She crawled until she reached a stream, the shallow water gurgling over smooth, mossy stones. She ached to wash off the dung, which had dried into a flaky paste, but dared not; the rocs could return anytime, and without the stench to mask her scent, they could sniff her out. She couldn't resist washing her feet, however. Dipping them into the stream shot a bolt through her, but soon the cold water soothed her. They had tied her barefooted to the pyre, and so she ripped off squares from her fur cloak, washed them in the stream, then tied them around her feet with vines.

When she stood up gingerly on the riverbank, she did not fall. She took one step, wobbled, and then another. She held a tree for support and limped a few more steps. It hurt and her head still swam, but she could walk.

Probably looking like some evil spirit from a fireside tale, covered in filth and leaves, she wobbled onward. There was only one place she could go now.

"The escarpment," she whispered.

For years, she had dreamed of traveling there. Her mother had claimed it was just a legend, yet it had to be true. The rocs dared not fly near the cliffs. Even Zerra never dared hunt in its shadow. Why else would they fear the place if not because . . .

"Dragons live there," Laira whispered, and tears stung her eyes. "Others with my disease. Other banished, cursed souls. I can find a home there."

Her head felt full of fog, and she struggled to remember the last movements of her tribe. Goldtusk had been traveling south throughout the fall, planning to spend the winter in the warm, southern coast. That meant the escarpment would be northwest from here—many days away.

"I can walk," she whispered, shivering. "I can survive the journey. I can drink from streams and I can gather berries and mushrooms. I can make it."

A roc dived overhead, and Laira pressed herself against a tree and remained still until it passed. Then she moved again, limping but trudging on. Using the rising sun's location, she could determine north easily enough. The moss grew on only one side of the trees, another marker to guide her.

"Step by step, Laira," she told herself. "Just keep going and you'll find the others."

A small voice inside her whispered that she was mad, that she could never find a humble escarpment in the endless world. In the vastness of the wilderness, even creatures as large as dragons were small. But walking—even limping—was better than curling up and dying, and so she kept going.

"I will always keep going," she promised herself. "If I die, I die moving."