The dragon regarded her, a large copper beast, larger than her mother had been, larger than she was; the dragon was almost as large as a roc. His scales triggered an ancient memory; they looked like scales of burnished armor from her old forbidden home across the sea. His horns were long, his fangs like swords, his flicking tail bristly with spikes.

And Laira was afraid.

She had thought her father, King Raem, had loved her, but he had tried to kill her and her mother, forcing them into exile. She had thought Goldtusk could be a home to her, but its chieftain had brutalized her. Laira's eyes burned. Was here another enemy, another one to hurt her?

"Hello there," the dragon said, his voice a deep rumble, and wisps of smoke seeped between his teeth. "And who might you be?"

Facing him, she shifted into a dragon.

She was a smaller dragon, barely half his size. Her golden scales were softer, supple, more like fish scales than plates of armor. Her horns were only two little buds, and her claws were more like daggers than swords. And yet she filled her mouth with crackling flames, and she stretched her wings wide.

"I am one of you," she said, and now she could not curb her tears. "I am sick like you. Please help me."

Suddenly all those old emotions flooded her—shame of her curse, fear of being different, relief and shock and confusion at finding another. The feelings were so powerful that her magic fizzled away, and she found herself on her knees, a human again, trembling, her cheeks wet.

I am not alone.

The copper dragon released his magic too. He stepped closer and knelt before her.

When Laira gazed upon him, she gasped and scampered back.

"Zerra!" She grabbed a stone, pushed herself away from him, and prepared to fight. "Zerra, you . . . How . . . ?"

He had found her! Somehow the cruel chieftain had—

She narrowed her eyes.

She tilted her head.

"You're his twin," she whispered.

The man before her was tall, broad, and shaggy like Zerra, but he was not burnt. No dragonfire scars marred his face and hand. His hair was wild and brown, his beard thick, his arms wide. His eyes, which stared from under bushy brows, were his most distinguishing feature. Whereas Zerra's eyes were cruel and hard, digging into her like blades, this man had large, compassionate eyes—eyes that had seen much pain, that had watched the skies for years, and Laira knew: He has been seeking me for as long as I've been seeking him.

"My name is Jeid." His voice was soft, lacking the cruelty of his brother. It was the voice of a healer, of a friend. "You're hurt."

She smiled shakily am him. "I . . . I . . ."