Cassius and Petra raced to Syra as she landed outside the lair entrance [https://img.wattpad.com/8b845b3230bac2c9a31402268af1c1ad926ba42f/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f675632694258566f68445a5137773d3d2d3336313835383636382e313461373031326162346631366333653837383638373034323031372e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

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The nighttime mountain air was cool on her tearstained face and gave her outstretched wings a shiver in her descent. Deep in the mountain's shadow, the charred meadow watched her as she passed overhead. She fought the urge to look down where Marrak had pinned down her father.

No. No more crying. Not over that. She coached herself.

You can't keep running away! Rigel's words spurned her onward, past the charred ogre and past the forest where Marrak fell. Beyond still, the shimmering city lights stoked the burning in her chest and she swallowed the knot in her throat.

"Protect the clan," she repeated, "for Papa."

Wafting through the shadow of the treeline, she glided down to the edge of the city. Two armed soldiers guarded the gate but appeared oblivious to the tiny shadow flittering into the forest. Dying flames still lingered in the trees and she took shelter in a thick bush. From her hiding spot she studied the guards' anatomy; two arms, two legs, one head, but no tail or scales, just some fur atop their heads. Not too bad, she thought. It should be possible.

She turned her snout to the air. To the scent of musk, metal, and smoke. To the smell of blood and burnt meat. There.

The air grew thick with fearscent the deeper into the forest she went until she came to the familiar clearing. The metallic musk of Ignis hovered around the bloodstained leaves, but she hufted it from her nostrils, searching for one lighter and soured by fear.

It was faint but clung to the burnt branches where a smear of blood graced a protuding twig.

"I hope this is enough."

Syra hesitated before wrapping her forked tongue around the twig. Egh! She winced at its metallic saltiness. Not at all sweet like she expected. Definitely not like frosthoof.

She swallowed the taste away and focused on remembering the guards. Two arms, two legs, no wings or tail, and two eyes...right? Bashta, I couldn't see their faces! She frantically scoured her memory of each human she ever spied on.

I'm Aidan...

The voice and face of pastry boy flashed into her mind--his scaleless skin and lips, round eyes, and a tiny bump of a snout squashed in the middle of his flat face. Got it!

Closing her eyes, she breathed deep and concentrated, feeling the warmth spread from her chest to her belly, then outward and all over. Light shimmered around her and she felt lightheaded for the first time. This form must take a lot of mana, she thought, thinking it odd. But humans were different from birds or foxes or otters, so maybe it was to be expected.

The light dissipated, leaving a young girl crouched by the charred bush. Blinking, Syra spent a moment just analyzing the hands in front of her. As she thought, there were no scales, just soft, bronzed skin that was incredible sensitive, especially at the fingertips. And tiny flat claws, if you could even call them that. The teeth were her biggest surprise, as she ran her tongue along the dull ridges in her tiny mouth. The fur atop her head was bark brown and tumbled down her back and shoulders in soft waves. She tussled with it a bit, having no idea what to do with the stuff.

After a short battle with the tangled locks she stood, or at least tried to stand. She felt so heavy. Her longer limbs were clumsy and she swayed from her new height. The ground was cold underfoot and she could feel every rock and leaf under her tender feet. At first it was a tad calming, but she winced as she stepped down on something hard and sharp.

"Bashta! What was that?" She fell on her rump and grabbed at the ground, finding her broken stone hidden under leaf litter. She breathed a sigh of relief, "Good lord, I almost forgot about this thing."

Taking the stone in one hand, she managed to brace herself up against a tree. Then it was on the hard part, walking. She stumbled, fell, and bruised a few toes on her way back to the gate, but gradually grew accustomed to the odd pendular movement. The lights of city gate were visaible through the trees when, mid-stride, her foot hit a root hiding under the leaf litter. She fell hard into the trunk, jarring a burning branch from its place above her.

It burned.

It burned, and she screamed. Syra had been hit with flames several times, mostly from Petra, and it never more than tingled. But this human skin, it was so weak and fragile, even the scraping from the bark hurt. The heavy branch pinned her under its fiery blooms and she flailed her limbs trying to dislodge it, but the flames licked her skin, causing it to blister.

"Who's there?" A man's voice called through the brush.

The guards, they must have heard me screaming, she thought. She wanted to call for help, but all of her words came out in nonsense screams.

"Hold on, we're coming!"

She heard the crashing of footsteps and felt the weight lift off of her, but her skin screamed on. She clung to herself, but any touch sent spasms through her body.

"Oh, good lord!" She heard one guard yell. There was a whoosh of wind then a soft weight that surrounded her.

"Miss? Can you hear me?" The guard spoke softly with a tender voice.

Syra nodded, feeling the fabric of the cloak the guard had draped over her naked body.

"Good. Can you open your eyes?"

Eyes, right. She had those. Luckily, the fire hadn't reached her eyes and they fluttered open with no issue.

Knelt before her was a young man, probably in his twenties, with a very worried look about his face. "Are you alright, miss?"

Syra went to stand but flinched as the cloak grazed the blisters on her back, "Hurts."

"I'm sure it does," The guard said, "You have some pretty severe burns. We'll need to take you to the infirmary for treatment."

Given the context, Syra assumed an infirmary was similar to a healing den, so she nodded in agreement. If it got her into the city and took this pain away, why not?

"Can you walk?" The second guard asked, helping her stand. She nodded again.

They led her to the gate where she was carefully placed atop a horse. The second guard remained at the post while they trotted through the streets towards the infirmary near Altaira's center.

"What's your name?" asked the guard.

She hesitated, but decided that she couldn't afford to come off as suspicious.

"Syra."

"Hello, Syra, I'm Kaelem. I'm a sentry so I know the quickest way to the infirmary. What's your surname? Maybe we can find your family."

"Surname?" Syra looked up at Kaelem confused. She had not learned such a word.

"Family name," Kaelem slowed his speech, seeing how her eyes searched him.

But, we don't have family names. It's just...us. I am me, and we are...maybe he means clan name? But if I say, Montari, then that will definitely give me away.

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Syra only shook her head.

"I see." Kaelem's expression became more concerned, but he said nothing.

Syra turned her attention to the shops and houses and cabins lining the streets as they passed. Some were crafted from wood, others from stone, others had rims that shone like metal.

They rounded a corner and the scenery took a drastic change. Rows upon rows of buildings laid wasted and burning by dragonfire. Some streets were even blockaded by the debris of the collapses.

Marrak did this, she thought, And he did it so easily.

Yet another turn brought them to the Inner Ring of the city where there was less destruction.

"We're lucky the fires didn't get this far," Kaelem said, "All of our supplies and aids are housed here."

"It is good the dragons came to help, yes?" Syra forced herself to hide her pride. But Kaelem only grew cross.

"Those dragons can shove it." He said, furrowing his brow.

Syra started a bit, "B-but, why? They helped."

"Yeah, for now. You can never tell with those...creatures. They were probably all in it together."

That's not true! Syra wanted to argue, but held her tongue. It would only make her job harder. Just keep quiet for now, she told herself.

The infirmary was a large, domed building with a shiny blue roof. Blue banners hung around its perimeter, each meticulously embroidered with a large Altairan crest. The light from inside lit up the surrounding plaza, and voices bounced off the white pillars into the night air.

"Come," Kaelem said, helping her from the horse and taking her small hand, "I know just the person to get you fixed up."

Inside, the main hall was filled wall-to-wall with people. Rows of cots held the injured as men and women in purple capes with blue banners rushed about tending to them.

"Oh, Nelly!" Kaelem stopped a young apprentice with gold banners running by, "Where's Valen?"

"He should be in Section Three." She pointed past the far archway before readjusting her pile of salves and hurrying off again.

"This way," Kaelem guided Syra further into the hall, weaving through the throng of people and down and across rows into a separate section marked by columns.

As they walked, Syra surveyed the injuries. There was everything from broken bones, to burns, to missing limbs. Some were, of course, worse than others. All around people were crying or moaning, either from pain or fear for their loved one.

Humans are really weak, Syra thought, remembering how much her own burns hurt. How do they manage to survive?

"Papa! Papa don't go!" The cry of a child made her tense. Her eyes darted to a young boy crying at his father's side, his mother distraught in wails. Syra felt her eyes fill and blur her vision. But I'm weak, too, she thought, blinking them back.

"Valen!" Kaelem called to a black-haired man in a purple cloak with gold banners tending to an injured woman, "I've got a child here!"

"Be right there!" Valen said, waving.

"You see that man, there?" Kaelem cooed to Syra, "That's Valen Ferra. He's an archmage."

"Archmage?" Her excited squeak made Kaelem laugh.

"Oh yes! Some say he's Altaira's very best. He'll fix you right up, no problem. For now, you should rest," Kaelem turned to Syra and motioned to a cot, sitting her down.

"Can I get one of those?" He stopped a medic carrying blankets. "Thanks," He took one and draped it around Syra, careful not to graze her burns.

"You are good at this," Syra said.

Kaelem laughed, "I've had practice." He retrieved his own cloak from Syra. "My son thinks he's twice as old as he is, which doesn't go well with the other squires."

Syra picked at the wool cloth in thought, "Maybe he should be the one practicing."

Kaelem burst out laughing and patted her head, "You're probably right!"

"Kaelem!" Valen hurried towards them through the crowd, sweaty brow plastered with long strands that escaped his ponytail. "What have you brought me?"

"This is Syra," Kaelem explained, "We found her by the West Gate. She seems to have been caught in the forest fire. Her burns are quite severe."

"Syra? That's your name, is it?" His eyes looked surprised, but kind. "It is a pretty name—a strong name. Well-suited for one who survives dragonfire. Now, let's take a look at those burns, shall we?"

He knelt down and reached for her arm, pulling back her blanket.

"Kaelem?" He asked, snapping her blanket back into place, "Where are her clothes?"

Kaelem shifted his weight and looked down, "She had none, sir. Nor does she recall having a surname."

Valen's face darkened, "I see."

"It is possible she came from the Outer Ring."

"Yes," concern wrinkled Valen's brow, "but we'll have to leave that matter for another time."

He returned his attention to a confused Syra, "I beg your pardon, little miss, but I need to inspect your injuries." He lifted the blanket as little as possible as Kaelem turned his head.

But Valen paused, "I thought you said her burns were severe."

"Are blisters not severe, sir?"

"They are, but these aren't blisters. Look," Valen said, showing Kaelem Syra's arm. The blisters had vanished, leaving only red, sensitive marks.

"How is that possible? They were fresh not an hour ago."

Valen looked closer at the burn marks. A faint glimmer around the reddened skin made his eyes widen, "You're a Lightblood."

"She is?" Kaelem quickly hushed himself at Valen's scowl.

"A what?" Syra's little face looked up at Valen with big, worried eyes, and Valen could only sigh.

"Syra, do you normally heal this quickly?"

"Yes, why?" answered Syra.

Do humans not?

"It's just something very special. Very few people do, and even then it takes years of study and practice."

Syra was completely lost by this point.

"Watch this," Valen placed a hand lightly on her arm and breathed deep. He traced curving lines up and down her arm, and light shimmered beneath his hand, sending warmth through Syra's tiny body. Her eyes widened in awe when he removed his hand, revealing healthy, unscarred skin.

"How did you do that?" Syra exclaimed. She had never seen humans use magic before.

Valen hesitated and chewed at his lip, "Would you...like to learn?"

"Yes, please!"

This is perfect. If I could study here, I could get stronger and search the city.

"I'll see what I can do."

Valen rose to his feet and turned to Kaelem, "She'll heal on her own. Right now, I need you to fetch King Rogan."

Kaelem hesitated, "Sir, I don't think he's in the right mind right no—"

"Now is the perfect time. Go, please?"

"Yes, sir."

Minutes later, Kaelem returned with Rogan, half beside himself.

"Valen, I thought you said you had this handled! What is so urgent that I had to leave my family?"

"Her," Valen stepped aside and Rogan's body tensed. The round, green eyes of a child spotted with burn marks drudged up a memory he was trying desperately to forget.

"What of her? Heal her and find her family. I need to return to mine."

"That's just it, sir, she has no family."

Rogan stopped.

"She was found naked and burned with no surname," Valen said.

"A throwaway?"

"We believe so."

Rogan's jaw clenched, "Damn it, another one? I'm assuming you'd like us to take her in as well?"

"She has nowhere else to go, sir. The safehouse is still full, and there are no free rooms at the Academy. Not until graduation at least. She will need a place to stay until her family is found."

Rogan huffed, "And what would you do with her? Throwaway's have very little skills."

"On the contrary, sir. She's Gifted."

Rogan paused, "Gifted, you say?" He gave Valen his full attention.

"Yes, sir. And not just that," he lowered his voice, "she's a Lightblood."

Rogan spun on his heels and stared down at Syra in near unbelief, "Are you now?"

"W-what's a 'Gifted'?" Syra asked, looking to Valen.

"Magic, my dear. Can you use it?"

Up until now she strained to comprehend the flurry of Altairan speech, but this word she knew, and her face brightened.

"Oh, yes!" Pride filled her voice and she glanced over at Kaelem, "I've been practicing."

"She's been practicing," Valen repeated, turning to Rogan.

Rogan studied his advisor, "I assume you want to enroll her into the Academy, then?"

Valen dipped his head, "I feel she would do well."

The men were silent as Rogan contemplated.

"I am not strong," Syra piped up, grabbing their attention, "and I am small. But, I am smart and practice much! So please, can I stay?"

Rogan sighed and turned away, "If she qualifies, I have no qualms with her attending. Now I ask that you leave me and my family be. At least until the funeral."

"Thank you, sir, but there is still the issue of her family," Valen called after him.

"Oh, right."

Rogan clenched his jaw and stared down into Syra's determined eyes. How was it that right after he watched one pair fade, another appeared? She was not Ethan, no matter how hard he wished those eyes belonged to his son, and that scene on the mountainside was just a stress-induced dream. But she was small and young, probably around Aidan's age, and apparently smart and hardworking. And Gifted. If he wasn't ridiculed for rejecting an able-and-willing child, he certainly would be for denying a Gifted person access to the Academy, let alone sending them—and their power—to a neighboring city. His wife certainly wouldn't let him live it down.

"We will send scouts in the morning—hopefully she has some family left to claim her."

"You would send her back to those kind of people?"

"Of course not! But she must have some proper lineage given her...abilities."

"You know that's not always the case. And—to be frank, sir—at her age, this 'family' might not even be hers."

Rogan's gaze dropped to Valen's gentle hold of Syra's arm, "You also have no family of your own, correct?"

Valen's silent wince was answer enough, but he nodded. "Your point, sir?"

"We will send the scouts in the morning with Empaths of your choosing. If they return cold, then the Academy will take her. Until then, she is your ward. She seems to like you well enough."

"But sir, she is a young girl. Would that not be inapprop—"

"Does your quarters not have a door? Keep her in the study—I assure you it's more hospitible than any shack she's been in. And like you said, it's only until graduation."

"But—"

"But as for tonight..." he silenced the fumbling mage with a finger, "I will take care of it. Seeing as you're currently preoccupied." Rogan said with a final glance about the infirmary.

Valen relented with a heavy sigh, "Very well. Thank you, sir."

"Please don't thank me." Grief saturated Rogan's low voice, "It just so happens we have an open bed tonight."

Rogan leaned over and patted Syra's disheveled head. She saw the pain hidden behind his eyes, and for a moment they shared a glimpse of empathy.

"I'm sorry for your loss, little one. I hope you can find a sense of home, here."

"Thank you," Syra said with a crack in her voice.

Rogan turned from them and headed for the castle, "Have a medic fetch her some clothes then bring her to my quarters. I'll take care of the rest."

Valen bowed as he walked away, "Yes, your majesty."