JEID

Jeid Blacksmith stood above the grave of his daughter, head lowered and fists clenched.

A boulder marked the hilltop grave, overgrown with ivy and moss. An oak shaded it, and autumn leaves covered the soil, a crimson carpet. Below the hill rolled valleys of mist, scattered birches, and rocks engraved with the runes of ancient men. No rune, however, marked this makeshift tombstone. If the men of nearby villages knew that here, under this earth, lay a fallen weredragon, they would dig up the bones, they would smash them with stones, and they would pray to their totems to curse the soul of the creature.

"But you were no creature to me," Jeid said, jaw tight and eyes dry. "You were my daughter, Requiem. And you were blessed."

Weredragons, they called him and his family—cursed beings, monsters to burn. Jeid had fled their villages long ago. He had given his family a new home, a new name.

His head spun and he fell to his knees. The wind gusted, blowing dry leaves into his shaggy hair and beard. Jeid was a strong man, a blacksmith with thick arms and a barrel chest, but now, here, before his fallen daughter, he felt weaker than old tin.

"I named our new home after you." He placed his hand between the fallen leaves, feeling the soil, feeling her soul below. "Requiem. And we are no longer weredragons. We are Vir Requis, people of Requiem." His eyes stung. "I swear to you, your name will live on—a tribe to last for eternity."

But you will not be here to see it.

Jeid lowered his head, his despair overwhelming. That day returned to him again—as it returned every time he came here. It had been years ago, but still the pain felt raw, still the wound bled inside him.

He had fled his smithy, his village of Oldforge, the only home he'd known. Blessed by the stars—cursed, the villagers called it—he could grow wings, breathe fire, take flight as a dragon. He had passed this gift to his children.

"You called us monsters, brother," he whispered. "You called us cursed, Zerra."

His twin—cruel, envious, full of venom—had railed against Jeid's so-called illness. And so Jeid had fled, taking his children with him. Requiem had been only a toddler, barely old enough to shift into a dragon herself. For a long time, they had wandered the wilderness, finally finding a home upon the escarpment, a hidden crack in the world, a place of secrets, of exile. Jeid had thought that would appease the villagers. He'd been wrong.

On this day years ago—the autumn equinox—Jeid had taken Requiem, a sweet child with soft brown locks, on a flight. Requiem had been but a small dragon, no larger than a deer, wobbly as she flew. They glided upon the wind, laughing, counting the trees below. It was freedom. It was joy. It was the best day of Jeid's life, and it turned into the worst.

"Look, Dada, food!" Requiem cried, pointing a claw below. The small, blue dragon laughed and dived.

"Requiem, wait!" Jeid called after her.

She ignored him, squealing with laughter as she swooped. The lamb stood upon the field below, groggy, lost from its flock and not fleeing. Before Requiem even reached it, the lamb fell over, dead before the small dragon's mouth closed around it.

"Requiem, wait!"

But she ate the meat.

And she cried.

And she shook and vomited and begged her father for help.

She lost her magic and lay in the grass, a human girl, skin pale, clutching her swollen belly.

Shaking with rage and fear, Jeid carried her back to the escarpment. He and his father, the wise healer Eranor, spent two nights feeding her healing herbs, praying for her, holding her. And yet the poison spread. On the third night she died.

And now, years later, Jeid knelt above the grave, and that grief burned with no less intensity.

"I miss you, Requiem," he whispered, touching her tombstone. "You've been gone for years, and I promise you. I will make our tribe strong—for your memory, for your name. Requiem will survive."

A voice, soft and trembling, rose behind him.

"Are you . . . are you Jeid? Jeid the weredragon?"

He spun around, fists tight, tears in his eyes.

A young woman stood there, soot staining her face. She had long, black hair and wore cotton in the manner of villagers. A tin bracelet adorned her wrist, and she held a shepherd's crook. Tears filled her eyes and her full, pink lips shook. She seemed vaguely familiar—perhaps a face he had seen years ago when she'd been a child, when he'd still lived among others.

Jeid growled. "You are from the village of Oldforge across the river. I recognize the cotton you wear. Leave this place. This is my territory. Leave or I burn you."

She trembled. "Please. Please . . . I need help. I am Ciana. Are you the weredragon?"

He straightened. "I am Vir Requis. That is our name." He took a step closer, fists still clenched. "The kind you hunt."

Ciana blinked away tears. "My . . . my brother is a were— a Vir Requis. They're going to burn him. Please. Please. I came to you for help. They have him tied to the stake. They say they'll burn him at sundown." Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she reached out to him. "I don't have the magic. I came to find you. If you can become a dragon, if you are truly Jeid Blacksmith, Chieftain of Dragons . . . help him. Save him."

Jeid stared, frozen.

Another Vir Requis.

His heart throbbed and his legs felt weak.

For years he had dreamed, prayed, flown across the world to find others. For years, he had come to this grave, vowed to his daughter to build a tribe in her name, a tribe of others like them—who could turn into dragons, who were hunted, feared, poisoned, killed.

For years, he had found no others.

"You lie!" He stepped closer, teeth bared. He raised his fist as if to strike her. "There are no others. There are no more Vir Requis in this world. Just me. Just my family. Just us that you hunt and kill."

Ciana did not flinch. She met his gaze steadily, and some strength filled her damp eyes.

"There is another. But if you let him die, Jeid, your family will truly be the last." Gingerly she reached out and touched his arm. "Come with me. Save him. Please." Fire lit in her eyes. "Become the dragon again. Grow your wings, sound your roar, and take flight."

Another Vir Requis . . .

His head spun. Could it be—another like him? Afraid? Alone?

He growled.

He stepped away from the girl.

And so I fly again.

With a deep breath, Jeid shifted.

Copper scales rose across him, clattering like a suit of armor. Wings burst out from his back with a thud. Fangs sprouted from his mouth and claws grew from his fingers. He tossed back his head and roared, and his fire blasted skyward in a pillar. Standing before him in the grass—now so small next to his larger form—Ciana took a step back and gasped.

Jeid beat his wings, rising several feet aboveground. The blast of air scattered leaves, bent the old oak's branches, and fluttered Ciana's hair. Snorting smoke, Jeid reached out, lifted the woman in his claws, and soared.

He caught an air current and glided, wings wide. Since Requiem had died, he had dared not fly in daylight. Too many still wished to fell dragons from the sky. Warriors of the villages bore arrows coated with poison. His twin, the cruel Zerra, now wandered the wilderness, leading a pack of a hundred rocs, oversized vultures that feared the escarpment but would gladly hunt a lone dragon in open sky. Yet now Jeid flew in the sunlight, blowing his fire, roaring for the great hope, the dream of Requiem, his most sacred prayer.

We are not alone.

Behind him rose the escarpment—the cliffs of stone and trees and hidden caves, his fortress. The misty hills and valleys rolled below. Ahead stretched the River Ranin, the border of his territory, and there beyond, nestled along the bank, was his old home. The village of Oldforge.

Fifty-odd buildings rose along the riverbank. Most were simple huts of clay, branches, and straw, humble homes with a hole in each roof to vent the smoke of cooking fires. Vegetables grew in backyard gardens, and pigs rooted in pens. Several boats floated upon the river, tethered to posts.

The largest building, and the only one built of stone, was the smithy. It rose taller than two men, topped with a dome. Jeid's grandfather himself had built this smithy. Once Jeid had forged tin and bronze there, had raised his children there. Today those who had exiled him lived within those walls.

The villagers filled the pebbly village square, clad in fur, cotton, and canvas. Mud coated them and their hair hung long and scraggly. A great pyre rose among them, and upon it, tied to a stake, stood a young man.

Another Vir Requis.

Jeid howled, filled his maw with flames, and dived toward the village.

The villagers saw him, pointed, and shouted. They fled the square, scattering into their homes, leaping behind barrels, and grabbing what makeshift weapons they could—humble farm tools of bronze and tin, many which Jeid himself had forged before his exile.

"Flee and you will live!" Jeid bellowed, his voice louder than hammers striking anvils, and the blast of his wings tore thatch off roofs and knocked down fences. "Face me and burn."

He blasted down flames.

The fiery pillar slammed against the square, scattering sparks and sending pebbles flying. A nearby tree caught fire. His wings pounding like drums, Jeid—large as his old smithy, a burly beast of scales like the metal he'd forge—landed before the pyre. He roared and whipped his tail, and the last villagers scattered.

Tied to the stake, the young man gazed at him, face sooty, eyes wide.

Another Vir Requis, Jeid thought, eyes stinging. His breath shook. We are not alone.

"I will free you," Jeid said, voice a low rumble. "There is a safe place for you. A place for dragons. A tribe called Requiem." His voice choked. "You have a home."

He stretched out his claws, ready to severe the prisoner's ropes.

The young man moved so quickly Jeid barely saw it. His expression changing to hatred, the prisoner brought his hands forward, letting his ropes fall. He held a bow and arrow.

Before Jeid could retreat, the arrow flew.

The bronze arrowhead drove into Jeid's neck.

The dragon howled. He sucked in air, prepared to blow fire.

Around the square, a dozen men leaped up from behind barrels, a well, and bales of hay. They too held bows and arrows. They too fired.

The projectiles slammed into Jeid. Some shattered against his scales. Others pierced his soft underbelly.

The pain drove through him, burning through his bloodstream. He felt poison flow, dragging him down, pulling him into blackness. Ilbane covered these arrowheads, the juice of crushed leaves grown in the northern hills. Harmless to most, the sap was poisonous to dragons, stiffening muscles, blazing through veins, turning bones heavy as rocks. Jeid tried to beat his wings, but they wouldn't move. He tried to blow fire, but only sparks left his mouth.

He turned his head, lashing his claws, trying to cut the men. And there he saw her—Ciana, the young woman who had found him on the hill. Her tears were gone. She smiled crookedly and raised a bow.

Finally Jeid recognized her.

You were friends with my son. He gazed at her with blurred eyes. Years ago. You were only a youth . . .

Her arrow drove into Jeid's chest.

He fell, cracking stones beneath him.

"Kill the beast!" Ciana shouted, face twisted with rage. "Slay him!"

Jeid's eyelids fluttered. His wings beat uselessly against the ground, unable to support his weight. The poison held him down like chains.

I will fly to you now, Requiem, he thought, seeing his daughter's face. We will fly together again.

Through the mists of pain, he saw Ciana walk toward him, drawing back another arrow, this one aimed at his eye. But then she faded, and he only saw Requiem, his dear daughter, angelic and pure . . . writhing in pain. Poisoned. Dying.

No. I cannot die too.

His eyes burned.

His daughter laughed.

I must live for you, Requiem—for Requiem, the daughter I lost; for Requiem, the tribe I must build.

As Ciana laughed, nocking another arrow, Jeid managed to lift his head.

He blasted his fire.

The flames roared across Ciana, crashed past her, and slammed into the pyre where the false prisoner still stood. With a blast that pounded in Jeid's ears, the pyre burst into flame. Men screamed and ran, burning, living torches.

The fire raced toward Jeid.

He pushed himself up.

He was weak, almost blind, maybe dying.

He beat his wings.

He rose a few feet, crashed back down, and rose again. More arrows slammed into him. He howled, soared higher, and flew. His claws banged against a house, knocking down the roof, and he crashed onto a hilltop beyond. For a moment he rolled downhill, tearing up grass and soil. With another flap of his wings, he was airborne again, flying across the river.

They screamed behind him. Arrows whistled around him, and one slammed against his back.

He kept flying, the land a haze of blue and green below, and Requiem laughed, and the mist engulfed him, but still he flew.

For you, my fallen daughter, he thought. For you, Tanin and Maev, my living children. For you I still fly.

The escarpment rose ahead from the mist, a great wall of stone draped with vines and moss. Jeid dipped. He nearly crashed. He beat his wings and rose higher, flying above the cliffs until he reached the canyon upon their crest. It gaped open below, a hidden place, a safe place, a home called Requiem.

He crashed down.

He fell into the canyon, slammed against boulders, and lay still. His wings splayed out around him like the sails of beached boats.

"This is why I must fly," he whispered. "They hunt us. They kill us. Requiem must stand. We must find the sky."

Through the haze, he saw them rush forth—his father, beard long and white, and his living children, shouting in muffled voices, fading . . . all fading into colors and shadows and light.