A cloud of buzzing flies, each the size of a horse, bustled toward Laira. Their faces were humanlike, bloated like waterlogged corpses, gray and leaking. With screeches, they flew onto Neiva like true flies onto old meat.

The roc screamed.

The flies thrust out long, metallic tongues, piercing Neiva's flesh. Blood spurted.

"Neiva!"

Laira swung her sword, trying to reach the unholy insects, but her arm was too short.

"Neiva, fly!"

The roc rose in the sky. The vulture tossed back her head, let out a pained cry, and tried to flap her wings. Two of the demonic flies landed upon one of those wings, bit deep, tugged hard, and ripped the wing off.

The roc tumbled from the sky, flies digging into her chest.

Laira fell with the roc, hair billowing, head spinning. The ground raced up toward them. They slammed into another roc, flipped over, and fell again. The world spun all around Laira—clouds of demons, dragons blowing fire, distant pteros upon the wind, and above them all the stars—the stars of Requiem, the stars going dark behind the smoke and flame of battle.

"Neiva, fly!"

But the roc was already dead, her chest cut open, her wings gone. Laira struggled to free herself from the saddle, but a strap pinned her down. She cried out. They slammed against a demon, spun madly, and kept falling.

An instant before hitting the ground, Laira managed to swing her sword, cutting the strap.

She tore free from the saddle.

She shifted into a dragon.

She soared, a golden beast, blowing fire, roaring her cry.

"For Requiem!"

She fought as a dragon now; Requiem would be her battle cry, her beacon of hope in the darkness. She flew alone; she saw no other rocs. Some other dragons still fought, but they were too distant, and many demons separated her from the Leatherwing tribe. She would face him alone.

A golden dragon, she blew her flame, crashed through demons, and flew toward her father.

ISSARI

 
ISSARI

They traveled through the desert, thousands of Eteerians, weary and wounded and far from home.

Their city lay in darkness, its halls and homes overrun with the demon spawn. The underworld had risen; a kingdom had fallen. And so here they walked across the dry, stony earth, the sun scorching their skin. They had taken no supplies, had fled their city with only the clothes on their backs. Some walked barefoot, the hot earth baking their soles. Some walked shirtless, the sun turning their skin red. All were parched, their lips dry, their throats tight, their bellies twisting with fear. A thousand men, women, and children. Exiled. Wandering into the deep, southern heat. Demons covered the world, and nightmares haunted their sleep, and only one thing gave the survivors of Eteer hope in the wild. Only one light still guided their way.

The Priestess in White.