To complete her misery, the chieftain sheared her hair every moon, leaving her with ragged black strands and a nicked scalp. He clad her not in warm buffalo or bear fur like the rest of the tribe, but in a ragged patchwork of rat pelts. He had pissed on that garment once and refused to let her wash it. "That is how I mark what is mine," he had said. "And you are mine to torment." The tattered cloak still stank of him.

Her only redeeming feature, Laira thought, was her eyes. On their own, they were perhaps ordinary. But in her gaunt face, they seemed unusually large, a deep green tinged with blue. Whenever Zerra forced her to stare at her reflection—to see her slanted chin, her crooked mouth, her sheared hair like ragged porcupine quills—Laira would focus on those large green eyes. They are my mother's eyes, she thought. And they are beautiful.

And so no—it was not Zerra's scars that frightened Laira today, for she was no prettier. It was the rage in his eyes—the rage that promised another beating, that promised days of hunger, that promised he would hurt her, break her, make her regret every word and beg for mercy.

I need not fear him, Laira thought, staring up into his eyes. My father is a great prince in a distant kingdom. My mother told me. I am descended of greatness. I—

She was so weary with hunger—she had not eaten in a day—that she didn't even see his fist moving. It slammed into her head, knocking her into the mud.

She lay for a moment, dazed. Her head spun. She wanted to get up. She wanted to fight him.

I can turn into a dragon, she thought. I did it once. I can do it again. I can burn him. I—

The vision of her mother reappeared in her mind, interrupting her thoughts—a memory of the woman burning at the stake, screaming.

I promised. I promised I would never shift again.

A weight pressed down on her wrist and Laira whimpered. Through narrow eyes, she saw Zerra stepping on her, smirking, and she thought he would snap her bone, tear off her hand. He wiped his other foot upon her face, smearing her with its filth.

"You're right," he said. "You are worse than shite. Your mother was no better." He snorted. "I know what she told you. She claimed she had bedded some southern prince, that she spawned a princess. But you are filth. You are only a princess of worms. You will never leave this place. And someday . . . someday I will uncover the reptilian curse in you too, and you will burn like she did."

He kicked her stomach and Laira doubled over. Through floating stars of pain, she saw him walk downhill toward their camp.

She lay wheezing and trembling. With her crooked jaw, she couldn't even cough properly. She should be thankful, she knew. He had not broken her bones this time. He had not cut off her ears, which he had often vowed to do, or burned her body, another common threat. He had shown her mercy today.