Dorvin turned to see Alina, his sister, approaching. The young druid—she was only two years older than him—wore lavender robes and moccasins trimmed with fur. Her long auburn hair spilled from under her hood, and her eyes gleamed, large and deep purple. She held a staff formed of a great oak root; at its tip, wooden tendrils clutched a blue crystal. A necklace of beads hung around her neck, and a bracelet of true bronze—a priceless metal—encircled her left wrist.

"A demon?" Dorvin shook his head in amazement, shoved down his spear, and pierced the corpse's flesh. "Bloody mammoth shite."

Alina came to stand beside him, looked at the creature, and closed her eyes. She reached into a leather pouch that hung from her belt, pulled out blue powder, and sprinkled it into the wind. She whispered prayers to the dragon constellation, her goddess.

"Bless us, stars of the Sky Dragon," Alina said, looking up into the sky. Daylight shone and the stars slept, yet Alina claimed that they always listened. "Watch over your children."

Dorvin muttered under his breath. Stars. Goddesses. Demons. What did he know of these things? He was a hunter. He dealt with blood and fire. Let his sister pray to spirits. His task wasn't to follow spiritual leaders but to be a leader himself.

He turned away from the corpse and faced the others, his group of vagabonds. They stood clustered together between patches of melting snow, nineteen souls—elders, children, a pregnant mother, a few young men and women . . . all outcasts. All cursed. All like him. Weredragons.

"What is it, Dorvin?" said Old Nan, seventy winters old, her white hair streaming in the wind. Fear filled her eyes.

"It said it's hunting weredragons!" called out Bryn, a young woman with red hair and blazing brown eyes.

They all began to mutter, glancing around, whispering, weeping, praying. Tears flowed. Panic began to spread. Every one of these souls carried memories of abuse, exile, and fear, and Dorvin had promised to lead them to safety. He would not let this group crumble.

"Silence!" he roared. He sucked up his magic and shifted.

Silver scales rose upon him, his fangs and claws sprouted, and he beat his wings. He rose to hover several feet above the ground, scattering snow, and blasted a jet of flame skyward. His roar shook the forest. All the others froze and stared at him, finally falling silent. Dorvin landed in the snow again, staying in his dragon form. He stared at his people, one by one, smoke pluming from his nostrils.