With a deep breath, Jeid shifted.

Copper scales rose across him, clattering like a suit of armor. Wings burst out from his back with a thud. Fangs sprouted from his mouth and claws grew from his fingers. He tossed back his head and roared, and his fire blasted skyward in a pillar. Standing before him in the grass—now so small next to his larger form—Ciana took a step back and gasped.

Jeid beat his wings, rising several feet aboveground. The blast of air scattered leaves, bent the old oak's branches, and fluttered Ciana's hair. Snorting smoke, Jeid reached out, lifted the woman in his claws, and soared.

He caught an air current and glided, wings wide. Since Requiem had died, he had dared not fly in daylight. Too many still wished to fell dragons from the sky. Warriors of the villages bore arrows coated with poison. His twin, the cruel Zerra, now wandered the wilderness, leading a pack of a hundred rocs, oversized vultures that feared the escarpment but would gladly hunt a lone dragon in open sky. Yet now Jeid flew in the sunlight, blowing his fire, roaring for the great hope, the dream of Requiem, his most sacred prayer.

We are not alone.

Behind him rose the escarpment—the cliffs of stone and trees and hidden caves, his fortress. The misty hills and valleys rolled below. Ahead stretched the River Ranin, the border of his territory, and there beyond, nestled along the bank, was his old home. The village of Oldforge.

Fifty-odd buildings rose along the riverbank. Most were simple huts of clay, branches, and straw, humble homes with a hole in each roof to vent the smoke of cooking fires. Vegetables grew in backyard gardens, and pigs rooted in pens. Several boats floated upon the river, tethered to posts.

The largest building, and the only one built of stone, was the smithy. It rose taller than two men, topped with a dome. Jeid's grandfather himself had built this smithy. Once Jeid had forged tin and bronze there, had raised his children there. Today those who had exiled him lived within those walls.

The villagers filled the pebbly village square, clad in fur, cotton, and canvas. Mud coated them and their hair hung long and scraggly. A great pyre rose among them, and upon it, tied to a stake, stood a young man.

Another Vir Requis.

Jeid howled, filled his maw with flames, and dived toward the village.

The villagers saw him, pointed, and shouted. They fled the square, scattering into their homes, leaping behind barrels, and grabbing what makeshift weapons they could—humble farm tools of bronze and tin, many which Jeid himself had forged before his exile.

"Flee and you will live!" Jeid bellowed, his voice louder than hammers striking anvils, and the blast of his wings tore thatch off roofs and knocked down fences. "Face me and burn."

He blasted down flames.

The fiery pillar slammed against the square, scattering sparks and sending pebbles flying. A nearby tree caught fire. His wings pounding like drums, Jeid—large as his old smithy, a burly beast of scales like the metal he'd forge—landed before the pyre. He roared and whipped his tail, and the last villagers scattered.