Chapter 1.
Chandyala
Year 1, 603 of the Human Era
Chanda sat on the bank of the saltwater creek, among the tall, dry grasses that swayed in the wind that picked up. A storm was coming; she could see the great rolling clouds, the flash of lightning in the distance, illuminating the Floating City.
She sat with one leg bent at the knee, hugged to her chest. She was exhausted, pain stabbing at her side where the knife was wedged between the shimmering blue and corral scales that covered her abdomen, the scales rippling as she tried to complete the shift. She was so close to the water.
So close.
She took slow, shallow breaths, trying to overcome the shock and pain. She had not seen the warrior who'd snuck behind her as she shifted.
But she'd felt the silver blade tearing through her leather armour and flesh and scale. Her shuddering breath formed a cloud before her as the temperature plummeted. All sense of direction had been lost when she had ordered the retreat – she had known she'd slay no more enemies. She'd watched too many of her men fall, too much myr blood stained that ground.
After another shaky breath the world tilted and she swayed, fighting unconsciousness. She wiped as much of the blood and dirt off her face as she could, picking twigs and leaves from her hair as she pulled off her helm. Tentatively she skimmed the water with her fingers her throat aching from dryness. But she drank nothing.
Concentrating on gathering her magik, the woman panted heavily, even as she fell to the ground. Pain lanced through her side. She could not shift. Not while her blood was trickling from that gaping wound.
She concentrated all her energy into the one thought.
Find out what she's running from. Help her face it.
A soft smile graced her lips as she fell back in the dust. Unseen by all, General Chandyala of Myr stared up unblinking as the storm clouds passed over her.
Her last thought was that she hoped fervently that her sisters would survive.