He seemed to smile at her from upon his mount—a twisted demon of pink skin, wings stretched tight over bone, and a bloated, vaguely human head. He raised his sword in salute. She doubted he recognized her; she flew as a Goldtusk huntress, not a dragon of Requiem, for in this battle she would lead her tribe proudly. But she knew him. And tonight she knew that to end this war, to let Requiem rise, she would have to kill the man who had given her life.

"Fly to him, Neiva," she said softly, pointing at the man in bronze. She nocked an arrow in her bow. "Fly to him and we will end this."

The roc beat her wings and stormed forward. Around Laira, the other rocs flew too, their riders firing arrows. The demons ahead cackled and stormed forward to meet the Goldtusk tribe.

The hosts slammed together with flashing blades, claws, and raining blood.

Laira tried to reach her father, to cut him down. But the king pulled back, allowing his demons to storm forth. Three creatures flew at Laira, each as large as a dragon and covered in thick brown fur. Red faces grew from them like boils, swollen and sprouting black beards. Their teeth were yellow, their smiles cruel. Their claws reached out, and Laira shouted and fired an arrow. The projectile slammed into one demon before it crashed into her roc, teeth snapping.

Laira screamed, drew her sword, and lashed at the wounded creature. The blade tangled in its thick fur. Its saliva dripped upon her, and Laira grimaced. Her roc dipped in the sky, then reared, talons scratching at the demon's face. Its blood spilled and it shrieked and fell back. Countless other creatures flew all around, moving closer. Laira fired another arrow, and Neiva lashed her talons, and around her dozens of other rocs battled in the sky.

This was Goldtusk's greatest battle. This was the battle that would let Requiem rise or fade from history. This was a battle for more than tribes or dragons—it was a battle for the fate of the world itself, a battle for a world of life and light or demonic darkness.

And that battle raged around her with light, with blood, with arrows and dragonfire. Beyond the tribe, the others fought too—dragons and pteros battling at their own fronts, killing, dying, burning the sky. Flames lit the night. Blood rained and rocs fell around her. Coiling worms the size of whales crashed into rocs, wrapped around them, crushed their bones. Demonic jaws snapped open and closed, tearing tribesmen apart, ripping torsos in two, and gore rained upon the mountainside. Everywhere around Laira the tribesmen fell, and rocs crashed down, and her tribe—and this night Goldtusk was her home, and these were her people as much as dragons—fell and died.