She ran between the trees, the canopy hiding her, praying the cloak masked her smell. Tears stung her eyes, her breath shuddered, and her legs shook with weakness, but she wouldn't stop running. The demons streamed above now, spinning, diving, and their drool and rot dripped like the rain, pattering between the trees.

"Her scent is gone!"

"Uproot the forest!"

"Break her!"

Claws shattered a tree ahead. Issari bit down on a yelp, spun, and ran in another direction. Shadows streamed above, and talons uprooted an oak. She turned and kept running.

They can't smell me. I just have to keep running. I have to find the others. She clutched her aching belly, stumbling over roots and stones.

"I'll find you, Requiem," she whispered. "I'll find you and warn you. We will slay them together, or we will flee . . . or I will die as a dragon of Requiem, roaring fire, fighting among my kind."

The demons screamed above, branches slapped her, the meat roiled in her belly, and Princess Issari Seran—a Vir Requis, a child of magic—kept running.

LAIRA

 
LAIRA

On a beautiful spring morning, flowers blooming and birds singing, Laira woke up to find her brother hanging dead from an oak.

She had woken that morning happy—truly, deeply happy for the first time in many years, the sort of contentment that came from a full belly, a good sleep, and a feeling of love and safety. For so many years, she had suffered—exiled from Eteer across the sea, brutalized as an omega of the Goldtusk tribe, and finally limping wounded through the wilderness, almost dying, seeking a home. A home she had finally found.

Requiem.

Waking that morning, she had gazed around at this new kingdom, this dawn of dragons. King's Column rose above her, a pillar three hundred feet tall, perhaps the tallest structure in the world. The sunlight gleamed against its marble, its dragon capital reared, and even in the morning light, Laira saw the Draco constellation shining above the column, blessing it, blessing her. Birches rustled around the pillar, dwarfed by its majesty, sprouting fresh leaves whose scent filled her nostrils.

"Requiem," she whispered, placing a hand against the pillar. "The beat of my heart. A beacon for my kind. Your light will call all others home." Her eyes stung. "All weary, hunted weredragons will see King's Column, and they will heed its call, and they will gather here. They will become Vir Requis, a people noble and strong."

That light and warmth in her heart, Laira made her way deeper into the forest. After the nobility of her prayer, she needed a moment decidedly less noble, and she sought a private place to relieve her bladder. Leaving the other Vir Requis to sleep—they still lay wrapped in fur blankets around the column, snoring softly—she made her way down a hill.