She walked at their lead, solemn, her back always straight, her head always high. Her white tunic fluttered in the wind, a simple garment. No golden tassels or embroidery marked her raiment as they had during her days as a princess. No headdress of gold or jewels bedecked her head of raven hair. To a chance observer, she might have, at first glance, seemed like a simple commoner, perhaps the daughter of a milkmaid or a potter. Yet something in her eyes—determined, hard eyes that never flinched from the shimmering horizon—denoted her nobility, her holiness.

She was Issari Seran, daughter of the Demon King. She was a Priestess of Taal, the silver amulet of her god embedded into her palm. She was a daughter of Requiem, blessed with the starlit magic of dragons. She was a leader of outcasts. She was a bringer of hope. She was the shepherdess of a lost flock.

"Bless you, Priestess," said all those who approached her, seeking a blessing, seeking to touch her dusty garment. "Blessed be Issari, True Queen of Eteer, True Daughter of Taal."

She nodded to all those who approached, whispered prayers, and touched them with her silver palm.

"The Light of Taal!" one old man whispered, tears in his eyes.

"Blessed be Queen Issari!" said a young mother, holding her babe. "True Lady of Eteer."

One boy, a scrawny thing clad in rags, approached her on bare feet. He touched her gown—a sign of respect in Eteer—and whispered in awe, "Issari, Daughter of Requiem." The boy's eyes shone. "The White Dragon."

Issari had spent the past few days staring ahead as she walked, rarely removing her eyes from the hazy horizon that shimmered in the heat waves. Now her heart skipped a beat, and she took a closer look at the boy. All others had spoken of Eteer and its gods; this child was the first to mention Requiem, her second home, her land across the sea. The boy was too thin; his ribs showed through tatters in his tunic. His skin was tanned bronze, and dust filled his black hair. He looked like a typical street urchin, one of the many who had once lived in Eteer, aside from his curious left arm. That arm was no larger than a babe's, ending with a hand the size of a walnut.

"You know of Requiem?" she asked him.

The child grinned. Despite being half-naked and half-starved, his teeth were remarkably white and straight. "I was a beggar on the canal. I know more than the wisest scholar." He raised his chin proudly. "I watched as you smuggled Vir Requis onto ships, letting them sail north to safety. I watched as you wandered through the city, fighting the demons with your silver hand, hiding weredragons in cellars and attics. They've all left north or died. I was the last." He gave a little bow. "I am Fin, the last Vir Requis of Eteer."