LAIRA

When dawn broke, Laira felt so cold, hurt, and weak that she wasn't sure she could rise.

She lay under the pile of leaves, her breath frosted. When she touched her hair—short, ragged strands Zerra had cut himself—she found it frosted into hard spikes. Fingers numb, she parted the blanket of dry leaves covering her and gazed up at the forest. Mist floated, and the boles of maples and birches seemed black in the dawn, rising to an orange canopy. A murder of crows sat upon the branches, staring down at her with beady eyes.

They're waiting for me to die, she thought. But I won't.

She rose. Naked and trembling, she approached the branch where she had hung her patchwork fur cloak to dry. It was still wet. Laira hugged herself, shivering, teeth chattering. She should never have washed the garments in the river; she should have let the dung dry, then shaken off the flecks. Now the cold would kill her just as readily as the rocs or her wounds. She examined those wounds and winced. The welts on her feet were swollen, and one seemed full of pus.

"It's infected," she whispered, every word sending out puffs of frost. "I need healing herbs or the rot will crawl up my leg."

She wondered if she could find another tribe; others wandered the plains and forests, hunting and gathering and sometimes battling one another, and they had shamans of their own, perhaps less cruel than Shedah who would only scorn, strike, and spit upon Laira whenever she asked for a poultice. Yet Laira remembered the few times she had seen the other tribes, nomadic groups bearing their own totems—bronzed skulls of beasts, gilded buffalo horns, and even one tribe that bore the mummified body of a goddess child. Whenever Goldtusk would come across another tribe, arrows flew, spears thrust, and often lives were lost.

"If they find me, they'll know I'm a stranger," Laira said through chattering teeth. "They'll kill me or worse—capture me to be their slave. They will not heal me."

But . . . they could heal her.

The thought filled her with both hope and fear—hope for finding others like her, fear that others were only a myth. Perhaps in all the world, Mother had been the only other weredragon. Perhaps Laira was the last.

"But if that's true, let me die in the wilderness."

She shoved her frozen hands under her armpits and hopped around for warmth. She considered donning her wet cloak but decided it would only chill her further. After a moment's hesitation, she lay down and rolled around in the mud along the riverbank, then in piles of dry leaves. When she rose again, she wore a garment of the forest. It was an ugly thing, but it would keep her warm and provide some camouflage. She lifted a fallen branch, slung her wet fur upon it, and carried the bundle over her shoulder. She kept limping through the forest, heading north, her burnt feet aching with every step. Despite the pain, she dared not fly. Here under the canopy she was hidden; in the open air, she would be seen for marks around.

Today she heard no rocs; perhaps they had abandoned the search or were searching too far away. As she walked and the sun rose, some of her chill left her, and a new discomfort arose—hunger.

"If it's not the rocs, my wounds, or the cold, hunger can still kill me," she said to herself and looked around, determined to find a meal.

She saw no more mushrooms, no pine cones, no berries. The canopy was thicker here than farther south, letting in less light; less grass, brambles, and reeds grew from the forest floor. That floor was a crunching carpet of dry leaves, fallen boles, and mossy boulders. Mist floated between the trunks and birds called above, too far to grab. If she still had her bow, Laira could have tried to hunt them, but now they were morsels beyond her reach.

She lifted a fallen branch and spent a while sharpening it against a shard of flint, forming a crude spear. It was noon when she finally saw a rabbit, tossed her spear, and missed. The animal fled into the distance. Her belly growled, and she thought it would soon stick to her back. Thirst dried her mouth. She had left the stream behind, for it traveled west while she moved north, seeking the fabled escarpment.

When it began to rain, she was thankful for the water—she drank some off flat leaves—but it made her colder. The downpour washed off her garment of mud and leaves, and strands of her hair hung over her eyes. At least the rain brought out some worms. She managed to catch three. She stuffed them into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed before her disgust could overwhelm her.

Resigned to being wet, she dressed in her drenched tunic and cloak. The rat fur clung to her, clammy and still foul; she doubted the smell would ever leave it. The rain kept pouring, and her spirits dampened with it. She could not stop shivering, but still she walked on.

It was afternoon and her belly was rumbling when she finally saw the bush of blueberries. Her mouth watered. The rain was finally easing up and a real meal waited ahead.

"A little gift of hope," she whispered.

Swaying with weakness, she walked toward the berries, already tasting the healing sweetness.

A growl rose.

Laira was only steps away when the bear emerged from behind the trees.

Shaggy and black, the beast placed itself between her and the berries, rose upon its back feet, and roared.

Laira froze.

She held only her pointed stick as a weapon. She was a small, scrawny thing, barely larger than a child. Before her bellowed an animal that could slay her with a single swipe of its claws.

Stand still, Laira, she thought. If you flee, he'll see you as prey. He'll chase. Stand your ground.

The bear fell back to all four paws, snorted, and turned toward the berries. It began to eat.

Laira found herself growling. Hunger and weakness gave her the courage she'd normally lack. That was her meal. Three worms were not enough. Without these berries, she could die.

Pointed stick raised, she took a step closer to the berries. Maw stained blue, the bear turned back toward her and growled.

"Away!" Laira waved her stick and bared her teeth. "Go, go! My berries!"

It reared again, several times her size, and lashed its claws. Laira leaped back, waving her stick.

"Go! Go!"

It swiped at her again, and she stepped backward, tripped over a root, and fell into the dry leaves.

The bear drove down to bite.

Laira winced, reached down deep inside her, and grabbed her magic.

The bear's fangs slammed against her scales.

Wings grew from her back, pushing her up. Her own fangs sprouted. Her tail whipped, cracking a tree, and her face lengthened into a snout. With hunger and fear, she lashed her hand—only it was no longer a hand but a dragon's foot, clawed and scaled. It slammed into the bear, knocking the small animal down; the beast now seemed smaller than a cub. Laira leaned down and bit deep, tearing through fur, ripping off flesh, tasting hot blood and sweet meat, and she knew nothing but her hunger and craving and the heat of the meal. She feasted.

She ate the bear down to the bones.

When her meal was done, she lay on her scaly back, smoke pluming from her nostrils. She was no longer hungry. She was no longer cold. Her wounds—agonizing to her human form—seemed like mere scratches now.

"I can lie like this for a while," she said softly. She was surprised to hear that her voice, even in dragon form, was the same. "I haven't heard rocs since this morning. I will lie a while and digest."

She wouldn't even consider returning to her human form with an entire bear in her belly. That could not end well.

Her furs were gone. She had taken them inside her when shifting, and yet her pointed stick lay beside her. She wondered why clothes could shift with her—they had reappeared last time she had returned to human form—and not the stick.

"If I ever do find others, maybe they'll know how the magic works."

She tilted her head, scales clanking. Magic? For so long, she had thought this a curse, a reptilian disease. Yet lying here, her belly full and warm, it was hard to think of shifting as a curse.

"Maybe it's a gift," she said to the rustling autumn leaves above. "And maybe others like me are out there, alone and afraid. I have to find them."

As she lay digesting, she thought she heard a roc once, but it was distant, possibly only a crow. When the sun set, Laira rose to her clawed feet. Her body pressed against the trees, and fire sparked in her maw, raising smoke.

Tonight she would not sleep in a hole, small and afraid and hurt. Tonight she would fly.

She crashed through the canopy, showering autumn leaves, and into the sky. The stars spread above her, an endless carpet. The Draco constellation shone above, brightest among them, cold and distant but warming her soul. She beat her wings, bending trees and scattering leaves below. For so many years, she had felt weak, miserable, and worthless.

"But now, in this night, I am a dragon."

She clawed the air and flew north, gliding on the wind.