She descended, shifted back into human form, and held the child in her arms. He gasped for breath. Jeid landed beside them, claws digging ruts into the hill, and also returned to human form. Others joined them, surrounding the child. The boy lay in Laira's arms, his skinned tanned brown, his eyes black, his frame almost skeletal. His left arm and hand were small as a babe's, hanging loosely from his torso.

"Have I . . . have I found Requiem?" He licked his dry lips, drank from a gourd Jeid held above him, and coughed. "I flew from Eteer. I seek the land of dragons. The land of my people."

Laira stroked the boy's hair. "You found Requiem, my child. You found your home."

Tears filled his eyes. "She told me it would be here. The Lady in White. The Daughter of Taal with the Silver Palm."

Laira's breath caught in her throat. "A Silver Palm? Do you mean an amulet embedded into her hand?"

The child nodded. "A holy woman. A seraph from the sky. Issari." Tears streamed down his face, drawing lines through grime. "With her was a great Prince of Dragons. They entered the desert, and they will bring light to the world. They will deliver us from darkness. They will heal the sky."

His eyes closed and he fell into slumber, and Laira held him close, and a hint of hope, a flutter of light like a firefly on a moonlit night, filled her breast. So many had died around her. So many nightmares filled her mind. But her sister was alive and Laira laughed, her tears of relief falling onto the child she held.

JEID

 
JEID

Beneath the marble column, the birches rustling around them, King Aeternum wed his bride.

They had no druid to join their hands. Eranor had fallen; so had Alina. But night had fallen and the stars shone above, reflecting in the marble of King's Column, and holiness filled this place, and Jeid knew this marriage was as real as the starlight, the marble, and the heat of dragonfire.

He had no fine cloak, no bright armor, no garments for a king. As always, he wore his shaggy old furs. As always his hair was too wild, his beard too long, his weapons too coarse. He did not feel like a king today, only like Jeid Blacksmith, an outcast from a village, a broken man hiding in a canyon. He looked at the people who gathered before him in the night, holding clay lanterns, the few survivors of Requiem. They all stared at him, the light painting their faces, and in their eyes was love for him, devotion to their king.

I took the name King Aeternum, he thought. A noble name. The name of a great leader to be remembered for eternity. But I still feel like Jeid. I still feel lost.