"But you were no creature to me," Jeid said, jaw tight and eyes dry. "You were my daughter, Requiem. And you were blessed."

Weredragons, they called him and his family—cursed beings, monsters to burn. Jeid had fled their villages long ago. He had given his family a new home, a new name.

His head spun and he fell to his knees. The wind gusted, blowing dry leaves into his shaggy hair and beard. Jeid was a strong man, a blacksmith with thick arms and a barrel chest, but now, here, before his fallen daughter, he felt weaker than old tin.

"I named our new home after you." He placed his hand between the fallen leaves, feeling the soil, feeling her soul below. "Requiem. And we are no longer weredragons. We are Vir Requis, people of Requiem." His eyes stung. "I swear to you, your name will live on—a tribe to last for eternity."

But you will not be here to see it.

Jeid lowered his head, his despair overwhelming. That day returned to him again—as it returned every time he came here. It had been years ago, but still the pain felt raw, still the wound bled inside him.

He had fled his smithy, his village of Oldforge, the only home he'd known. Blessed by the stars—cursed, the villagers called it—he could grow wings, breathe fire, take flight as a dragon. He had passed this gift to his children.

"You called us monsters, brother," he whispered. "You called us cursed, Zerra."

His twin—cruel, envious, full of venom—had railed against Jeid's so-called illness. And so Jeid had fled, taking his children with him. Requiem had been only a toddler, barely old enough to shift into a dragon herself. For a long time, they had wandered the wilderness, finally finding a home upon the escarpment, a hidden crack in the world, a place of secrets, of exile. Jeid had thought that would appease the villagers. He'd been wrong.

On this day years ago—the autumn equinox—Jeid had taken Requiem, a sweet child with soft brown locks, on a flight. Requiem had been but a small dragon, no larger than a deer, wobbly as she flew. They glided upon the wind, laughing, counting the trees below. It was freedom. It was joy. It was the best day of Jeid's life, and it turned into the worst.

"Look, Dada, food!" Requiem cried, pointing a claw below. The small, blue dragon laughed and dived.

"Requiem, wait!" Jeid called after her.

She ignored him, squealing with laughter as she swooped. The lamb stood upon the field below, groggy, lost from its flock and not fleeing. Before Requiem even reached it, the lamb fell over, dead before the small dragon's mouth closed around it.

"Requiem, wait!"

But she ate the meat.

And she cried.

And she shook and vomited and begged her father for help.

She lost her magic and lay in the grass, a human girl, skin pale, clutching her swollen belly.

Shaking with rage and fear, Jeid carried her back to the escarpment. He and his father, the wise healer Eranor, spent two nights feeding her healing herbs, praying for her, holding her. And yet the poison spread. On the third night she died.