JEID

He flew.

Sometimes he just needed to fly.

The night stretched around him, moonless, starless, a world without sight, a sea of wind and blackness and cold air. He did not know where he flew. Most nights he no longer cared.

Jeid Blacksmith, men used to call him—a forger of bronze.

Grizzly, his children called him—a shaggy, endearing old beast, lumbering and harmless.

Diseased, said those who lived in wilderness and towns. A creature. Cursed.

Flying here upon the wind, he no longer knew who he was. He no longer knew what to call himself.

"Who am I, Keyla?" he asked, the wind all but drowning his voice.

He saw her face in the night—his wife, her hair golden in the sun, her smile bright. A sad woman—her smile had always seemed sad to him—but one who clung to every sliver of joy, cradling and nourishing it, letting it grow even through pain.

"You are Jeid." She spoke in his mind and touched his cheek. "You are my husband. You are a father to our children."

He lowered his head. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell his wife that their youngest daughter was dead, that the people of the plains—perhaps Zerra's wandering tribe, perhaps the people of Oldforge or another town—had poisoned her.

But Keyla already knew. He saw that knowledge in her eyes.

"You're together now," Jeid whispered. "And I want to join you."

The pain constricted his throat. How easy it would be—to shift into human form, to plummet down through this darkness, to hit the ground and feel no pain, only a relief from pain, only the rise of his soul to the stars. And he would be with Keyla and Requiem again. He could hold his wife, kiss his daughter, nevermore feel hurt, nevermore feel alone and afraid and torn.

"You must be strong," Keyla said, and he barely saw her now. His wife was but a wisp, a fading memory, a voice of starlight. "For the others."

Rage filled Jeid. The fire crackled through his body. He released it with a great, showering blaze, a beacon that any roc for marks could see. But Jeid no longer cared.

"Why must this be my task?" His wings shook, and his claws dug into his soles. "Why must I lead this new tribe? I am tired. I want to sleep. I want to be with you again."

He looked up to the sky. The clouds parted and he saw three stars—the tail of the dragon, the new constellation that shone in the skies. And there he saw a silver countenance, no longer his wife but his daughter. Young Requiem shone above, wise and sad like her mother had been.

And Jeid knew the answer.

"Because I vowed to you, Requiem." His eyes stung. "I vowed to build a home in your name—so no others would die like you died." He shook, scales rattling. "But I wish you were here with me. I wish you could live in this home too, my daughter."

The clouds gathered again, the light faded, and she was gone.

Jeid blasted out more fire. He sucked in air, ground his teeth, and kept flying.

He flew in blackness.

He flew throughout the night—to remember and to forget.

A hint of dawn gilded the east, and landforms emerged below, charcoal beneath the black sky—the whisper of hills, valleys, and fields of grass. Jeid turned and flew back north until he saw it, a great shelf of stone that split the world. The escarpment spread across the horizon, the cliffs gleaming bronze as the sun rose. He flew across the river, rose above the mountainside, and saw the canyon there—a den, a hideaway, a seed of a home. He opened his wings wide, catching air, and glided down into the gorge.

As soon as he touched the ground, he saw it.

Blood on the stones.

His nostrils flared. The place stank of injury. Jeid moved his head from side to side, clinging to his dragon form.

"Father!" he called out.

His heart pounded. Had the rocs finally dared attack the escarpment, overcoming their fear of the place? Had the townsfolk invaded?

"Father!" he shouted.

Finally the old man's voice rose in answer. "I'm here. It's all right, Jeid. Come into the cave."

Exhaling in relief, Jeid released his magic. He hopped between boulders in human form, entered the eastern cave, and crawled through a short tunnel and into a chamber.

He straightened and lost his breath.

"Stars above."

His father sat on the floor, clad in his blue druid robes, blood staining his long white beard. Before him, a shivering young man lay upon a rug. The stranger's foot was missing. The stump was raw and red, still gushing blood, the shattered bones exposed.

"Hold him down, Jeid," Eranor said calmly. "Quickly. I need you to hold him down."

"Who—" Jeid began.

"Now."

Jeid nodded, stepped forward, and knelt behind the injured man. The stranger was shivering, his skin gray, his eyes sunken. Jeid held onto his arms.

When Eranor reached into the wound, the man bucked and screamed.

"Hold him firmly!" Eranor said.

Jeid nodded and tightened his grip, pinning the young man down. Eyes grim, Eranor fished out the sputtering vein. Fingers red, he tied the vein shut.

"Keep him still." Eranor swiped his beard across his shoulder. "This will hurt him."

"Who is he?" Jeid asked. The young man relaxed in his grip; he shivered upon the rug, his skin the color of the cave walls.

Eranor replied calmly. "A Vir Requis."

Jeid lost his breath. He stared down at the injured man. "You are . . . you can become a dragon."

The young man looked up at him. He managed to nod wanly. "I've heard of you." His voice was weak and hoarse. "You are Jeid Blacksmith of Oldforge. The whole north is speaking of you." He coughed, licked his lips, and managed to keep talking, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm from the Redbone tribe. When they discovered my curse, they chained my ankle to our totem. I shifted into a dragon. When my body grew, the chain dug through me. I rose as a dragon." He managed a wry smile. "My human foot remained behind. I—" Coughs overcame his words, and it was a moment before he could speak again. "I heard of the escarpment. I had to find you. I had to . . ."

His eyes rolled back, his body became limp, and he fell silent.

"Keep him down," Eranor said. He reached for a bronze saw and a bowl of boiling water. "He's unconscious, not dead, and he might wake. It's best if he sleeps through this part."

When Eranor raised the saw, Jeid felt himself pale. "By the stars, what . . ."

"It's not a clean cut." Eranor squinted at the wound. "The bone is jagged. If I sew shut the stump, the bone would only cut through it. I must file it down."

Jeid grimaced as his father worked, sawing through bone, filing the edges down, and cutting out infected flesh. The young man woke once and screamed, and Jeid held him pinned down. When the man fainted again, Eranor pulled skin over the wound and stitched it shut.

"Will he live?" Jeid asked, kneeling above the stranger.

Eranor wiped his hands on a rug. "I pray to our stars that he does."

Jeid's fingers trembled. He stared down at the pale young man, and strangely, despite the blood and horror, joy kindled in him. His eyes stung.

We are not alone.

He was about to speak again when he felt warm wetness against his knee. He looked down to see blood seeping from under the young man's back. When he raised the man to a sitting position, he saw it there—a broken arrow beneath his shoulder blade, sunken deep into his torso.

Dawn spilled into the cave when the young man died.

Jeid held him in his arms, remembering the night Requiem had died in his embrace, and here he was a father again; all these cursed, lost souls were his children now.

"Rise, friend," he whispered and kissed the man's forehead. "Rise to the Draco stars. Their light will guide you home."

That evening, Jeid buried the young man in the valley beside his daughter, and he placed a boulder above his grave. Eranor stood beside him, his beard flowing in the wind, and prayed the old prayers of druids.

Two fallen Vir Requis, Jeid thought, staring at the twin graves. Two more burdens to bear. He looked up at the sunset. The first stars emerged, and the dragon constellation glowed above. Two more souls to guide me.

"Who am I, Father?" he asked softly.

Eranor placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are a son. You are a father. And you are not alone." The old man stared south across the plains of swaying grass. "Others are blessed. Others need you. You will build them the tribe that you dream of. They will find you, or we will find them, and we—the Vir Requis—will gather here. We will have a home."

That night Jeid did not fly again. He sat in the cave by his father, and he stared at the embers in their brazier, and he thought of Tanin and Maev who were flying south, and he thought of those who had died.

I will fly on, he thought. But I will no longer fly lost in darkness. Our lights shine across the world. I will be a beacon to them until we shine together.