She looked behind her. The dragons she had freed from Goshar flew there in several V formations. Their scales gleamed under the bright noon sun, and smoke trailed from their nostrils. Many had never flown before, too ashamed of their magic, and some still wobbled with every gust of wind.

But they're growing stronger, Issari thought. They're growing proud.

Below them, upon the grasslands, walked a great swarm—the refugees of Eteer and Goshar, mingled together into one people, fled from their ravaged cities. They wore tunics of canvas and wool, white cloaks, and sandals, and they carried only staffs and sickles as weapons. Their cattle walked before them, a multitude of sheep and goats and pigs—their last belongings. Babes swayed in baskets strapped to mothers' breasts, and elders hobbled on canes. The nephilim had toppled their cities and ravaged their farms, and now they were Issari's to protect; they were her people just as much as the dragons who flew above.

"Dragons of Requiem!" she called out, for now these hundred were children of Requiem too. They had never seen King's Column, had never met King Aeternum, but the magic of the Draco constellation flowed through them. That made them Vir Requis. That made them her kin. "Dragons of Requiem, nephilim in the west. Fly! Fly with me and burn them."

The dragons sounded their cry, flocked toward her, and raced across the sky.

They had been traveling south for days now, seeking the ancient city-state of Tur Kal, the largest and oldest of the thirteen. Nephilim had plagued their journey, emerging every hour—a cluster here, a scout there, sometimes as many as fifty flying together. Once Issari had even seen a great swarm of them—perhaps a thousand together—upon the horizon, flowing south like a cloud of locust.

They're breeding, Issari thought. Maybe with humans, maybe with one another, but there are more every day.

She winced and fear washed her with ice, the same fear that hadn't left her since Goshar. Her belly twisted—whether with terror or with lurking life, she did not know.

A demon knew me in my tent, she thought and shivered. Her scales clattered. A demon planted his seed within me. Her belly twisted again, and Issari winced, wondering if the seed had quickened, if a nephil—one of these twisted, rotting creatures—now festered within her, growing larger, growing stronger, soon to—

"Burn them!" Tanin cried and blasted out his fire.

Issari shook her head, banishing her thoughts. The nephilim were close now, only moments away. She opened her jaw wide, and she blasted out flame, replacing her fear with the rage of the battle.

The nephilim screeched and attacked, claws outstretched. The dragons circled them, blew fire, and roasted the demon spawn. They had slain many before, and they slew these ones, sending their carcasses down toward the fields where they shattered, spilling rot.