Laira caressed her own shaved head. Where once black hair had grown now coiled lines of black and green paint.

"Do you think it'll work?" she asked Dorvin.

The young man walked at her side, bare-chested even in the cold. He too had shaved his head, and his scalp, torso, and face sported coiling lines in silver and black. He twisted his lips and spat. "It better work. I'm bloody freezing."

"Where's your cloak?" Laira asked. She tightened her own fur pelt; snow clung to it.

Dorvin shivered and stuck his hands under his armpits. "I spent all morning painting my chest. I'm not going to hide the dragon I painted. It's a masterpiece."

Laira glanced at his chest. A melting, dripping figure seemed to have been painted onto him, surrounded by spirals and lightning bolts. "It looks more like a worm."

"It's a dragon." He growled and thumped his chest. "A vicious, fire-breathing, man-eating, killer dra—" He glanced down at his chest and bit his lip. "Stars damn it. It melted. Well, maybe it's a worm." He shook his fist. "Worms are vicious too, you know."

Maev approached them and slapped the back of Dorvin's head. "It was a damn stupid idea to paint a dragon anyway. We don't want the enemy thinking about dragons today. To them we must be the Sharpspear tribe, come to pay tribute." Maev passed her hand over her bald head and sighed. "Though I still don't know why we had to shave our damn heads."

"The illusion must be complete," said Laira. "If they recognize even one of us, it's over." She shuddered. "Hundreds of Widejaws might still live in Requiem, more than enough to slay us all. They must suspect nothing. No more talk of dragons. No more talk of disguises. Become Sharpspears."

They walked on through the snow, the last survivors of Requi— No. Laira shook her head wildly. The last Sharpspears, she reminded herself. A few children. Three mothers holding babies. A few haggard men and women, their wounds still bandaged. All bald. All painted. Clad in furs, holding spears, moving onward through the forest, seeking the halls of Requiem.

In the afternoon, Laira finally saw it in the distance, rising from the forest like a beacon—King's Column. Her eyes dampened, and she had to pause from walking. The others gathered around her and stared silently. The pillar was still marks away, so tall it called her even from the horizon, a beam of light rising toward the sky. Even in the day, it seemed to shine with starlight.

"The heart of Requiem," Laira whispered. "The beacon of a nation."

She raised her chin and kept walking, her steps faster now. The others walked silently around her, staring ahead at the column, at their home that had been stolen, the home they must reclaim.