Maev glared. "I don't feel like talking to you. All right, Laira? I don't want to talk about Dorvin or about anything. Stars!" Maev clutched her head. "When will you stop? You keep trying to start these damn conversations when nobody wants to talk. I wish I'd been stuck here with somebody else, even Dorvin and his songs, just not you, not my damn stepmoth—" Maev bit down on her words, and her cheeks reddened. She stared down at her feet. "Never mind. Forget I said anything. I'm sorry."

Laira nodded silently, her eyes stinging. She said no more.

They kept walking, seeking tracks, hiding whenever sphinxes shrieked above. Hours went by, and many enemies flew overhead, sending Maev and Laira into bushes and burrows. But no dragons. No sign of Jeid and the others. The sun began to set and shadows stretched across the forest floor. When the first stars emerged, Laira dared speak again.

"We'll need a place to hide for the night."

Maev grunted and said nothing.

Cold wind gusted and rain began to fall. Laira looked around, seeing nobody in the darkness, and dared to shift. A golden dragon, she dug under a boulder, creating a burrow just large enough for her and Maev. She hid the entrance behind branches and vines, then released her magic. A human again, she crawled through the leafy curtain and entered the clammy tunnel.

Maev followed. The wrestler stared around at the earthen walls and said nothing.

"It's a bit small," Laira said, "but it'll keep us warm and dry for the night. And at least there are no skunks. We'll keep searching tomorrow."

With only a grunt, Maev lay down, turned her back to Laira, and did not move. Laira lay down too. The burrow was narrow, forcing her body to press against Maev's, and she wished she had dug it wider.

At least it'll keep us warm, she thought. Even if her heart remains cold.

"Goodnight, Maev," she whispered. There was no reply.

Laira lay awake for a long time, worry gnawing on her. After all she had gone through, she was fleeing again, an outcast, afraid. This time it felt even worse. When fleeing the Goldtusk tribe, she had only her life to worry about. Now she worried about so much more: about people she loved and about Requiem.

Requiem . . . A tear fled her eye. The beacon of her soul. The light of her heart. The kingdom she had killed for, bled for, prayed for. It was more than a kingdom to Laira; it was a symbol of hope, of home, of starlight. Only moons after gaining its independence, Requiem had fallen—just like that, within moments.

I swear to you, Requiem, I will fight for you. I will not forget you. My wings will forever find your sky.

Along with her worry for her family and her kingdom, another worry—deeper, colder—filled her.