Of all the Vir Requis, only she remained in these caves now, a last defender—she, Bryn of Stonemill, a daughter of Requiem. Her eyes dampened.

"Requiem," she whispered. She needed to say no more; in one word, she could speak of her dreams, of her hope, of her kind, of the magic inside her. It was a word itself imbued with magic, itself a prayer, itself the anchor of her soul and the beacon of her heart.

The Widejaws roared behind her. Their voices echoed. When Bryn looked behind her again, she saw them racing forward, carrying torches. Each man was twice her size, clad in metal, brawny arms covered in coiling lines. Rings of bronze pierced their brows, noses, and lips—those horrible lips cut and stretched across their entire jaws. Old blood encrusted their leaf-shaped swords. One man raised a bow and shot an arrow. Bryn raced around a corner, and the arrow missed her again, snapping against the cave wall.

She looked back forward. She raced as fast as she could. She was famished, weak from blowing so much fire, weak from days with barely any food or drink or sleep. But Bryn ran.

For Requiem. For my king.

Her eyes stung. Her fists clenched at her sides.

I will always run for you.

She found tears stinging her eyes, for she was no longer the simple girl from the village, a gatherer of berries. She was no longer a frightened child with a secret, so afraid of her curse, of the reptilian disease. For many years she had lingered in the shadows of her hut, the shadows of the forest outside their village, the shadows of her fear and shame.

But she had found a light.

She had found Requiem.

"And I found you, Jeid." She touched her lips, remembering the times she had kissed his cheek, wanting to kiss his mouth but daring not. "And I will always fight for you."

Jeid Blacksmith. King Aeternum. The lord of Requiem. A gruff man, perhaps a man she might have once been frightened of—a man tall, powerful, bearded, his hair shaggy and grizzled, his face so hard and his eyes full of shadows. A man she had come to see kindness in, the greatest kindness she had ever known. Eyes she had seem wisdom in. Hands—large, callused, rough hands—she had seen strength in and yet softness too.

"Grab the whore!" rose a shout behind.

Laughed echoed. Men cursed and jeered.

"Bring her here!"

"Strip off her clothes!"

"She will be ours."

A man roared out, "Come here, weredragon! I'm going to make you mine. We all are. And once you've borne our children, we're going to cook your babes on the fire."

The narrow cave sloped upward. Bryn clenched her jaw and ran as fast as she could. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the men following, their torches casting long shadows.

The archer licked his chops and fired.