"You killed my mother," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "You shattered my life. What do I want?" Her breath shook and she bared her teeth. "I want you to die, you bastard."

She screamed as she leaned forward, driving her blade into his neck.

His blood dripped, and he gave her a last stare, then tilted over and lay still.

Laira stared down at his body, and she no longer trembled. A peace descended upon her.

"For my mother," she whispered. "For Requiem. For me. It's over."

She knelt, grabbed his hair, and lashed her blade again.

Her footsteps were slow. Blood trailed behind her. She stepped out of the cave into a canyon of flame and blood, carrying Zerra's severed head.

"Goldtusk!" she shouted.

She stood upon bloodied boulders. The dead lay around and beneath her. Arms thrust out from the debris, and gore painted the canyon walls. One rider lay whimpering, his organs dangling from his sliced belly. Dozens of rocs still flew above, and at least two dragons still lived. Maev writhed on a pile of boulders, blowing her last sparks onto a roc. Tanin lay slumped, lashing his claws, holding back a beast; arrows pierced his flesh. Laira had never seen these two dragons, but she knew them from Jeid's stories—his children returned to battle. She did not see the others.

"Goldtusk!" Laira shouted. She raised the severed head above her. "Goldtusk, hear me! I am Laira Seran. I was one of you. I carry the head of Zerra, your chieftain."

The rocs shrieked. All eyes turned toward her. The battle died down as they stared. Hunters hissed and tugged their reins, halting the rocs. The birds hovered, blasting Laira with foul air, billowing her hair.

"I am a child of Goldtusk!" Laira cried, voice hoarse. "I slew the chieftain. By the law of our people, I lead this tribe now. I am chieftain! I am Laira of Goldtusk, a worshiper of Ka'altei. I command you—land, dismount your rocs, and kneel before your mistress."

For long moments—the ages of the stars and the world, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the endless mourning in her heart—they merely hovered, staring. She stared back. She knew how she looked—a scrawny thing, broken, scarred, covered in blood. A wisp of a person, a hint of who she could have been.

But this is who I am, she thought. This is me. These years of pain, this fear, this broken body—they made me who I am. This person was hurt. And this person is strong.

She raised the head higher, staring, silent. All others fell silent too. She could hear the wind in the trees and the crackle of fire.

It was one rider—a gruff old man named Sha'al, a chunk of mammoth tusk still embedded in his chest from an old hunt—who landed his roc first. He dismounted, gave Laira a hard look, and then knelt before her.