LAIRA

She flew until the dawn, letting no fire fill her maw. She was weary. Her cuts still hurt. Her forehead burned even in the cold air, the infection blazing through her. She felt lost and afraid; she had never been alone before escaping her tribe, and she did not know if she'd live much longer. It was the longest, coldest night of her life.

It was also the best night of her life.

"I am strong," she said into the wind, and her laughter clanked her scales. "I am fast and high and I am free."

Tears flowed down her scaly cheeks. Zerra would nevermore slap her, shove her into the mud, or spit upon her. He would nevermore shear her hair, clothe her in rags, and give her only scraps to eat. For ten years, he had mistreated her, turning her into a short, scrawny girl covered in mud and tatters, a creature he made, a pet to torment.

And he will nevermore bed me, she thought. Scales clattered as she shivered. That night returned to her—the night she had stepped into his tent, selling her body for a chance to hunt. She remembered the burnt half of him pressing against her, his tongue licking her cheek, his manhood thrusting into her.

"Nevermore," she swore. "You will nevermore use me, hurt me, torture me. You kept me hungry for years, and perhaps I will never grow taller, and I will always be the size of a child. But I can be a dragon too. That you cannot take away."

Her eyes stung, her wings felt stiff, and she bared her fangs. As she flew in the night, she made another vow.

"I will have revenge." Fire filled her mouth. "You killed my mother. You hurt me. Someday we will meet again, Zerra . . . and you will feel my fire. I will finish what my mother began."

Dawn rose in the east like dragonfire, a painting all in orange, yellow, and red. The autumn forest below blazed with the same fiery majesty, rolling into the horizon. Laira looked around, seeking pursuit. Up here in the air, she would be visible for many marks. She saw only a distant flock of birds, but she felt it safest to descend.

A silver stream cut through the forest, and she dived down toward it, the wind whistling around her. She landed on the bank, dunked her head into the icy water, then pulled back with a mouthful of salmon. She gulped down the fish for breakfast, then drank deeply. Back in the Goldtusk tribe, as the lowest ranking member, she would always eat last, and always only scraps. She could not recall the last time she had eaten a whole fish. Since her mother had died, fish had meant nibbling on bones and chewing rubbery skin. She dipped her head underwater again, caught another salmon, and swallowed it down, relishing the oily goodness.

She could not walk through the forest in dragon form, not without toppling trees, and she was not ready to become a human yet. She yawned, releasing a puff of smoke, and shook her body to hear her golden scales rattle. She squeezed between a few oaks, curled up on a bed of dry leaves, and laid her head upon her paws.

"Maybe I'm the only one left," she whispered to herself. "If I am, I will live like this, wild and free and solitary like a saber-toothed cat. But I will never stop searching. I will seek the fabled escarpment in the north, and if more dragons fly there, I will find them."

She yawned again, closed her eyes, and slept.

When night fell again, she flew.

For three days and nights she traveled, sleeping in the sunlight, flying the darkness, until at dawn on the fourth day she saw it ahead.

The escarpment.

It rose across the land, stretching into the horizon, a great shelf of rock and soil thick with birches, oaks, and maples. Waterfalls—thin white slivers from here—cascaded down its cliffs, disappearing into the forest before emerging as streams to feed a rushing river. It was as if half the world had sunk, dropping the height of a mountain, leaving the northern landscapes to roll on to a misty horizon, unscathed. Countless birds filled the sky, fleeing from the sight of her—a golden dragon large enough to swallow them whole. Mist floated in valleys, and boulders rose gray and thin from the forest like the fingers of dead stone giants.

"It's real," Laira whispered upon the wind, not even caring that she flew in daylight. Tears filled her eyes. "The place where rocs dare not fly, the place even Zerra fears. A place of dragons."

Geese and doves fleeing before her, the golden dragon glided on the wind. Soon she flew along the escarpment. The highlands rose to her left, the cliffs plunged down beneath her, and the landscape rolled low to her right. Every movement in the sky sent her heart racing, but it was always a hawk, seagull, or other bird. The escarpment stretched into the horizon. If others lived here, others like her, did they hide as humans?

She flew for a long time.

"Dragons!" she called out and blasted fire, a beacon for her kind. "Answer my call! I seek dragons."

Only birds answered, calling in fright and fleeing the trees.

Laira flew as the afternoon cast long shadows, as clouds gathered, and as rain fell. A few marks ahead, the escarpment sloped down into the land. She had traversed it all and found nothing.

A lump in her throat, Laira turned around and retraced her flight, moving back west, surveying the escarpment a second time.

"Dragons!" she cried out. Maybe she had missed them. Maybe they had been out hunting and were now returning home. "I seek dragons!"

The sun dipped into the forest, and orange and indigo spread across the sky. The rain intensified and soon hail pattered against Laira's scales and wings. A gust of wind nearly knocked her into a spin. Yet still she flew, calling out, hoping, dreaming.

There.

Warmth leaped inside her. Her eyes moistened. She blasted fire.

"Another dragon."

She trembled and smoke rose between her teeth. She could barely keep her wings steady. It was hard to see in the shadows, but when she narrowed her eyes, she saw it again—the dark form of a dragon perched upon the escarpment, all but hidden under the trees.

Smiling shakily, Laira dived.

She had still not mastered landings. The past few attempts, she had smashed through trees, shattering half their branches and often their trunks. This evening she billowed her wings, letting them capture as much air as they'd hold, slowing her descent. With a few more flaps, she steadied into a hover, pulled her legs close together, and gently lowered herself between the boles. At least it was gentle compared to her earlier landings; she still shattered a dozen branches and sent down a rain of wood and leaves, but at least the trees remained standing.

The dark dragon rose ahead, perched upon the escarpment's ledge, staring south across the cliff. A waterfall crashed below the shadowy figure, vanishing into darkness. If the dragon noticed her—and how could it have not?—it gave no sign, only kept staring into the distance.

Laira sniffed, and her scales chinked as she trembled. Another dragon. I'm not alone.

Panting, fire sparking between her teeth, she hobbled toward the hulking shadow.

"Fellow dragon!" Joy leaped inside her, emerging from her eyes with tears. "I knew there were others. I knew it. You're not alone, my friend. You—"

She drew closer . . . and froze.

A statue.

Her tears of joy became tears of frustration.

She reached the statue, placed her claws against it, and yowled.

"Just a statue. Just . . . just a totem long forgotten."

Her spirits sank so low she lost control of her magic. She became a human again, slid down onto her bottom, and lowered her head.

"There are no dragons here." She balled her hands into fists and pounded her lap. "Just a legend. Travelers saw this statue and told stories of dragons. But there are no other dragons. Only me."

Tears streamed down her cheeks—all her unshed tears from all her troubles. They were tears for Zerra burning her mother—the tears she could not shed as the woman had burned. They were tears for years of pain, of suffering under Zerra's heel. They were tears for her wounds, her weariness, her loss of hope—a diseased girl, lost, alone in a world that had no place for her.

"Because it is a curse." Her voice shook. "It is a disease. This curse had me banished from Eteer. This curse had me fleeing Goldtusk. This curse dooms me to forever be an outcast." She turned back toward the statue and pounded her fist against it, bloodying her knuckles. "A curse!"

She was panting, her head lowered and her chest shaking with sobs, when the voice rose behind her.

"Easy on the statue, stranger! I'm still working on it. Don't scratch it."

Laira froze.

She spun around.

Night had fallen but firelight blazed between fangs, reflecting in large dark eyes, copper scales, and white horns. Among the pines and oaks, staring down upon her, stood a living dragon.