When the feast ended, she could rummage through the mud. She would always find a few discarded nuts, bones, and sometimes even animal skin. As Laira worked, slicing and serving and rushing about, she made sure to drop little morsels—when nobody was looking—into the mud. She would dig them up later, and she would give her belly some respite.

As the sun set and the stars emerged, Laira drew comfort from the sight of the new stars, the ones shaped like a dragon—the Draco constellation. Mother would tell her that these stars blessed them, gave them a magic others thought was a curse. Laira glanced up and prayed silently.

Please, stars of the dragon, look after me. Give me strength to hide your magic. Give me strength to fly.

The feast died down. Men lay patting their full bellies, women nursed their babes, the rocs fed upon carcasses, and the dogs fought over scraps. Laira still had much work to do. She would be up half the night, collecting pottery and washing it in the river. But for now, she had a more important task.

Hands clasped behind her back, she approached her chieftain.

Zerra sat upon a hill overlooking the totem pole. Several of his hunters sat around him, drinking ale, gnawing on bones, and belching. When the men saw her approach, they lowered their mugs and narrowed their eyes. Zerra grunted and shifted upon the boulder he sat on.

"Return to your work, wretch." He spat. "Wash our pottery and clean up our scraps, then sleep among the dogs where you belong."

Laira took a shuddering breath. She thought of her mother's eyes. She thought of the stars above. She thought of her distant home, a mere haze of memory. She raised her crooked chin—the chin he had shattered—and tried to speak in a clear, loud voice. That voice was slurred now, another victim of Zerra's fist, but she gave it all the gravity she could.

"I can do more than clean and serve, my chieftain." She squared her narrow shoulders. "Allow me to serve you better. One of your hunters has fallen to the fever. One of your rocs, the female Neiva, is missing a rider. Tomorrow let me mount Neiva. Let me hunt with you."

For a moment the men stared at her, eyes wide.

Then they burst out laughing.

Zerra tossed his empty bowl at her. It slammed into her face and shattered. She gasped and raised her fingers to her cheek; they came away bloody.

Not waiting for more abuse, Laira turned and fled.

She spent that night trembling as she worked—scrubbing dishes in the stream, cleaning fur tunics, and collecting bones for the dogs. Her blood dripped and her belly felt too sour for food. When finally her work was done, she curled up among the dogs. They licked her wounds, and she held them close, and her eyes dampened.

"I am a daughter of a prince," she whispered into their fur, trembling in the cold. "I am blessed with forbidden magic. I will be strong. I will hunt."