Sorrow crept away from her pillar. She did not dare turn around. She did not dare to take her eyes off the Mistress, fearful that suddenly those eyes would shift to her. Sorrow backed her way along the corridor, her hands outstretched behind her, feeling for the wall. She touched it, solid and cold.

The Mistress was eyeing Grald’s body, her thoughts a blur of fire and smoke and death. “I will tell the populace that there was a pitched battle between the Walker and Grald,” Maristara murmured. “Grald fought valiantly. He used his magic to blast the other dragon, and that magic blew asunder the walls of the Abbey. Grald killed the Walker, but, sadly, he himself died in the explosion. The massive stone building fell on top of him, burying his carcass beneath the rubble. This will be his final resting place.”

Other images appeared in Sorrow’s mind. The dragon children slumbering in their lair, the little ones in a single bed, crowded together for warmth and comfort, their arms and legs and dreams so entwined that it was hard to tell where one left off and another began. And then the dragon warriors come, led by Leopold, bringing fire, immolating the dreams and the small dreaming bodies.

Sorrow could run swiftly, but her claws would make noise on the stone floor, and the dragon would hear her.

Sorrow flexed her wings nervously. She had never had much chance to practice flying. The dragon would not permit the children to go out into the sunshine, for fear they might be seen by the humans of Dragonkeep. Grald had promised that, in due time, he would teach her to fly, but that day had not come to pass, and now it never would.

A childhood accident with regard to flying—involving leaping off an upper level—had left Sorrow with a terrifying memory of panicked flapping, a terrifying fall, a slashing white scar across her forehead, and a deep-seated fear. Flying back to her lair would be the fastest way to reach the children, however, and flight would be silent.

Sorrow leaned forward onto the balls of her feet, trying to keep her claws off the floor, and she began to run. As she ran, she spread her wings and felt them catch the air currents. Her wings lifted her up, carried her feet off the ground. The sensation was startling and frightening, so that she gave a little gasp and froze. Her stomach was fluttering, not her wings.

Instinct rescued her, as instinct rescues young dragons forced out of their sweet darkness into the blinding sun and fresh air. As they gasp and flail and eventually fly, so did Sorrow flail and then fly, her wings lifting and falling in a smooth, swooping motion that sent her—astonished and frightened and thrilled—soaring through the darkness.