He pushed himself up.

He was weak, almost blind, maybe dying.

He beat his wings.

He rose a few feet, crashed back down, and rose again. More arrows slammed into him. He howled, soared higher, and flew. His claws banged against a house, knocking down the roof, and he crashed onto a hilltop beyond. For a moment he rolled downhill, tearing up grass and soil. With another flap of his wings, he was airborne again, flying across the river.

They screamed behind him. Arrows whistled around him, and one slammed against his back.

He kept flying, the land a haze of blue and green below, and Requiem laughed, and the mist engulfed him, but still he flew.

For you, my fallen daughter, he thought. For you, Tanin and Maev, my living children. For you I still fly.

The escarpment rose ahead from the mist, a great wall of stone draped with vines and moss. Jeid dipped. He nearly crashed. He beat his wings and rose higher, flying above the cliffs until he reached the canyon upon their crest. It gaped open below, a hidden place, a safe place, a home called Requiem.

He crashed down.

He fell into the canyon, slammed against boulders, and lay still. His wings splayed out around him like the sails of beached boats.

"This is why I must fly," he whispered. "They hunt us. They kill us. Requiem must stand. We must find the sky."

Through the haze, he saw them rush forth—his father, beard long and white, and his living children, shouting in muffled voices, fading . . . all fading into colors and shadows and light.

RAEM

My son is cursed. Raem felt as if the world were crashing around him. My son, my heir, my pure prince . . . is a weredragon.

"Father, please!" the boy said, reaching out to him. "I'm sorry. I'll never shift again. I . . ."

Nineteen years old, Prince Sena Seran had the noble looks of his family: raven hair, green eyes, a proud jaw. Slim and tall, he wore a white robe hemmed in gold, and a bronze dagger hung from his belt.

He is beautiful, Raem thought, frozen in place, torn between rage and anguish. I already lost a daughter, and now I lose a son.

Raem—taller, broader, stronger than his son—stepped forth and swung his fist, driving it into Sena's cheek.

The boy crumpled, falling to the floor with a yelp and gush of blood.

"Father, please!" cried Issari. "He didn't mean to do it. Please don't kill him."

Raem looked across the curled-up, bleeding prince and stared at his youngest child, Princess Issari. At only eighteen years of age, she was blooming into a beautiful young woman. She was everything Laira, his eldest, should have been—a proper princess. Her black hair hung across her shoulder in a braid. Her green eyes filled with tears. A white gown covered her slim body, and a headdress of golden olive leaves and topaz gemstones glimmered upon her head.