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.