his blade.
Bloodlust filled him, painting the world red.
Eyes narrowed, Dies Irae thrust his sword into Father's chest.
"Father!" Benedictus shouted and ran forward, but the hall was long. Long enough for Dies Irae to grab the Griffin Heart, which hung around Father's neck. Father gasped, his blood gushing, and his fingers clawed the air.
"I can't grow fangs," Dies Irae said and snapped the amulet off its chain. "But swords can bite just as deep."
A roar sounded behind. Dies Irae spun to see Benedictus shift into a dragon and leap at him.
Dies Irae snarled and raised the amulet.
With shrieks and thudding wings, a dozen griffins swooped into the hall and crashed into Benedictus. As his brother's blood spilled, Dies Irae smiled.
The griffins were his.
Requiem's greatest servants became her greatest enemies that day. They flew for him. They toppled the columns of this court. They tore down the birches. They burned all the shame and weakness from his heart; he was their master, and the world was his.
The Requiem War began.
Standing on the beach, Dies Irae clutched the Griffin Heart. The amulet bit into his palm. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to release the memories. That had been many years ago. The Vir Requis were nearly extinct now. His father was dead, the Oak Throne destroyed, Requiem in ruin. Benedictus was gone; nobody had seen him in a decade.
He released the amulet and took another deep breath. If he let the pain claim him now, let the memories fill him, he could lose track of time, drown in his rage, spend days in it. He gritted his teeth.
"There's no more time for memories," he whispered to Volucris, the greatest of the griffins, a prince among them. He mounted the beast. "Our war is not over yet. There is a weredragon to find."
As he took flight, Dies Irae imagined crushing Kyrie's bones, like he had crushed Mirum... and he smiled.
KYRIE ELEISON
As Kyrie traveled the land by foot, he learned something new about himself.
He hated walking.
Loathed it.
A blister grew on his right heel, two on his left. He didn't even know which foot to limp on. He had stubbed two toes against a root a league back, and the nails were turning black. Disgusting, he thought. His legs ached, and his wounded chest burned. His back also screamed.
He spoke between gritted teeth to the surrounding trees. "I. Hate. Walking."
He wanted to fly—to turn into a dragon, flap his wings, feel the rush of air, the power. That was the way to travel. But not today. Nor for the past month he'd spent walking in human form.
Flying, he knew, was just too dangerous.
Dies Irae was after him. Kyrie had seen parchments posted upon roadside taverns, crossroad signs, even the occasional oak. "Weredragon at large! Kyrie Eleison, escaped monster, transforms into a blue reptile. Bring dead or alive to the nearest Sun God temple for reward."
Kyrie snorted whenever he saw the posters. The crude drawing of a dragon was laughable; it showed him clutching a maiden in each hand, toppling a house with his tail, and chomping a baby. Ridiculous. If anyone ate babies, it was the beautiful and icy Gloriae; the young woman seemed just vicious enough.
Laughable as the poster was, Kyrie still dared not fly. Not with griffins patrolling the skies. An hour did not pass without Kyrie hearing a distant griffin cry. Several times a day, he saw them too, like eagles high above. And he knew they were looking for him.
Indeed, as Kyrie now limped on his blisters, more shrieks sounded above. Griffins. Three or four, by the sound of it. With a grunt, Kyrie dived into a leafy bush. He saw the griffins between the branches, talons like swords. Did Dies Irae ride one? The griffins shrieked again, then were gone, flying into the distance.
Kyrie sighed and climbed out from the leaves. He sat down on a fallen log and gazed around him. The forest was thick, and Kyrie couldn't see more than a few yards in each direction. Oak, birch, and ash trees grew here, and most seemed centuries old, thick and knotty. Their leaves rustled, scattering motes of light. Fallen logs crisscrossed around him, covered with moss and mushrooms.
"What am I even doing here?" he asked aloud.
Nobody answered but chirping birds, pattering squirrels, and rustling leaves. There was nobody here. Nobody in the entire forest.
Benedictus is dead, he told himself. I'll never find him here. I'm the last Vir Requis. And once those griffins catch me, I