Laira hefted her pack across her back. Within she held the hope of Requiem. She raised her eyes and stared at the sky. The sun shone behind clouds. She could not see the stars, but she prayed to them silently.

Please, stars of Requiem, if you shine behind sunlight and clouds, and if you can hear me, grant me courage today. Grant me the wisdom and strength I need.

She heard no reply, felt no warmth in her heart, only fear in her belly. She tightened her lips and walked on. Perhaps this day she would have to rely on herself alone, on her own strength, not the strength of starlight. Her strength had brought her this far, had carried her through slavery and war; she would need to draw a little bit more.

The sun was low in the sky when, weary and covered with frost, the travelers reached the halls of Requiem.

King's Column rose before them among the trees, and several other columns rose around it, twins to the original pillar. Most of the birches here had burned in the battle; they rose charred and black and barren. The sound of crude songs, curses, and laughter rose from the hall. Smoke plumed skyward from campfires, and the smell of cooking meat—stars, it might be human meat—invaded Laira's nostrils.

"Halt!"

The voice rose from between the burnt trees. A sphinx padded toward them through the snow. Its lion body was large as a dragon's, and its matted wings lay pressed against its flanks. The creature's human face stared down at them, ballooned to thrice the normal size. The jaws opened from ear to ear, revealing rows of sharpened teeth.

Laira raised two open, emptied hands. "Greetings, sphinx of the Widejaw tribe! I am Kelafi of the Sharpspear tribe. Tales of your glory have traveled across the land. We've come to pay tribute to your might, Widejaw, and we bring gifts."

Wings thudded and three more sphinxes dived down, crashed through the forest canopy, and landed in the snow. Large as dragons, the fetid creatures stared at the Sharpspears with narrowed eyes. Laira's heart thrashed. She glanced at her sides. The other Vir Requis—no, only Sharpspears now!—stared back with hard, determined eyes, but Laira saw their nervousness. Jeid's hand strayed near the spear strapped to his back. Dorvin was clenching his fists, and Maev bared her teeth. But none made a move to attack nor shift into dragons. Laira herself struggled to curb the urge to shift, to blow fire, to attack.

We cannot win here with might, she thought. There are too many enemies. We will win this battle not with dragonfire but with wisdom.