Anger flowed through Laira, rattling her scales, and flames filled her maw. With a cry, she beat her wings. She rose from the pool, water and algae dripping off her scales, claws scratching at the air. Mother gasped and stared from below. Laira knew the rule—only become a dragon underwater, in darkness of night, or in deep caves, never in the open. They had been caught shifting in their last home, a place Laira could hardly remember, and they had barely escaped. But Laira didn't care. Laira was done caring. She hated hiding and she would fly.

She beat her wings, rising higher, soaring between the trees until she crashed through the forest canopy with a shower of orange leaves. The cold wind streamed around her and Laira laughed. This was freedom. This was who she was. They called it a disease but she felt healthier than ever, not a monster but a noble spirit of fire.

"Laira!"

She looked down to see Mother rising from the forest—a slim white dragon with blue eyes.

"I can fly!" Laira shouted and laughed. "I can fly to the escarpment. I can find the others. I know they're real. I—"

"Laira, come back here!" Mother shouted, flying toward her.

The white dragon reached out her claws, grabbed Laira's leg, and tugged. Laira screamed and tried to free herself, and her wings beat, and—

Shrieks pierced the air.

Laira fell silent.

Mother spun around in the sky, stared east, and cried out in fear.

"Rocs," Laira whispered.

The great birds, larger even than dragons, covered the sky, fetid things like oversized vultures. Their heads were bald, their necks gangly, their black feathers damp with the oil they secreted. Their talons reached out, and upon their backs rode the hunters of the Goldtusk tribe.

At their lead, riding upon a massive roc that dwarfed the others, rode Zerra.

"The curse of the reptile rises!" cried the chieftain, his hair billowing. He raised a flint-tipped spear in his hand; feathers and scrimshawed raven skulls adorned its shaft. "Behold the weredragon."

Mother hovered and snarled, hiding Laira behind her. She faced the advancing horde. Dozens of rocs flew toward them.

"Fly down into the forest," Mother said softly, still facing the foul birds; it took Laira a few heartbeats to realize Mother was talking to her. "They haven't seen you yet. Land among the trees, become human again, and return to the camp."

"We have to flee!" Laira said.

"They're too fast," Mother replied. "They will catch us if we flee. Into the forest, go! I'll hold them off."

The rocs shrieked, drawing nearer. Their stench filled the air, thick as fog, and their cries split the sky, slamming against Laira's eardrums.

Laira shook, hesitating, wanting to fight too, wanting to drag Mother to safety, wanting to fly north and find the other dragons fabled to exist . . . but she simply obeyed.

She flew down past the leafy canopy. Before she hit the ground, she heard screams above. Fire blazed overhead and blood rained. Laira landed by the pool, shifted back into human form, and gazed up at the sky.