DIES IRAE
Dies Irae could barely hold the reins. His shoulder ached. The armor was dented, and blood seeped through its joints. His griffin, Volucris, was also wounded; his fur smoked and stank, and blood poured down his sides. Dies Irae clenched his jaw and clung to Volucris as he flew. Smoke filled his nostrils, and he grunted and coughed.
It seemed an eternity before he saw land ahead. A beach of black rocks stretched for a hundred yards, giving way to a forest of elms and birches. Gritting his teeth, Dies Irae directed Volucris to the shore. His ears ached as he descended. He landed upon the rocky beach.
Grimacing, Dies Irae alighted from Volucris, then stood before the foaming sea. He removed his pauldron. Beneath the gilded steel, his shoulder was a mess. A bruise was already spreading, and the skin was cracked and bleeding.
Disgusting reptile, Dies Irae thought. Lady Mirum had been hiding him all this time. Dies Irae wished he could club her again, hear the crack of her skull. He should fly back to her body and let Volucris eat it.
He clenched his good fist. Kyrie Eleison. A living weredragon.
Dies Irae spat. How could one of the monsters have escaped him for so long? Dies Irae decided not to kill the boy. No. Once he mustered reinforcement, he would capture the monstrosity, chain him, and display him as a freak for Osanna to jeer at. The last member of a wretched race, Kyrie would become a side show, a curiosity for a menagerie.
Dies Irae sat down with a grunt. Where is Gloriae? he wondered. Last he saw, she was swimming toward a boulder, bruised and battered. Had she flown back to land, or still remained at sea? Either way, she would live. He'd seek her soon.
Fingers stiff, Dies Irae caressed the amulet that hung around his neck, the amulet that contained the blood of the griffin king. As always, touching the amulet calmed him. The Griffin Heart. For centuries, it had hung around the necks of his ancestors, a jewel of Requiem's courts.
When Volucris saw the amulet, he bucked and clawed the air.
"Yes, Volucris," Dies Irae whispered. "Yes, it hurts to see, does it not? It burns your eyes."
The griffin growled, and Dies Irae patted him. Volucris mewled and clawed the beach. Dies Irae remembered that day long ago, the day he took the Griffin Heart, took the amulet that should have always been his.
"For one hundred generations, the Griffin Heart went to the firstborn," he had said that day, a younger man, not yet forty and still full of youth's rage and strength. "Father! How dare you deny me this?" Tears had stung his eyes, and his voice had quavered.
His father sat upon Requiem's throne of twisting oak roots, the throne now chopped up and burned. The king looked down upon Dies Irae, his firstborn, the giftless son. His shame. The shame of the court.
"My son," the king said, "I have told you. This court is forbidden to you. How dare you enter it? How dare you demand a gift from me?"
Around the court of Requiem, the lords stared silently, grim, hands on their sword hilts. They wore green and silver, dragons embroidered onto their tunics. Beyond the columns, Dies Irae could see Requiem Forest, the hoary birches that spread for leagues. Birds chirruped and griffins flew above.
Standing below the throne, Dies Irae glared at his father. "I will not hide in my chambers any longer. I will not sit with the women of your court, learning to scribe, learning to count, learning to become some servant to you. I am your firstborn. I demand the—"
"You are a disgrace!" Father shouted, rising to his feet. Dies Irae froze and stared. So did the lords of the court. Even the birds fell silent. The King of Requiem stood, white hair wild, liver-spotted fists clenched.
"Father," Dies Irae whispered, lips trembling.
The king took a step toward him, jaw clenched. "How dare you demand anything from me? I do not know whose son you are, boy. You cannot turn into a dragon. What kind of Vir Requis are you? You think you can lead this people, sit upon this throne, use the Griffin Heart to tame them? You are no son of mine. I do not know what human my wife bedded, or how you were begotten, but—"
Dies Irae shouted, tears falling. "I am no bastard son! I am your son. The son of the king. No, I cannot turn into a dragon. I lack the gift. Others do too. Dozens of us were born this way, but you banish us. You make us your servants, but we're not weak. I will take the Griffin Heart. I will wear the amulet. I might not have dragon wings, but I will have griffin ones. And when I control the griffins, you will pay, Father, you will—"
"Brother!" came a voice from behind, and Dies Irae's voice died. Shaking with fury, he spun around to see Benedictus.
His younger brother was entering the hall. He wore green and gray, forest garb. He must have been out hunting, as was his wont. His black curls clung to his brow with sweat.
"Benedictus!" Dies Irae called across the hall. "Prince Benedictus, I should say. Heir to our throne. Baby brother." The words tasted vile.
Benedictus. Born to replace him, Dies Irae, the elder son. Benedictus, the second born. The great Vir Requis prince, able to become the great black dragon. Future king. You too will kneel before me, Dies Irae swore. You too will beg for mercy when the Griffin Heart hangs around my neck.
"Brother," Benedictus said and reached out callused hands. "Father. Please. Do not yell. Perhaps we can give the Griffin Heart to Dies Irae, Father. If I was born to sit upon the throne, he can sit beside me, rule the griffins for me."
Dies Irae spat. "I'll do nothing for you," he said. His hand strayed toward his sword. "I am first born, and I'll not see you sit upon any throne. If I cannot have this throne for myself, and myself only, I will destroy it. I will rule this kingdom, or I will burn it."
With a hiss, he drew 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.