but Kyrie felt the sting of ilbane, and he howled. The sun blinded him.
Talons scratched. Kyrie kicked, lashed his tail, and blew flames in all directions. Through the blinding light, light that shone against Gloriae's armor, Kyrie saw three more griffins swoop toward him.
For a second, Kyrie froze with horror. He saw his life like pictures in a book. His parents. His siblings. His old dog running through autumn leaves. And then his family dead, his house burned, Requiem Forest torched, columns shattered upon the ground. Lanburg Fields, and dead all around, and Lady Mirum lifting him. Fort Sanctus by the sea. Waves, salt, flights under stars over water.
And death.
Lady Mirum broken.
Griffins upon him, and claws, beaks, pain.
He tried to fight them off, but they were too many, and one griffin clutched his neck. Kyrie closed his eyes, prepared to die.
A roar shook the forest.
It was a thundering roar, impossibly deep, a roar like the darkest caves, the deepest tunnels. Kyrie opened his eyes and saw the great dragon, the Black Fang, the beast with the torn wing.
Benedictus crashed into the griffins, biting and clawing, knocking them off Kyrie. The black dragon's eyes blazed red, and fire burned from his maw.
Though bleeding, muzzy, and trembling, Kyrie cried in joy. "Benedictus flies!"
The sight of this legendary creature, its wings spread again, sent lightning through Kyrie. He soared with more passion and strength than he'd felt since Mirum died. He roared, shooting fire at the griffins who flew toward him. "And I fight alongside him!"
They fought. Two dragons. Five griffins and five more joining them from the eastern sky. Among swirling clouds and blazes of fire, the roars and shrieks rippling the air, they fought.
Four griffins latched onto Benedictus, clawing and scratching, their riders lashing spears. He was a large dragon—larger than Kyrie—burly and jagged, a few of his scales missing, a scar rending his breast. He was like Fort Sanctus, Kyrie thought—tough and proud, but old and rundown, years past his glory days. But he is still great; our greatest warrior, our greatest legend.
As this gnarled black beast roared and lashed his tail, Kyrie shot up. He crashed between three griffins, knocking them aside, and somersaulted.
"Benedictus, I'm here!" he cried, flew to the sun, then pulled his wings close. He swooped, whooping, and somersaulted again. He crashed into a griffin that clutched Benedictus's neck, knocking it off.
"Get out of here, kid," Benedictus growled, eyes blazing. His wing knocked a rider off a griffin. Blood coated his claws. "I'll take care of them. You go!"
Kyrie grunted and nodded. "I'll take a few off your back."
He swooped and flew over the canopy, letting the leaves skim his belly. When he turned his head, he glimpsed five griffins following him. Their riders shot quarrels, but Kyrie flew up and down, left and right, zipping around like a lightning bolt, and they could not hit him. When he saw an opening in the forest canopy, he dived and flew among the trees.
The griffins followed, through the canopy toward the forest floor. One slammed into an oak's trunk, and Kyrie whooped. He flew just over the ground, shooting between the tree trunks, spinning around boulders. Another griffin hit a tree. Another's talons hit a boulder, sending the griffin tumbling, tossing off its rider. Kyrie laughed and kept flying, and soon found himself over a forest pool. Two griffins still flew behind him, and he heard Benedictus roaring somewhere far behind, still fighting.
Grinning, Kyrie flew along the pool, and found himself before a cliff and waterfall. He turned his head, blew fire at the pursuing griffins, then flapped his wings hard. With a thundering cry, Kyrie shot toward the waterfall, then flew up the cascading water like a salmon. He emerged wet above the cliff, flew toward the sun, then swooped down upon the blinded, soggy griffins.
"Nobody," he roared, biting and clawing, "messes with Benedictus and Kyrie."
One griffin crashed dead into the water.
Only one griffin remained. The griffin bearing Gloriae.
Fury filled Kyrie, burning and red. He remembered how Gloriae had stood upon Fort Sanctus, a small smile on her lips, watching her father murder the Lady Mirum. He remembered the stories villagers would tell of her: How she had murdered a Vir Requis at age six, three more when she was eight. She's a demon bred for cruelty.
"I kill you now, Gloriae," he hissed.
Gloriae tilted her head. She pulled back her griffin, flew over the water, and landed on the forest floor.
"You kill me?" she cried. "You