting by Elory, is worth ten thousand days in a cave.

The icicles slammed into him. The fog froze his wings, and the leathern membranes tore when he tried to flap them. Talons tore at his dragon armor, and more harpies kept attacking, and more dragons kept falling. Elory cried out at his side, overcome by the creatures, her fire down to sparks, her claws bloody, her armor cracked.

"I love you, Elory," he said, blood on his scales, tears in his eyes.

"I love you, Lucem." She wept as she fought. "Always. In this Requiem and the Requiem beyond the stars."

The harpies slammed into Lucem, laughing, ripping at his scales, at his flesh, eating, drinking him. Great jaws closed around his leg, and pain washed over him. A dozen more harpies crashed into him, and he tried to claw them, and the teeth sank deeper into his leg.

It's here.

He convulsed, crying out.

This is the end. My death.

"Elory!" he cried. "Elory, look away. I love you. I lo—"

The jaws snapped shut tightly around his leg, tugging back, ripping off the limb, exposing and snapping the bone.

Lucem screamed.

He fell as a man.

Terror pulsed through him, but relief too. It was over. It was over . . .

His eyes darkened. He caught just a glimpse of lavender scales, of sputtering fire, heard Elory calling him . . . but then the harpies flowed across her, and she vanished in their cloud of feathers. And then Lucem saw and heard nothing more.

I love you, Elory. I love you more than Requiem and more than the sky.

He could no longer summon his magic. He could no longer fly. But he had found the sky of Requiem. He had flown in his kingdom for a day, flown with a woman he loved.

I will see you again, Elory, I know that I—

JAREN

Around him, they fell.

In the sky of their home, they died. The children of Requiem. Thousands falling like the rain.

Jaren flew through the battle, an old green dragon, scarred, weary, an old soul who had seen too much. Too much loss. Too much pain. Too much grief.

I was a healer, but how can I heal this? How can I heal a breaking nation?

The dragons fought around him, calling out hoarsely, sputtering their last sparks of fire. They fell around him, more and more. On the trees below they lay—butchered men, women, children. Babies, dead in the snow. Eyes staring skyward.

Lost.

Gone.

"I'm sorry," Jaren whispered. "I'm sorry I led you here. I'm sorry for everything."

They should have waited. They should have languished longer in chains. They could have lived. They had chased Requiem, and they had found their homeland—but only to die. Only a cursed victory. Only to perish so soon, to fall as bones onto the forest.

Live, Queen Gloriae had told him in his dream. Live, son of Aeternum.

Jaren reared in the sky, clawing at a harpy. He swiped his tail at another beast, suffering a gash to his side. More dragons fell around him, not soldiers now, mere children.

"What did I live for?" Jaren cried. "Why did you guide us here, stars? Only for death?"

He stared up at the sky, seeking those stars, but could see nothing but the harpies, their burning white eyes, their rotted wings, their hair of serpents. The sky was lost.

Jaren sneered and bared his fangs.

Then we will fight without our sky. We must survive.

"Requiem!" he bellowed. "Requiem, into the tunnels! The sky is lost. Fly down, fly down, into the underground!"

Around Jaren, they began to descend. Cut, frozen, some of them dying, thousands of dragons glided toward the forest. During the long night, waiting for the harpies, the Vir Requis had discovered three entrances to the catacombs beneath Requiem. Jaren now flew toward one opening—a stone archway half-hidden in soil, shaped as two rearing dragons, their top claws touching. Through the archway, a tunnel plunged underground. He landed, remained in dragon form, and cried out to the others.

"Vir Requis, into the tunnels! We fight underground. Soldiers—help the women and children in!"

Armored dragons roared above, blasting fire toward the setting sun, holding back the harpies. They formed a corridor of steel and scale, allowing the civilians—the older or younger dragons, no armor on them—to glide down to the forest.

The first dragon swooped toward the archway. Only yards away, a harpy burst between the trees, slammed into the dragon, and tore him apart. The dragon crashed onto the forest floor and returned to human form—an old greybeard. The harpy feasted on his flesh. Jaren plowed forward and blasted his fire, slamming the flames against the harpy, knocking the creature back, burning it until it fell.

"Requiem, to the tunnels!" he cried.

More dragons descended. A pair of young ones—no larger than horses—reached the forest floor and shifted into a boy and girl. They ran toward the archway.

Another harpy swooped. Jaren roared and shot upward, beating his wings, and knocked into the beast. Its hair of serpents bit him. Its teeth sank into his shoulder. Jaren blasted dragonfire, burning the creature, burning himself, shoving it back. He glanced down to see the boy and girl race into the tunnels, and more dragons kept diving.

Many nights among the huts of Tofet, Jaren had guided souls into death. Now he stood in a new land, guiding his people to life. One by one they descended. Broken. Limbs missing. Bleeding. Some nearly frozen, pierced with icicles, skin white with frost. They stumbled into the tunnels beneath Requiem, seeking shelter from the storm.

And that storm roared with all its fury. The harpies seemed endless. For every one felled, ten dragons crashed down. They covered the sky. They swarmed through the forest, shattering trees. Their rot flowed across the land, and their cries shook the world. They danced around King's Column, hundreds of them, human limbs in their mouths, clutching severed heads in their talons. The Royal Army crumbled before them. Dragons crashed down, becoming men and women. Massive breastplates and helmets, the armor of dragons, slammed onto the trees. Dragonfire faded, and ice coated the world.

"Into the tunnels!" Jaren cried, voice hoarse, guiding them in. One by one. Children. Women. Wounded soldiers. A few other dragons stood with him, blasting fire, guarding the way in.

But more harpies attacked every moment.

They descended in the darkness, blowing their ice. The eyes of countless snakes blazed red in the night. The harpies flowed forth, ten emerging from the shadows for every one slain.

"They enter their tunnels, my harpies!" rose a voice above, and light flared through the darkness. "They flee underground like the cowardly maggots that they are. Shatter their hole! Slay them all."

The light grew brighter, blinding. A sickly halo blazed. Through the frozen fog he descended, wreathed in ice, his featherless wings spread wide. He wore a suit of gilded iron, not mere armor but a new skin, and a golden mask hid the ruined face within. In one hand, he held his lance, the blade bloody. In the other hand, he held a shield emblazoned with an eye within a sunburst.

He descended toward the tunnel, harpies dancing around him and cackling and snapping their teeth. Dragons fled before the unholy host. Ishtafel's lance thrust as he glided down, piercing a young dragon, then casting a girl toward the trees.

As Ishtafel landed before the tunnel, Jaren sneered. Still in dragon form, he walked up toward the seraph, placing the tunnel's entrance behind him.

"An aging, scarred dragon with sad eyes." Ishtafel's eyes, visible through the holes in his mask, crinkled with delight. "I do believe I stand before Jaren Aeternum, Priest of Requiem, the old man I knew from Tofet. The man who bedded my whore of a mother."

Jaren raised his head. He barely had any more fire to breathe. He was so weary he nearly lost his dragon form. But he let the last sparks fill his jaws, and he sneered, revealing his fangs.

"Your rule over Requiem has ended, Ishtafel." Jaren raised his spiked tail like a scorpion. "You will leave this hallowed ground. Return to your banishment across the sea, and never more set foot on our ancient land. Leave now, accursed one! Leave or you will burn in Requiem's fire."

Ishtafel spread out his arms, and his golden halo turned an ugly crimson color, crackling almost like fire. "Oh, but Requiem's fire has already burned me, peeling away my skin, my weakness, leaving me stronger, turning me into a god of gold and steel and retribution. But yes, weredragon king. I will leave this frozen land, and I will return to my palace in the south, but not before I cleanse my empire of weredragons. This place you call Requiem will be renamed Harash Es, land of the harpies. It will be their domain, and your bones will decorate their halls."

Ishtafel raised his lance—the lance that had slain countless Vir Requis. That had slain Jaren's wife, the kind Nala, the love of Jaren's life. With his other hand, Ishtafel raised his shield, and the eye engraved upon it blazed with light, and the sunburst crackled with true fire. The seraph rose several feet above the ground, and the air stormed around him with flame and ice, and the harpies danced. Dragons fled before the apparition.

"You have come here to your death, Ishtafel!" Jaren shouted over the storm. The frozen winds buffeted him. The flames burned him. But still the green dragon reared, hind feet on the soil of Requiem, front claws raised. "I offered you banishment. Now I will offer you only death. I am a priest, yes. And I am a healer. But I am also a warrior of starlight, a soldier of Requiem, an heir to a line of kings. Do not be fooled by my cracked scales, nor the grayness of my snout, nor the weight of many years upon me. I have shed the blood of many enemies. Now I shall spill your blood on the soil of my ancestors and my children."

Lightning cleaved the sky, lighting the flying harpies and dragons. Thunder boomed. Rain came crashing down.

With a howl and blaze of light, Ishtafel charged.

Jaren leaped up to meet him.

The lance thrust, and Jaren swiped it aside with his claws. He blasted all the dragonfire that remained in him.

The blaze slammed into Ishtafel, white and blue in the center, flaring out to red. The flames washed across the seraph's armor, and Ishtafel laughed. His shield swung in an arc, ringed with light.

The metal disk slammed into Jaren's ribs with the force of a charging chariot.

Jaren heard a rib crack.

He fell to his side, lost his magic for an instant, returned to a man, then shifted into a dragon again in time to swipe aside another thrust of the lance. Above in the sky, the harpies held back any dragons who tried to fly near. Ishtafel and Jaren, King of Saraph and Priest of Requiem, battled in a cocoon of ice and steam.

"Already you fall, old one!" Ishtafel laughed. "And you are the great warrior guarding the halls of reptiles? You will die now, Aeternum, and die knowing this: the others will follow. Your son. Your daughters. All your people. I will slay them as I slew your wife."

Jaren roared and beat his wings. He charged toward Ishtafel, no more fire in his maw, but his claws lashed and teeth snapped.

And they fought.

It was not a dance, not a thing of grace and beauty like the duels of the young. Jaren's bones were too old, Ishtafel's flesh too raw. They were a beast of scales and a monster of metal. Clunky. Crying out hoarsely. Claws cut at armor, peeling back the gilt to reveal the steel within. Shield and lance slammed into scales, cracking them, cutting skin and muscle, shedding blood. Fire spurted and light flared and all around the harpies danced and sang and dragons died.

"She squealed like a hog in heat when I slew her." Ishtafel swung his shield, slamming it again into Jaren, cracking more scales, snapping another rib. "Your whore of a wife. Are you ready to meet her?"

Jaren tried to cut Ishtafel, but his claws only scraped against the seraph's armor, denting but not cracking the steel. The lance thrust into a wound on Jaren's shoulder, digging deeper into him.

Jaren lost his magic.

He fell to his knees, a man again, clad in burlap, his hair graying. Just an old priest.

"Yes," Ishtafel said, gliding down to place his feet on the ground. "Kneel before me, slave. Die like the rest of you will die."

I fly to join you now, Nala, he thought, burning in the glare of the unholy halo. I rise now to our starlit halls, where I will fly forever at your side, my wife.

Ishtafel hefted his lance and placed the tip against Jaren's chest.

"Will you beg me for your life, old man? Or will you simply squeal and weep as I take it?"

Jaren raised his eyes, but he did not look at the seraph. He stared beyond the light, beyond the cloud of harpies. In the distance, he saw them—thousands of dragons diving down, landing outside another entrance to the tunnels, the hole in the valley Elory had uncovered.

"Keep fighting, my children," Jaren whispered. "Fight them always. The world is good. The world is beautiful. Fight for it."

The lance drove forth.

The blade pierced Jaren's chest and emerged from his back.

Above him the smoke and ice seemed to part, and he saw them. The stars of his forebears. Not only the Draco constellation but millions of other stars, other lights, the souls of Vir Requis from the first king to his fallen wife. Waiting for him. Shining upon him.

Goodbye, my children, Jaren thought. I love you. I love you always.

The lance pulled back, and Jaren flew, rising, all his pain gone, until he saw nothing but starlight.

ISHTAFEL

Glory.

It was glory distilled, pure, sweeter than wine. A song of triumph. His greatest victory.

He was glad to have let the weredragons linger this long. He could have slain them in Tofet, but he had let them suffer. Let them dream. Let them flee here. Let them hope, feel some joy before the pain. What a fine place to end their race! Here, in sight of their precious column, he finally was slaying them, and here their bones would forever remain.

"See this death, Meliora!" he shouted. "Do you see how they die? I slew your father! Do you see?"

He laughed, lifted the corpse of the priest over his head, and tossed it into the air. Harpies grabbed the old man and ripped into the flesh, digging, feasting.

"See them tear your father apart!" he cried, laughing. "Hear the screams of those who still die. You will be the last, Meliora! The last weredragon. I will drag you back to my palace, but not before you hear every last scream."

Yet his sister did not answer. He beat his wings, rose higher, and scanned the sky, yet he could not see her. The coward must have fled into the tunnels. The worms hid there, as they had centuries ago. He had defeated them then in the darkness, and he would defeat them now.

"Come, my harpies!" He pointed his bloody lance at the archway leading into the tunnel. "Into the shadows."

He advanced toward the archway, walking over the frosted soil. He was only yards away when one's head emerged from within—a dragon lying in the tunnel, barely fitting, blowing dragonfire. Around Isthafel, harpies shrieked and fled the flames, but Ishtafel kept walking, shield held before him. The dragonfire slammed into the disk, melting the metal, heating his armor, but Ishtafel had been burned by dragonfire before. It could no longer hurt him. His pain was purified, his soul impossible to burn. He walked through the fire and thrust his lance, shoving it down the dragon's mouth and throat.

The beast lost its magic, returning to a man inside the tunnel, dead upon the lance. Ishtafel tugged his weapon free and entered the darkness.

And there again, after all this time—they awaited him.

The weredragons.

The beasts who had slain his lover.

"I return to you now," Ishtafel whispered, "to finish what I began here five hundred years ago."

The weredragons stood in human form, clad in their ancient armor, bearing swords. They howled and charged toward him, and Ishtafel danced.

He fought as he had never fought before. He was immortal, but his wounds had slowed him down, and his armor weighed heavily upon him, but his five hundred years of war had given him a ruthless expertise in killing. He beat his wings, rose to the top of the tunnel, and thrust his lance downward, skewering a man. His shield swung, the sharp edge tearing through helmets and skulls. The weredragons attacked him, lashing their swords, but the blades bounced off his armor, and his shield cut them down.

The tunnel was narrow; only three of the weredragons could fight abreast. He moved down the corridor, stepping on their corpses, slaying them as he had so many years ago—as he and Reehan had cut them together.

I still fight for you, Reehan.

In his memories, she seemed to float beside him, smiling as she slew, beautiful in the darkness, his lioness of Edinnu.

We will slay the reptiles together, my love!

Her voice echoed across the centuries, and her grin stretched at her cheeks, toothy, bright, her eyes shining with bloodlust and love for him.

"I still love you, Reehan," Ishtafel whispered as he shoved his lance through a mother and her babe, piercing them both with one blow. "I still fight our war."

Behind him, the harpies entered the tunnel too. They were so large they could only walk single file, hunched over, knees bent, their wings pulled close to their sides. When Ishtafel glanced over his shoulder, he saw their wrinkled, warty faces in the darkness, large as wagons, hissing and dripping saliva. Their bloated bodies scraped against the walls, boils bursting. Their mouths opened, and they shot icicles around Ishtafel, narrowly missing him and hitting weredragons ahead.

They moved deeper into the tunnels. The labyrinth soon split into many paths, and the harpies flowed down them all, biting, freezing, cutting, eating their enemies. Ishtafel had not been here for most of his life, yet he still remembered every twist and turn; he had been walking these tunnels in his dreams since that war long ago. He passed through chambers, mostly barren, a few still containing ancient metal vessels. A dragon roared in the library, not daring to blow fire and burn the books. Ishtafel beat his wings, rose high, and thrust his lance, piercing the creature's neck, sending it crashing down as a woman. The tunnels delved deeper, and soon Ishtafel passed a makeshift nursery, mothers and babes cowering in the shadows. He stabbed them as they begged. He moved onward, the harpies heeling him, feeding upon the corpses he made.

Five hundred years ago, I feared you, weredragons, Ishtafel thought as he stabbed a soldier, casting the man down. No more.

He gritted his teeth. He should have done this ages ago. Finally, after centuries, he faced his old demons. And he slew them. Each weredragon dead was another nightmare gone. Each corpse was redemption for his soul. He laughed as he fought that old war again, and always Reehan danced in his memories, fighting beside him as a spirit, eyes and smile bright.

They plunged deeper, and the tunnels grew narrow. Here were the darkest depths of Requiem.

Here is where she died.

The spirit of Reehan seemed to grow brighter at his side, but her smile died, and she cried out in pain. An astral sword cut through her, and she flickered . . . fading . . . becoming but a shadow.

Ishtafel raised his dripping lance, chest heaving, staring around at the craggy stone walls. It was here—this very place, this very spot where he stood. Here that she had died.

A tremble seized him. Suddenly Ishtafel could not breathe, and his wounds—the horrible burns that spread beneath his metal skin—blazed in agony, as if Tash were again bathing him with dragonfire. His heart pounded in his ears. Harpies crowded behind him, shrieking, licking their lips, sucking up last gobbets of flesh.

"I will finish this," Ishtafel hissed, lance trembling in his grip. "It ends here and now."

Several weredragon children cowered before him. He roared and ran toward them.

MELIORA

The forest burned below her.

The sky above froze.

The column rose through an inferno, a single tor in a sea of blood and death and light and shadow.

It ends here, Meliora thought as she flew through the storm. In darkness our nation falls and our column cracks.

The wind buffeted her, and she barely saw any more dragons flying. But the harpies were everywhere. Laughing. Feasting. Dancing in the dark sky. A million torturous creations, the bane of dragons.

"It was but a dream," Meliora whispered, flying through the storm of wind and rot. "We were but fools dreaming, praying, wishing for something that could never be. A dream that lasted but a day. And now it ends." Tears filled her eyes, and her fire blasted out, a white pillar piercing the clouds.

For thousands of years, we fought against those who rose up to destroy us, Meliora thought. For thousands of years, we fell, burned, died . . . and rose again. In our primordial forests, we faced the rocs and the demons, and we withstood them. In our golden age, the griffins slew us, leaving only seven alive . . . yet we defeated our enemies, and we rose again. The phoenixes burned us in our halls, crumbling our cities, and we survived them, and we rebuilt. War after war, enemy after enemy, genocide after genocide, we rose again and again, never dying, remembering always our column. Remembering our sky. Remembering our name: Requiem.

"Yet now it ends," she whispered. "Now this dream of a day—this dream of thousands of years—ends in ice."

They had never faced so many enemies—a million beasts covering the land, slaying all in their path. An enemy too strong for them. For here were no monsters, no demons, no men leading flying beasts—here were deities. Cruel immortals of Edinnu, beings of unholy gods.

Meliora lowered her head, ashamed of the ichor that flowed through her veins, for she was half of Edinnu, and that cruel blood burned her.

"I renounce you, Saraph!" she cried to the sky, rising through a storm of harpies, knocking them back with her tail and claws. "I renounce you, Eight Gods! I defy you, Ishtafel! I am Meliora Aeternum. I am an heiress of Requiem. I will fight for my column, for my people, for my stars."

She flew higher, faster, bursting through the enemies, rising through the clouds, until the sky opened up above her, dark and brilliant. And there they shone—the stars of Requiem. The Draco constellation. The gods of Requiem who had forever blessed the Vir Requis, who had given Meliora's people the strength to rise again and again, to overcome tragedy after tragedy.

The dragon's eye shone, and Meliora thought that she could hear a soft, high voice speak inside her.

Requiem is eternal.

"Requiem is eternal," Meliora whispered. "The line of Aeternum will never fall." She sneered and narrowed her eyes. "Not on my watch. Not so long as I draw breath."

She stared down toward the battle, and she saw that thousands of harpies were streaming into the tunnels like ants into a hive, forming three lines.

The tunnels of Requiem.

Meliora growled.

The place that had always haunted Ishtafel.

In her childhood, Meliora had heard Ishtafel screaming in his sleep, crying of weredragons in the tunnels. The guards and slaves would whisper of the ichor that had spilled there. Vir Requis told tales of Ishtafel slaying the king of Requiem in the darkness. Statues of Reehan—the great Lioness of Edinnu—still stood in the palace.

There Requiem's long night began, Meliora thought. There it will end.

Smoke blasting through her nostrils, Meliora swooped.

Harpies rose to meet her. She breathed her white fire, a humming pillar, a twin to King's Column, burning them down. Her claws tore through their flesh, severing the snakes on their heads. She kept diving. Her fire trailed across the land, burning trees, melting snow, melting boulders, crumpling seraphim like ants under a magnifying glass. Her flames exposed an archway leading into the tunnels, and Meliora dived down, roaring.

Her claws touched the ground, and her fire died down. At once harpies leaped toward her, each as large as her. Their talons reached out, cutting her scales. Meliora bellowed and reared, claws raised to her stars. She lashed her tail. She bit deep, tearing them apart, scattering their flesh. Their blood coated her, and she blew fire skyward.

"Requiem is eternal!" she cried.

Across the sky, the last few dragons who still fought echoed her cry. "Requiem is eternal! Fight for Requiem!"

Til Eleison still flew, an orange dragon blasting spinning flames. Vale flew higher above, rallying the last survivors, his claws bloody. But there were so few to rally. So little hope remained.

Surrounded by the corpses of harpies, Meliora released her magic. In her human form, she no longer wore the fine kalasiri and jewels of a princess. Nor did she wear the rough burlap and shackles of a slave. This night she stood in the ancient armor of Requiem, her breastplate engraved with the holy birch leaves, her green shield inlaid with silver stars. She drew her ancient longsword, the fabled Amerath, sword of her ancestor, Prince Relesar Aeternum.

If I die, I die free. I die as a warrior of Requiem.

She raced into the tunnels.

She ran through darkness.

She ran through a nightmare of harpies, her sword swinging, cutting into them. Hers was an ancient blade, the sword of Relesar himself, forged in dragonfire. The harpies were clumsy in the tunnels, unable to turn around, and Meliora was fast, agile, leaping between the chambers, her sword flashing. Once she would skip through the halls of a palace, but today she moved through darker, holier halls, the chambers of her true people. Today she filled these halls with the death of her enemies. Her halo crackled above her head, woven of fire, and the blood of her enemies coated her blade and armor.

"Requiem is eternal!" she cried out.

Across the tunnels, her fellow Vir Requis answered her call. "Requiem is eternal!"

They fought together, moving through the shadows. Many fell. The corpses of thousands fed the harpies. But still Meliora fought on.

Meliora did not know if her family still lived. She had not seen her father or sister since the first assault a night and day ago. But she knew that Requiem still lived—within those who still fought with her, within her own breast. Her blood perhaps was mixed but her heart was pure, and her sword sang but one song—a song of dragons.

She kept moving, stepping over corpses of Vir Requis and harpies, passing the armory, the library, the wine cellars, finally entering the deepest passageways, places where no foot had stepped for centuries.

And there ahead, cloaked in shadows and drenched in blood, he stood.

Her brother.

Ishtafel.

He stood over a pile of dead children, his back toward her. As Meliora stepped into the chamber, she saw him drive down his spear, slaying a girl. Only one child still lived here now—a little boy cowering in the corner. Just a single soul among so much death.

"Ishtafel!" Meliora said.

He tugged his lance free from the dead girl. Slowly, he turned toward her, armor creaking. No, not armor—new skin of metal to replace the true skin Tash had burned off. In the holes of his golden mask, his eyes narrowed in amusement. His wings spread out, dripping rot.

"Hello, my dear sister."

She trembled, but she forced herself to step forward, to raise her chin. A child still lived here. She would save him. She would save whoever she still could, even if it were just one soul.

"Ishtafel," she said. "As a daughter of Aeternum, as an heiress to Requiem, I banish you from this place. Leave now. Leave this land and I will spare your life." Meliora raised her sword, forcing herself to stare steadily into his eyes. "This is Amerath, the Amber Sword, the ancestral blade of my line, which slew many of my people's enemies. Retreat to the south lest it slay you too."

She did not wish him a life in luxury. She did not wish him to fester in the south, growing his forces. But Meliora knew that she could not defeat him. He was too strong, his forces too great. She could only hope against hope to scare him away, as a cat might scare a larger predator by bristling.

But Ishtafel only laughed.

"Your father offered me the same deal." He snorted. "The fool Jaren, the brute who had bedded our mother. Do you know how I answered him?" He hefted his lance. "With this blade." He stepped closer to Meliora, and his voice dropped to a dangerous hiss. "I carved him up, and I fed his corpse to the harpies."

Meliora stared at him, and the tunnels seemed to collapse around her.

Her heart seemed to stop beating.

Her world seemed to die.

No. Oh stars, no.

"It's true," Ishtafel said, as if able to read her thoughts. He tilted his head. "I just realized this means I killed both your parents. Interesting, isn't it?"

No. Stars, no.

Meliora's chest shook. She had to force herself to draw breath. Her eyes dampened. She knew he was telling the truth. She had always been able to tell when Ishtafel was lying.

My father is dead.

She wanted to rage. To scream. To race forward, swing her sword, cut him down.

But she could only force herself to whisper. "Why?" Her tears flowed. "Why, Ishtafel? You loved me once. I loved you. We played in the gardens. You read me stories. I rode on your back, and you taught me how to fish and . . . why do you do these things? Who have you become?"

He stepped closer to her. He now stood only a couple feet away. He towered above her, so much larger, made of metal and wounds.

"I am who I've always been," he said. "Who I've been for centuries. Long before you were born, I fought the weredragons in these tunnels. I stand now in the very place where Reehan died, where I vowed to enslave and torture the creatures. When you were a child, Meliora, I played with you in the gardens, then returned to slaughtering the barbarians of the east. I read you stories, then flew south to battle the giants. You never knew the true me. Not until you became a woman. And you are a woman now, and you know me, and we're going back home. Both of us. Never to return to Requiem. You will be my wife, Meliora, and we will rule the empire together."

She shook her head. "No."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "We can end this, Meliora. We can end this war now, this youthful rebellion of yours. I am willing to forgive you. For many days now, I vowed to drag you home in chains. To sever your limbs and feed them to the harpies. To keep your torso and head in a cell, to impregnate you again and again, to keep you bringing me heirs for millennia. But I was wrathful. I am willing to forgive, to spare you that fate. To love you again. To see you love me as you once did. We can be as we were, my sister. To live again in the ziggurat. To play in the gardens. To laugh. To read stories. And to rule, to see our heirs rule."

Meliora trembled. She could end this. She could stop this war, this death. She could go home.

I can be as I once was, she thought. A princess. A pampered girl who knows nothing of war, of death, of slavery, of conquest. I can sleep again in my old bed, and I can have my beloved brother back. All this can become but a bad dream.

A small voice resisted inside her, but what choice did she have? To fight him? She would lose. To resist him? He would imprison her again, and this time there would be no Tash to save her.

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to forget all this pain, this death, this whole world outside of her palace.

But she still saw the starlight.

And still that voice whispered in her mind.

Requiem is eternal.

"No," Meliora whispered. "No, we cannot be as we were. You changed, Ishtafel. You're no longer a prince of seraphim. You've become a monster of metal. When you cut off my wings, you thought to hurt me, to shame me, but you purified me. I am no longer a seraph. I am no longer your sister. I can never be what I was, a beautiful princess in a palace. I am Vir Requis. I am the singer of an ancient song. I am a leaf in a forest of birches. I am heiress to a legacy too great, too holy, too strong for you to understand. Requiem's roots run deeper than you can reach, and though you may take our lives, you cannot silence our song. Requiem is eternal. I will fight for her, and I will die for her if I must."

His eyes narrowed, blazing with rage. "I will not allow you to die."

She raised her sword. "But I will allow you to."

He shouted and thrust his lance toward her.

Halo crackling, Meliora swung her blade, parrying the attack.

There was no room in this narrow chamber to become a dragon, not without the walls crushing her. Here Meliora would fight as a woman, bearing the ancient blade of her people.

"We once danced in a ballroom," Ishtafel said. "Now we dance with blades."

And they danced.

In the darkness underground, in the place where his lover had died, in Requiem—they danced.

Meliora had been a warrior for a season; Ishtafel had slain enemies for centuries. She was no match for him. She knew this. She could not defeat the seraph who had cleansed the world of so many. But she fought him nonetheless. She fought him for her kingdom. She fought him for the memory of her father. She fought him for Tash, slain in war. For her mother, slain in slavery. For sixty thousand decimated over the City of Kings, for countless more slain here in Requiem. For her stars. For the hopes and memories of an ancient race. For one child who cowered in the corner. For them all, she swung her sword, parrying his lance again and again, thrusting her blade, trying to kill him, knowing she could not.

Across Requiem, she knew, the great war still raged. And she knew that Requiem, like her, no longer had hope. That all dragons would perish under the harpies, as she would perish underground. And here—here in this chamber beat the heart of the war. A seraph. A Vir Requis. Brother. Sister. Master. Slave. Blade and blade. The old dance of her people.

His lance thrust, cracking the armor on her arm, cutting open the flesh, revealing the innards.

Meliora screamed and lashed her blade, slamming it against Ishtafel, but she could not dent his steel.

His lance thrust again, cutting through her armor, piercing her thigh. She cried out and nearly fell, swung her sword, knocked his lance aside, and brought her blade down hard onto his arm. Yet the steel would not even dent.

Again he attacked, this time swinging his shield. The sharp edge slammed into Meliora, cleaving through her steel armor as if it were tin, cutting into her side under the ribs. She cried out, voice weaker now, her blood dripping down her thigh and arm. His lance struck yet again, scraping across her cheek, and pain blazed, and more of her blood spilled.

"The blood of weredragons mixed with the ichor of the immortals," Ishtafel said. "Have you bled enough yet, Meliora? Are you ready to let the pain end? You can still live."

She screamed and charged, sword flying. She swung her blade down, and it scraped across his helmet, doing him no harm.

His shield drove forward and slammed into her face.

Meliora fell.

Even before she hit the ground, she felt teeth knocked out from her mouth, felt her nose shatter. She hit the stone floor, crying out in agony, tasting blood.

She lay on her back, dazed, consumed with more pain than she'd ever felt. Her vision blurred, but she could make him out standing above her. He raised his lance, placed it against her thigh, and stared down at her.

"Drop your sword," he said. "Or I take your leg. Then your other leg. Then both your arms."

She wanted to shift into a dragon, even if the chamber were too small, even if she slammed against the walls and crushed herself. But the child was still here, weeping in the corner. She could not crush him, not even to kill Ishtafel. She wanted to call to the child, to tell him to flee, but she could not speak. Blood and shattered teeth filled her mouth. Even if she wanted to, perhaps she was too weak to shift now, too hurt, dying.

I'm sorry, Requiem. I failed. I'm sorry.

She gave a wordless, gurgling cry and raised her sword.

The spear drove down, cleaving metal and flesh, driving through her thigh and into the floor.

She screamed. Her sword clanged uselessly against his armor, and Ishtafel grabbed the blade with his gauntlets, yanked the sword free, and tossed it again.

Meliora could barely cling to consciousness. The lance still pierced her thigh, pinning her to the floor. Ishtafel twisted the blade inside her, and Meliora screamed.

"I once pinned your brother to the ziggurat, you remember," he said. "I do enjoy pinning my precious little butterflies. Now that you're safe, I have a gift for you. Do you want to see?"

He reached for something that hung from his belt, tugged it free, and displayed it to her.

A collar.

A slave's collar.

No. Meliora's tears mingled with her blood. Oh, stars of Requiem, no.

He leaned down, pressed his knee against her belly, and closed the collar around her neck.

"Now you are my slave again." He kissed her bloody, shattered mouth and licked his lips. "Now you are mine forever."

"And . . ." She coughed, struggling to speak, just barely managing to push out the words. ". . . I . . . have a . . . gift . . . for . . . you."

She reached above her head.

When you cut off my wings, Ishtafel, my halo of pure godlight died. That day, a halo of dragonfire crackled to life around my brow. That day you gave me a weapon.

She closed her hand around the ring of fire.

It burned her palm but she did not scream.

She yanked her halo, tearing, ripping, severing. It felt like ripping off a limb, like cutting off her own scalp. She raised it before her—the same halo that had once burned Ishtafel's face—and smiled to see him recoil. She closed her second hand around the flaming ring, bent hard, and snapped the halo.

The flames shrieked as she tugged the halo, twisting the circle into a fiery horseshoe.

Requiem is eternal.

She screamed and shoved the dragonfire forth.

The two flaming prongs drove through the holes in Istafel's helmet, pierced his eyes, dug deep into his skull, and seared through the back of the helmet.

She released the halo and lifted her sword. Slowly, she rose to her feet.

Ishtafel fell to his knees, the broken halo embedded deep into his head. He was still alive. A hissing, horrible whine rose from him, an inhuman sound. He pawed at his metal mask and tore it free.

Meliora took a step back. He had no face left. Only raw, rotting muscle over bone, infected and dripping.

She cringed and shoved her sword forward. The ancient blade of Requiem drove into his neck and shattered within.

Light pulsed out from him, searing, blinding her, knocking her against the wall. His armor shattered, blasting out from him. The shards drove into Meliora, piercing her own armor, piercing her flesh, searing hot, melting inside her. The light turned black but still flowed, oozing out of Ishtafel like demons, cackling, slamming into her.

"I curse you!" rose his voice from the inferno. "I curse you, daughter of Aeternum! You will never see Requiem."

Only it was no longer his voice; it had become the voice of Leyleet, speaking in her memories.

Ishtafel shattered and fell, broken apart, his light gone dark, his halo fading to a wisp and vanishing. Meliora fell with him, her own halo gone, her own body broken. She still clutched the hilt of her bladeless sword.

And Meliora understood.

She knew now. She knew the meaning of the curse.

I saw the land of Requiem, and I saw King's Column rising from ruin. But I will not see Requiem reborn. I will not see her in peace. I will not see children running through the forest and flying above, laughing. I will not see my family grow old and our children holding our torch. I will not see spring in Requiem, and I will not see the marble halls rise anew.

Tears filled Meliora's eyes, and she smiled tremulously.

But I know now that Requiem will rise. That those columns and temples will stand again in the forest. That our kingdom will endure. I know that Requiem is eternal and that I will forever rest in her starlit halls.

Her eyes were going dark now. But as she lay on the ground, she could still turn her head, and she saw him there. The boy. He stared back at her, weeping, trembling. Living.

I saved at least one life. I saved a world entire. I brought light to this world, though I lived through much darkness. I sought righteousness though I saw much evil. I love you, Vale. I love you, Elory. I love you, Father. Always. Always. I will forever fly in the light you gave me.

Meliora Aeternum's eyes closed, and her world faded to starlight and a soothing end to pain.

VALE

He flew in the storm, bleeding, broken, close to death, when the harpies shrieked and the sky opened up to swallow them.

The bloated, feathered creatures spun in a maelstrom, eyes bugging out, talons scratching the sky.

"He is gone, he is gone!" they shrieked. "The master is gone!"

They flew in the wind, yanked backward, calling out in fear, hundreds of thousands of them. Their wings buzzed madly, shedding a rain of black, sticky feathers. Their voices rose in a deafening shriek, a sound that snapped the last trees below, that sent rocks tumbling, that cracked the earth itself. They rose from the tunnels below, sucked up into the sky, thousands and thousands emerging from the underground, all screeching in fear.

"He is dead! He is fallen! Ishtafel is no more!"

Vale flew on the wind with the last survivors of the Royal Army, a ragtag group of dragons—so few—with dented armor and bloodied claws. Til flew near him; the orange dragon's armor was cracked, her scales broken beneath it, and her eyes were haunted. Her brother flew with her, a black dragon, tears in his eyes. Only a handful of other warriors still flew. Most lay dead below.

The harpies no longer attacked. The warty creatures turned and tried to flee, to fly back south, but the storm caught them. The clouds churned above, darkening, flashing with lightning. An eye opened in the storm, revealing the sky. An eclipse burned above, the moon hiding the sun, forming a ring of fire like a halo.

"Our master is dead! Ishtafel is no more!"

The eclipse seemed to stare down through the storm, all-seeing, a great eye—the Eye of Saraph, staring from the lost realm of the gods. The harpies wailed as the storm caught them, pulling them upward toward that eye. They were as ants in water, drawn into a drain, but sucked upward, into the funnel, toward the waiting eye. Thousand by thousand, they rose, battling it, flapping their wings, clawing the sky, unable to resist as the gods reeled them upward. They kept emerging from the tunnels, from the forest, rising and rising, slamming into those dragons who still flew, then rising some more, vanishing into the hole in the sky. The wind shrieked. Broken branches and rocks flew through the air. Lightning slammed into the earth, and fire raced across the frozen soil of Requiem.

And then they were gone.

The last harpy vanished into the eye of the storm.

The maelstrom settled, and the clouds calmed. Rain began to fall, pattering against the dragons' armor and cleansing the earth of blood.

Vale looked around him at the sky. Several thousand dragons still flew here, some soldiers in armor, others civilians.

Far more Vir Requis lay dead below, their bodies shattered, torn apart, burnt, their light forever darkened.

"Father," Vale whispered. "Elory. Meliora."

He could not see them.

He cried out, "Father! Elory! Meliora!"

Across the rest of Requiem, a few cheers rose. A few voices sang in triumph. But more of the Vir Requis called out in pain, seeking their loved ones. Dragons flew above in circles, scanning the toppled forest, crying out the names of family and friends. Other Vir Requis ran through the forest in human form, moving between the bodies, weeping and seeking their loved ones—sometimes finding them dead.

Vale dived down.

He landed on the forest floor outside a tunnel's entrance—the archway shaped as two rearing dragons, claws touching. Many Vir Requis were emerging from the tunnels, clutching wounds, faces ashen.

Vale's heart thudded, and his fingers trembled.

Maybe they're in there, he thought. Maybe my family made it into the tunnels, maybe they lived, maybe—

Four soldiers came stepping out from the underground, carrying a makeshift litter made from a cloak and spears.

Vale's heart seemed to stop and shatter.

Before he even saw her, he knew.

The soldiers of Requiem walked toward him, faces grim, armor dented, eyes hard. The birch leaves and stars shone on their armor in the sunlight, but no beauty could fill the world this day. No light could shine through this darkness. Upon the litter she lay, her eyes closed, her face peaceful in death. Meliora Aeternum, Princess of Requiem.

My sister.

Vale fell to his knees, raised his head to the sky, and cried out in agony.

The storm above parted, revealing blue skies, and the sunlight shone on a ruined world.

ELORY

"Lucem!" she cried. "Lucem, where are you?"

Elory moved through the forest of the dead, back in human form, calling out his name. She wore dented, rusty armor. The wind blew ash into her hair. All around her spread the dead. Dead harpies, rotting in the sunlight, bloated bodies cut open. Dead soldiers of Requiem, armor cracked, eyes dark. Dead women, children, elders, some bodies unrecognizable. Countless dead. A victory drenched in blood. Hope buried under grief.

"Lucem!"

The trees lay fallen around her. Barely any still stood. Never had Elory seen such devastation, not even in Tofet. Perhaps Requiem would rise, perhaps Requiem had found its kingdom, its peace, its rededication, but here was a cursed victory. Here was a tragedy, not a triumph.

She limped across the hills, her wounds burning. Hundreds of others walked around her, calling out the names of their lost ones. King's Column rose a mile away, the sunlight shining on its marble, the dead piled up around its base, and even this ancient pillar—soaring so high, so bright—could not soothe the children of Requiem.

"Lucem!" she cried, tears in her eyes.

She had seen him fall. She had seen him vanish into smoke. It had been here! Right here! Yet she could not find him. Was he one of those bodies too burnt and ravaged to recognize? Had the harpies consumed him, or had—

"Elory."

A hoarse whisper.

Fresh tears flooded Elory's eyes.

She ran forward.

"Elory," rose the whisper again.

Several bodies lay ahead. Elory ran toward them, pulled the lifeless aside, and saw him there. Lying on the ground. Face gray as if coated with paste. Eyes sunken.

"Lucem," she said, voice trembling.

His leg was gone, and he clutched the stump. He had managed to pull off his belt, to fashion a tourniquet, but so much blood drenched the soil around him.

"I need a healer!" Elory cried, staring skyward. "A healer, please!"

Yet none answered. Few knew healing in Requiem, and those who did had too many to treat. She had to find her father, if he had lived. She had to find somebody who could pray, fix this, stop this bleeding.

"Elory," he whispered, reaching out a trembling, bloodless hand toward her. "Elory, be with me. Don't leave me."

"I won't." She knelt by him, caressed his cheek, and kissed his lips. Those lips were so cold. "I'm right here, Lucem. I'm right here. You stay with me. You don't leave me either."

He managed to smile—a weak, shaky smile. "We showed 'em, didn't we?"

She nodded, her tears splashing his face. "We did. We won, Lucem. Requiem is saved. You have to stay with me. You have to be with me when we rebuild. We have to build that little house, remember? The one with the garden. And have children. And grow old together."

"You'll have a house," he whispered. "And a garden. And children. Maybe not with me. I—"

"Hush!" She glared at him, still weeping. "You're going to live. You're going to be fine. I'm going to take care of you, I promise. I'm going to heal you."

He was fading. His blood kept dripping, his skin grew colder, his face more pale. Elory trembled and looked up to the sky.

She was no priestess. She was no healer. She had never heard the gods speak to her, as they had spoken to her father and to Vale.

"But I am a daughter of Aeternum," she whispered, staring at the sunlit sky. "If you can hear me even in the daylight, and if my name and my grief mean anything to you, please, stars of Requiem. Please, Issari. Let him live. I love him."

The sunlight was bright and she could not see the stars. She looked down at Lucem, and she placed a hand on his brow.

"Heal him, stars of Requiem," she whispered. "Don't let him leave me. He is the hero of Requiem. The first to resist. The man I love. And I need him. I can't fight on without him."

As she held his hand, his trembles eased, and he grew limp, and Elory sobbed, sure that his life was slipping away. She leaned down and kissed his lips.

"Live," she whispered.

And she felt his breath. It was shallow, but it was still there, steady, calm. Strong.

Ash rained from the sky, and dragons flew above, and Elory remained with him, holding his hand, praying, whispering to him, never letting him go.

VALE

It rained as they buried the dead.

The dragons labored through the day and night, digging graves, and at dawn they said their goodbyes. At dawn they wept. At dawn they beheld the price of their victory: row upon row of graves, stretching across the ravaged forest, hundreds of thousands of lost lights.

Most of the dead were never named. Some could no longer be recognized. Many others had lost all those who might have known their names. They had no tombstones. They lay nameless, no markers on their grave, yet perhaps in future springs new trees would grow here. Perhaps saplings would rise from these graves, pushing through the ash and shattered branches, and a forest would rise here again. A forest of the dead. A forest of new life. The forest of Requiem.

Yet there were still some tombstones in this land.

Upon a hill rose the ancient graves of Requiem's kings and queens. King Aeternum, founder of the nation, and Queen Laira, the Mother of Requiem. King Benedictus, who had fought the griffins. Queen Gloriae the Gilded, who had rebuilt Requiem from ruin. Queen Lyana who had slain phoenixes. King Valien Eleison and his wife, Queen Kaelyn Cadigus, who had healed a Requiem torn by civil war. Queen Fidelity, defeater of the Cured Temple, who raised the dragons again after their magic had nearly been lost. The names from the books. From the legends. From the old songs. The great heroes and heroines of Requiem's history, those souls who had fought so many enemies, who had led Requiem in war, who had rebuilt her halls so many times.

The graves of our past, Vale thought. The graves of those who carried on a torch of starlight and dragonfire.

It was here, upon the hill, that Vale buried his sister.

Not many came to the funeral. Most had lost too many of their own. Most were at other graves, grieving. A few hundred gathered here on the hill, standing silently. The rain died down to a drizzle, and the sun peeked between the clouds, and a rainbow shone above, flickering, struggling to form a bow. The last snows had melted, the ice was gone, and a few finches darted above, heralds of an early spring. Yet the day seemed too dark to Vale, and he did not know how spring could ever warm this land.

Elory stood at his side, clutching his hand. Lucem lay there on a litter, his stump bandaged, his face still pale. Til and Bim stood at his other side, faces stern.

But you're not here, Father, Vale thought, and the pain seemed unbearable. They would bury Meliora today, but they had never found Jaren's body, and it took all of Vale's strength to remain standing, not to kneel and weep.

Holding Elory's hand tightly, he looked down at Meliora.

She lay on a litter, clad in the polished armor of Requiem, her sword in her hands. Her face was pale, peaceful in death, her hair a soft gold, her eyes closed. For the first time, no halo shone above her head.

She was so beautiful, Vale thought. She was so pure.

Vale raised his eyes. Across the grave, the Vir Requis stared at him, more gathering from the valleys below. Vale spoke to them, voice deep, soft.

"Both the blood of Requiem and the ichor of Saraph flowed through her veins, but her heart was pure. Hers was a dragon's heart. She fought for Requiem, and she died for Requiem. She fought for her family, and she died for her family. She was too young. She was too pure. She was too righteous, too holy, too blessed to leave us so soon. Her soul has risen, and she rests now with our forebears among the stars of Requiem, yet that is little comfort for us, those who remain. Who miss her. Who mourn her. She was born to a queen of a foreign land, and she would have been queen of Requiem, and we would have been blessed by her grace." He placed his hand against her cheek. "Farewell, Meliora Aeternum, daughter of Requiem, my sister. May the stars light your final journey, guiding you to your sleep."

He draped a flag across her, which Kira—her former handmaiden—had sewn from fabrics collected from the camp, many taken from the fallen city of Keleshan. The flag was woven of rich green cotton, the color of birch leaves, and embroidered with silver stars shaped as the Draco constellation.

"Rest now in the kingdom that you loved," Vale whispered. "You're home now, Meliora. You're home."

He shifted into a dragon, and he lifted her gently. She felt so light in his grip. He placed her down in her grave, and finally he wept.

That day, after burying their dead, the survivors of Requiem found themselves facing life.

They never counted the dead, and some claimed that half of Requiem was gone, but hundreds of thousands still lived, for the first time facing a future, for the first time facing a life without chains, without battle, a life that seemed daunting. And they were afraid.

Many Vir Requis began to build crude huts from the felled trees. Others collected rain water and melted snow. Some dragons flew far to the north, where trees still stood, and hunted wild deer and boars that were emerging from their long winter. Kira and Talana were busy at the Chest of Plenty, duplicating food for the people.

There were no songs that day. No grand coronations. No dances or celebrations. One war had ended and another began—a struggle for simpler things. For food, water, shelter. Survival.

That day, Vale rose as a dragon, and he flew high and gazed down upon his kingdom.

Issari's words returned to him.

A great battle awaits you, son of Requiem, the Priestess in White had told him, healing him with her hands of starlight. Live, child of Aeternum. Your war has not yet ended.

For so long, Vale had wondered what battle she had meant. The battle against the seraphim in Shayeen? Perhaps the battle to retrieve the Chest of Plenty? Or maybe the great war against the harpies over Requiem?

And Vale knew now. He understood.

He looked up at the sky, and even though the sun shone, he could see it there. Issari's Star. A gleam in the sky, always guiding him.

"This is my battle," he spoke to that star. "A battle not against death but a battle for life. This is my great task: to lead my people. To build them a new home. To raise new halls of marble. To resurrect the lore of Requiem. Thank you, Issari Seran, Lady of Starlight. Thank you for guiding me here. For showing me your light."

The star shone, and he heard her voice in his mind.

Our light will always bless you, Vale Aeternum. You will never fly alone.

Vale lowered his head.

"I just wish you could fly here with me, Tash," he whispered. "I miss you."

"Vale?"

The voice spoke behind him, and Vale turned in the sky. He was so immersed in his thoughts he hadn't noticed her approach. An orange dragon flew before him, eyes green and sad.

"Til Eleison," he said.

"I found something," she said. "I want to show you. Will you fly with me?"

He narrowed his eyes, suddenly worried. Had she seen more enemies? Beasts attacking? Seraphim flying toward them? But there was no fear in Til's eyes, only sadness. He nodded and they flew together.

They flew for a long time, crossing the forests of Requiem, traveling north and leaving the column far behind. They flew silently, sometimes looking at each other, sharing a quick gaze, then flying onward.

The sun was low in the sky when they saw an escarpment ahead. The cliffs soared, stretching across Requiem, many miles long, and beyond them hills spread into the distance. A waterfall gushed down the cliff into a river.

Til led the way, gliding toward the escarpment. As they flew closer, Vale saw a canyon atop the shelf of stone. It was a small canyon, smaller than the limestone mine where he had worked back in Tofet. Several pillars of stone rose from it, naturally carved, topped with pine trees. Many more trees leaned atop the canyon and even grew, crooked and clinging, from its facades. Caves gaped open in the canyon walls, leading into shadows.

The two dragons glided into the canyon and landed on a floor strewn with boulders, some of them larger than men. Here they shifted back into human forms.

Til gazed around, eyes large. Her red hair billowed in a gust of wind. She had doffed her assortment of armored plates, remaining in her fur pelts, but her sword still hung from her belt.

"Do you know what this place is?" she whispered.

Vale nodded. "The escarpment. The place where, thousands of years ago, our ancestor—Jeid Aeternum—founded the kingdom of Requiem. Before we had a column, before we had a forest, before we had halls of marble and armor and swords, before our books and before our songs, we had a canyon. We had a cave. We had a dream."

Til nodded, reached out, and took his hands in hers. His were large hands, callused, hands that had spent years swinging a pickaxe. Hers were smaller hands, slender, pale, though hands that had swung her sword too many times.

"We stand on holy ground," she whispered. "A man and woman. Like King Aeternum and Queen Laira from the legends. We can do this again, Vale. Like they did. Build a kingdom. Raise halls of stone."

Her eyes shone, and Vale tried to imagine Tash standing here with him. She would smile at him crookedly, and the wind would play with her long brown hair and silken trousers, and the jewel in her navel would shine. She'd mock him, kiss him, and love him, and he would be happy—like the joy he had first felt with her, the only time he'd felt true joy.

And he thought of his father, the wisest, kindest man Vale had ever known. He wished Jaren could stand here with him, holding his staff, speaking of their old tales, granting him wisdom and strength.

He thought of Meliora, the sister he had known for less than a year, the sister he would always love. He wished she too were here, that she had lived to see Requiem reborn, that she had lived to be his sister in times of peace.

He thought of so many others—countless slain in the wars, sacrificing their lives so that others may live, so that the stars may shine upon them again. Each life—a world. Each life—worth as much as a nation. So many lights gone. So many who would never see their kingdom rise again.

"Your eyes are sad," Til said.

He looked at her. For perhaps the first time, Vale truly looked at her. Til Eleison. A woman who had suffered, who had fought, who stood with him on hallowed ground, vowing to forever fight with him. To share with him this battle Issari had commanded him to fight. To share with him this life.

"We lost so many," he said. "And I don't know how we can ever feel joy again."

Til embraced him, and when the wind blew again, her hair tickled his face, the same orange color as her dragon form. Her body was warm against his, soothing, soft.

"We will still feel joy." She touched his cheek. "Sadness will always fill us. Sadness does not always leave the souls of those who mourn. But that is not the same as never feeling joy again. Joy can always be found, even in wounded hearts, as flowers can still grow from ashen fields."

They rose from the canyon, and upon the escarpment, between the trees, they found a great stone statue, carved as a wild dragon—an ancient statue, perhaps carved by the very first Vir Requis, those who had lived wild in the forest before they had a kingdom.

Vale and Til sat on the dragon's head, both in human form, and held each other in the cold. Silently, they watched the sun set and the stars emerge, and for a brief few hours, here in the dark with her, Vale felt joy.

ELORY

The rain fell, and the sun set, and the sun rose, and the stars moved across the sky. And they lived. And they built.

Spring came to Requiem, and for the first time in five hundred years, leaves budded and flowers bloomed under a sky of dragons.

Throughout that spring, dragons toiled. For generations, they had toiled in Tofet, learning how to carve bricks, plow fields, raise great halls. They had worked under the whip there, but here they worked with joy. Now they plowed fields and sowed grains to feed themselves, not cruel masters. Now they built homes of stone to live in, not great temples to cruel gods. Slowly a city rose here from the ruins, and they named it Nova Vita, the same name as the ancient city that had once risen here. New life. New light.

Saplings rose in the ravaged forest. And new columns rose with them. One by one, the dragons raised them—great pillars of marble, twins to King's Column. It would be years, perhaps, before the palace of Requiem stood again in its old glory. But rise again it would, and a king once more would sit on its throne.

It was in this spring that they chose this king and crowned him.

The people of Requiem gathered before their marble columns that day, dressed in green and silver, the colors of their kingdom. Before them he stood, King's Column rising at his back—Vale Aeternum.

The heir of Requiem's ancient, royal dynasty wore silvery armor and a green cloak. A longsword hung at his side, its pommel shaped as a dragon's claw—a sword first borne by Queen Fidelity centuries ago. Vale's dark hair had grown longer, falling across his ears, and his beard was thick. No longer was he gaunt and haggard, for the spring had strengthened him, and he stood straight and strong before his people.

He looks like a great warrior king of old, Elory thought, gazing at her brother. But this is a time of peace.

She walked across the marble tiles they had lain out around King's Column. Her gown, woven of dark green velvet, whispered with every step. Around them, beyond the marble columns, rustled the young birches of King's Forest. Between the trees, spreading for miles, stood the children of Requiem in human forms, though many flew above as dragons too, gazing down upon them.

Elory approached her brother and stood at his side. She faced the crowd—the hundreds of thousands who stood before them. Suddenly Elory was afraid. She had never faced so many staring eyes before, never spoken to so many people. Sweat trickled down her back, and her pulse quickened.

Yet what have I to fear? she thought, feeling silly. I faced armies in battle. I'm among friends.

"Today we crown a new king!" she cried out. "We have chosen Vale Aeternum, son of Jaren, heir of our lost kings and queens, to wear a new crown, to sit upon a new throne. If anyone objects to his rule, speak now. For our time of tyranny has ended, and only one who is loved shall rule us."

They all stared, the nation of Requiem, silent for long moments.

Finally one voice rose.

"Long live Vale Aeternum!" cried a man.

Another joined the chant, then another, and soon thousands of voices rose together. "Long live Vale Aeternum!"

Elory blinked tears away from her eyes. She looked at her brother, smiling at him softly.

"Kneel, Vale, son of dragons."

He knelt before her on the marble tiles. In the light of King's Column, Elory placed a crown on his head. She had forged it herself in her dragonfire, had shaped it into many dragons flying together. She had made this crown from gold found in the mountains of Requiem, but she had mixed iron into it, taken from the shackles of a slave—a reminder of their enslavement, a memory they must never forget.

"Rise, King Vale Aeternum," she said.

He rose before her, King of Requiem, and turned toward the crowd.

They bowed, a nation, sweeping across the hills and valleys. Above in the sky, dragons sang their song. A prayer rose among the people, soft at first, rising louder.

Elory clasped her brother's hand, and they sang the prayer with their people.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

The sun set, and the sun rose. The rains fell, and snows covered the land, and spring rose again.

And they sang.

And they built.

And they lived.

Autumn came to Requiem, and grains swayed golden in the fields, and fruits and vegetables ripened, and ale brewed. There was a rich harvest that year, overflowing with squashes, sweet apples, and green peas. Some fields yielded only a handful of crops; these the Chest of Plenty quickly replicated. For the first time in centuries, the Vir Requis patted full bellies.

These were busy times, times of building, nurturing, remembering. But many days, Elory remained in her home, in the small brick house she had built with Lucem. Often she simply sat watching her husband as he walked through the garden on his wooden leg, inspecting the flowers, filling birdfeeders with seed, leaving lumps of bread on the fence for the squirrels. The hero of Requiem, the boy who had scaled the wall, who had slain the great bird Ziz and several archangels—he had become a gardener, and he had never seemed happier.

"I lost my ear," she would joke with him, "so you just had to lose your leg to one-up me."

He would smile at this joke—she told it every now and then—and always replied with, "Somewhere your ear met my leg and is feeling rather envious."

Yet there was always sadness to their smiles. And even in the beauty of autumn, as they sat together in their armchair, sharing hot cider, the sadness dwelled. Even as snow fell, glittering outside as a field of stars, and icicles gleamed as jewels, and many lanterns hung from trees and homes, the sadness remained.

Because we are broken, Elory thought. And she did not mean her ear or his leg. Something had broken inside them in the inferno of Tofet, something she knew could never mend. Something that a warm home, a nation at peace, a world of beauty could not heal.

"We are broken," she whispered to him one night, as they sat gazing out the window at the rain.

He held her in his arms. "Then let us make something whole."

Spring bloomed across Requiem, and the scent of flowers and song of birds filled the air, when Elory gave birth to her daughter. The child had her dark hair, Lucem's blue eyes, and tiny fingers that Elory loved to kiss.

"I name you Liora," she whispered to the babe, "for you're brave and beautiful like my sister."

The sun set and the sun rose. The dry leaves fell, and the snow glided down, and spring bloomed, and great halls of marble rose among the birches. The sound of laughter filled her house. And still the sadness lingered.

One autumn day, Elory took her daughter in her arms, and she walked through the woods of Requiem. It was a chilly day, and many dry leaves rustled among the birches, and the sounds of song and prayer rose from humble homes. Elory walked for a long time, leaving the city behind, and stepped onto the hill where they had buried her sister.

The wind played with her long brown hair. She stood, holding her daughter, gazing at Meliora's grave.

"I don't know how to go on," she whispered to her sister. "I don't know how to feel joy. I don't know how to forget."

Elory closed her eyes, cringing with sudden pain. Again she could feel it—the flaming whip against her back. Again she could see them—the bodies on the lances, a forest of dead in Tofet. Again she heard the cries of the harpies, and again she saw dragons falling like the rain. The pain felt too strong, the memories too real, and Elory's head spun and she could barely breathe.

Her baby gurgled in her arms, and Elory opened her eyes. Little Liora reached up and tugged at Elory's hair.

Tears streamed down Elory's cheeks. She gazed around at her homeland, at the forests of Requiem, the distant marble columns rising from among the birches, the blue mountains in the north.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, tasting her tears. "It's beautiful here, Liora. I did this for you. I fought for this land for you, for all the babes born here. This will never be my kingdom, Liora. My home will always be in Tofet. That is a land I cannot escape, that I cannot wrench out from within me. But you will never know such pain, Liora. I promise this to you. This will always be your home."

Liora smiled and giggled, a beautiful, innocent babe.

Elory kissed her. "May you know nothing but joy, sweet child. May you know nothing but peace. May your life be full of light, of family, of hope. May you always find Requiem's sky."

Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see Lucem walking up the hill, wrapped in a warm cloak and holding a basket full of bread, cheese, and wine.

"Thought you'd be here," he said. "Figured we'd have a little meal, and . . ."

His voice faded when he saw her tears, and he hurried toward her. She embraced him. They stood together, holding each other, a family, watching the forests sway and the dragons fly above.

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AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading the Flame of Requiem 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 existing Requiem novels at: DanielArenson.com/Requiem

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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

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