Qibli stood on one of the peaks of Jade Mountain, watching the group of seven dragons fly away to the west.

Although there were four small black NightWings flying in the group, he knew exactly which one was Moon. He’d flown with her all the way through the Sky Kingdom, to Possibility and back. He knew the way she held her wings to catch the changing winds. He recognized the way she tipped her head up to breathe in the sunlight.

If it were up to him, he’d spend every day of the rest of his life flying with her.

He certainly wouldn’t watch her soar away with a dragon who might have evil plans and definitely had superpowers.

They all fall in behind Darkstalker, letting him take the lead, he noticed, even though Darkstalker doesn’t actually know the way to the NightWing village in the rainforest. They act like he’s their leader because he acts like he’s their leader.

Maybe I should go after them. His wings twitched.

He knew he shouldn’t — it would make Darkstalker suspicious of him, and Turtle would have a better chance of spying safely without Qibli there. But he couldn’t bear this feeling, watching Moon fly away from him. Knowing that soon they’d be kingdoms apart.

He looked down at the small slate in his talons. He wished he could will a message into existence, although he knew Turtle was still flying and there was nothing to report yet. He wished the slates worked both ways, so he could send questions to Turtle; he’d already thought of five more things he wanted to ask.

The two SeaWings stood out among the black NightWings: near the back, the green, struggling form of Prince Turtle, and farther up, close behind Darkstalker, Princess Anemone, small and whitish-pinkish-blue-gray, doing flips in the sky.

Trying to show off for Darkstalker. She wants him to see that nothing frightens her. But I think she’s really a bit nervous about leaving school against her mother’s wishes. Nervous and thrilled. She’s the sort who enjoys disobeying orders, because she’s never had much chance to.

Which made it ironic and rather sad that she was so eager to follow Darkstalker. I wonder what sort of spell he has on her — is it the same as the one he has on everyone else, or is it special to her?

The sun flashed off Turtle’s green scales as the dragons banked south. Qibli was worried for him, too. The SeaWing prince had cast a spell to make himself invisible to Darkstalker, but Qibli could think of a million ways for that to go wrong.

But I should stay out of the way. Turtle’s the one with magic powers. He’s the one who can save the day, if it needs saving. That’s what special powers are for: making heroes.

If only they had let me have Darkstalker’s scroll … if only Peril hadn’t burned it. Then I’d have magic, too.

Then I could change the world. I could fix so many things, if only I had anything special or magic about me.

But he wasn’t special and he certainly didn’t have magic. In fact, he was a useless, spotted waste of scales, as his mother, brother, and sister had spent the first three years of his life reminding him.

He still heard them all the time, their voices in his head telling him how wretched he was. He tried to drown them out by concentrating on his life as an Outclaw, but the smallest thing could bring them crashing back in. Just the thought of how he’d lost the scroll — how he’d held infinite power for a moment, and then lost it forever — brought on a wave of memories of desert heat and scornful laughter.

The Scorpion Den, where Qibli grew up, was a cutthroat world of thieves, con artists, mercenaries, fences, thugs for hire, and assassins. But for really top-notch underhanded work of any kind, everyone knew there was one dragon in the city who outshone them all: Qibli’s mother.

Her name was Cobra, daughter of a powerful crime lord. Her skills were legendary among certain circles. The three guests who’d died at Queen Scarlet’s wedding years ago — everyone suspected one of Cobra’s nefarious poisons, but no one could ever prove it. The two sisters of Queen Oasis who had vanished into the night — sure, it might have been the queen herself, but why get her talons dirty when she could afford someone like Cobra?

Rumor even had it that all three SandWing princesses had tried to commission her to kill the others during the War of SandWing Succession. According to the rumor, she’d refused them all on the grounds that an ongoing war was much more profitable for her.

Qibli had heard all the rumors about his mother. He knew that the biggest mystery in the Scorpion Den was why Cobra had bothered to have her three dragonets, and why she allowed them to live.

He’d heard the whispers as he stole pouches of gold coins from under the tables in the tavern down the street.

“She hates dragonets! How does she put up with three of them making noise and taking up space in her house all day?”

“Bah, she’ll get sick of ’em sooner or later. They’ll be lucky if they get a chance to make a run for it.”

“Especially that scrawny one,” the gossipers would say with incredulous chuckles. The one with the freckled scales on his nose. The one who talks too much and notices too much and sneaks around behind her like a little trail of footprints. The one with the odd name.

That was Qibli.

Everyone said Cobra hated her dragonets, and him most of all, but he didn’t believe it.

Even when she said it, he didn’t really believe it.

Not until the day she sold him.

Qibli remembered those first three years of his life with much more clarity than most young dragons.

He remembered the hot, musty smell of the carpets that hung from their walls and covered the floors, mingling with the scent of roasting coriander in the kitchen.

He remembered the time he found a bowl with a few drops of goat’s milk left in it and licked it clean. He remembered the first time he stole something to feed himself — a runty, spotted persimmon that had fallen under a food cart — and how he hid in a fortune-teller’s tent to eat it, knowing Rattlesnake or Sirocco would snatch it away if they saw it.

He remembered the roars of dragons coming to blows on the street outside, and how everyone would fly up to the courtyard walls to watch, and the buckets of sand that hung from every wall so that they could be poured over any fires the fighting dragons might set.

Most of all he remembered lying awake night after night, beside his snoring siblings, watching his mother on the other side of the room. Lit by a single lamp, she would sharpen her blades, mix poisons, study maps and blueprints, or dismember scorpions to study and extract their venom. Qibli would feel the tension shivering through his wings as he waited, night after night, for her to look his way.

One glance in his direction — one moment where her face would soften, where her love would slip through when she thought no one was looking. That was all he wanted. Just a tiny hint of that secret inner love that he was sure she felt.

But Cobra never looked up at her dragonets, not once in all the nights he watched her.

She never looked over during the day either, while Sirocco and Rattlesnake threw him into walls, trapped his tail in doors, or buried him in sand. His brother and sister realized a lot sooner than Qibli that Cobra didn’t care at all what they did.

But Qibli kept trying. He got smarter and faster, hoping she would notice. He turned their traps back on them, learned to dodge and feint and trick them almost every time. Brute strength wouldn’t work against two dragonets that were much bigger than him, so his cleverness was the only weapon he had to ensure that he got his fair share to eat.

He was convinced that eventually his mother would have to notice that he was good enough to be worth loving.

Qibli was three and a half years old when his salvation finally walked in.

It was an otherwise ordinary day, hot as blazes, and Cobra had ordered them out into the streets because she was expecting a client. (Her exact words were: “get your ugly snouts out of here and don’t come back until dark, if you must come back at all.” Qibli was choosing to find it hopeful that she’d been looking at Sirocco when she said “ugly snouts” and at him when she said “come back,” like maybe she was subliminally revealing her true feelings. He came up with a lot of stories like this in his head.)

Other dragonets were always racing around the narrow alleyways that surrounded their house, scrapping and shouting and tussling over trinkets or prey. On that day, however, they weren’t fighting. Instead, a crowd of grubby dragonets were gathered in a circle down one of the dead ends, jostling and shouting wagers at one another.

As Rattlesnake muscled her way to the front, Qibli caught a glimpse of fur and a small, quivering, whiskered nose between the talons and tails that blocked his view.

Qibli took a few steps back, then launched himself up to the window ledge on the second floor of a nearby lamp store. From there he could see down into the cleared patch of space where all the dragonets were focusing their attention. A large scrap of orangeish fur was circling a much smaller, gray bit of fur with a long tail.

“What’s going on?” Rattlesnake demanded.

“Taking bets on how long the scritter lasts,” one of the wiry orphans answered her, flicking a wing at the gray furball. “Care to wager?” He was so covered in dirt and ashes that he looked half MudWing — which he easily might be. There were several hybrids in the Scorpion Den, since Blister wouldn’t tolerate “cross-contamination” in her army and Burn hated them as well.

Qibli squinted and realized the little creature was a spiny mouse, slightly bigger than average. Its ears trembled with terror as it darted around, blocked in on all sides by enormous talons and sunbaked scales and fiery breath. The larger animal stalking it was a cat, which meant it must be the pet of someone important, or else it would have been eaten by now.

“Stupid game,” Rattlesnake pronounced, tossing a scornful look at the two mammals. “I’d rather eat them than bet on them.”

“Yeah, but those scritters are prickly on yer tongue,” the other dragon observed. “ ’Sides, check out what the winner snags.” He jerked his head at five coconuts arranged in a small pyramid next to the wall.

Five coconuts! Qibli would have been tempted to place a bet himself, if he’d had anything to wager.

He looked back along the alley toward his house. His mother loved coconut. It was one of the things she never shared with the dragonets, on the rare occasions when she managed to get one.

I may have nothing to wager, Qibli thought, but maybe I can get one a different way.

A few moments later, the cat had the spiny mouse cornered. It prowled a step closer … another step … the mouse was petrified with fear … the cat reached out one paw …

And a bucketful of sand cascaded over the cat’s head, instantly burying it with a yowl of fury.

“Slasher!” roared one of the watching dragons. She surged forward and began digging frantically in the sand for her cat. “Who did that?”

Everyone was looking up now, but Qibli was already standing innocently in the crowd, casting bewildered looks at the sky. He took a sideways step, “accidentally” treading on the toes of a dragon he knew was prone to hysterics, and as he’d hoped, his mark started screaming melodramatically. Enough dragons jumped and surged around in the confusion that a gap opened up and the mouse darted out of the circle.

At the same time, Slasher the cat burst out of the sand, hissing and spitting furiously.

“Where’d it go?” shouted one of the dragons.

“Who won?” shouted another.

“Don’t let the scritter escape!” bellowed a third.

“It went that way!” Qibli yelled, pointing out of the alley.

Dragons stampeded past him, and in the swift, roaring chaos, he managed to snatch one of the coconuts, tuck it under his wing, and hustle out along with the thundering crowd.

At the corner, everyone scattered, searching for the little creature. Qibli made his way casually toward his own house.

An adult SandWing was lingering outside, watching the gang of dragonets descend into finger-pointing and fighting. She gave him a speculative look as he approached.

“Morning,” Qibli said, tipping his head toward her. He darted inside and scampered through into the back room where his mother always met with clients. He was in luck; whoever she was waiting for hadn’t arrived yet. She crouched, alone, behind her table, studying a document with a scrawled sketch of a dragon’s face on it.

He was also not in luck, because she was evidently in a terrible mood. Her head snapped up and she gave him an evil glare.

“Get out,” she snarled.

“I brought you something,” Qibli said quickly. He produced the coconut and held it out in his trembling talons. “I stole it for you.”

Cobra rose to her feet, spreading her wings until she seemed to fill the entire room.

“You stole a coconut,” she hissed. “And you brought it to me.” She took a step toward him.

“Yes,” he said proudly. “I know you like them, so —”

“Have I taught you nothing about survival?” she snarled. She smashed the coconut out of his talons and threw him into the wall. Qibli’s head collided painfully with a torch sconce.

“You survive!” Cobra bellowed. “That’s all you have to do! Nobody is ever going to take care of you! A dragon looks out for herself and no one else. You weak little worm, if you steal a coconut, you keep it for yourself.”

She reached out to grab him again, but just then someone cleared their throat from the doorway.

Cobra whirled around, almost nicking Qibli with her venomous tail. Through his tears, Qibli recognized the dragon who’d been watching the fray outside. She angled her head to study him sideways for a moment.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked.

“Just trying to teach my idiot son a lesson,” Cobra hissed.

“About … what exactly?” asked the stranger.

Cobra folded her wings back. “He thinks about other dragons too much. It’s going to get him killed one day.”

“Interesting,” said the other dragon. Her eyes flicked from Qibli to the coconut to Cobra, as if she were reading the story of what had just happened. “I happen to be looking for dragons who … work well with others, let’s say. I’d like to take him off your talons.”

“He’s not for sale,” said Cobra. Qibli glanced up at her. That sounded like she cared enough to want to keep him … except that she’d said it in her “opening negotiations” voice, not her “and that’s final” voice. As though she was only bartering to get a better offer.

“Give him to me,” said the other dragon, “and my Outclaws will stay out of your business.”

Cobra’s eyebrows arched. “Should I care what your little gang of ruffians does?”

“Yes. We will have full control of this city by the new year. If we’re willing to leave you alone, that’s an offer you should jump at.” The dragon stepped past Cobra and beckoned to Qibli. “Come along, dragon who cares too much.”

“I didn’t say you could take him, Thorn,” Cobra snapped.

“But I am taking him,” Thorn answered calmly.

“Why would you want him?” Cobra tried. “He’s useless. He’s completely ordinary. He’ll never do anything important.”

“Ordinary dragons do important things all the time,” said Thorn. “Or perhaps I just want him to steal me some coconuts. You don’t need to worry about it, because you won’t be seeing him again.”

“Huh,” Cobra snorted. “That would be an upside.”

Qibli looked from one to the other in disbelief. His mother was about to back down — and he’d never seen her give in to anyone except his terrifying grandfather. Who was this strange dragon who wanted to steal him? Was Cobra … afraid of her?

“What about our business?” Cobra demanded, flicking one wing out to block Qibli’s path.

“Have you found any of them?” Thorn asked, nodding at the sketch on Cobra’s desk.

“No,” Cobra answered. “Not a trace anywhere.”

Thorn frowned. “Then keep looking. Same rate until you find them.” She dropped a small, jingling sack into Cobra’s claws and turned to Qibli again. “Time to go.”

“But —” Qibli tried to protest. “My mother —”

“Doesn’t want you here,” finished Cobra. She was greedily digging about inside the sack.

Qibli blinked hard, trying to hold back his tears. His mother definitely wouldn’t want to keep him if he cried.

The strange dragon crouched in front of him, and he realized for the first time how kind her eyes were.

“You will be safe with me,” she said softly. “And wanted. And cared for.”

“B-but,” Qibli choked out, “I w-want my m-mother t-to —”

“To want you and care for you?” Thorn said, even more softly. “I know. I’m sorry she doesn’t. But your life doesn’t have to be like this. Come with me and you’ll see.”

She brushed his wing with hers and turned toward the door. Qibli took two steps after her, then looked back at his mother. Cobra was piling coins in careful stacks on her desk, but she felt his eyes on her and glanced up.

“Hoping for some last words of wisdom?” Cobra said scornfully. “Take care of yourself, lizard. You’ll never amount to much, so don’t go trying to be a hero, or you’ll just get killed. And don’t come crawling back here. How’s that?”

Thorn put her wing around Qibli and steered him toward the door. Her jaw was tense, as if she was holding back a lot of things she wanted to say.

Qibli’s home passed by him in a blur, and by the time he looked up, they were in unfamiliar streets, heading toward the other side of the city. There were palm trees here, staggered along the walls of the alleys or poking out of courtyards like curious snouts.

“Can I ask you something?” Thorn said.

He nodded.

“What did you do with the spiny mouse?”

He reached into the small pouch slung around his chest and drew out the small, trembling creature. Thorn stopped and watched him release it into a hole in one of the outer city walls.

“I figured you’d rescued it,” she said.

“They’re not really worth eating,” he said, worried now. Should he have offered it to her? What did she want him to do? If he was going to belong to her now, he should start figuring out how to make her like him. Maybe he’d already failed.

“I agree,” she said, thumping his shoulder in a friendly way. “I’d have let it go, too. It was clever, what you did. I was impressed with how you tricked everyone. Just the kind of smarts I’m looking for in my organization.”

Qibli’s heart was threatening to swell and burst right out of his chest. No one had ever praised him for anything. No one had ever noticed anything he’d ever done right.

She didn’t do it intentionally, but in that moment, Thorn won Qibli’s undying loyalty forever.

He’d thought she was the only dragon he’d ever care about that much — that he would spend his life fighting and dying for her and be happy doing so.

Until she sent him off to school and he met a dragon named Moonwatcher, and now everything felt different. He’d had a life plan: prove his loyalty, serve Thorn, be the best Outclaw possible. That life plan did not include thinking about a fascinating NightWing all the time.

Moon took up so much of his headspace. He caught himself watching her the way he used to watch Cobra, hoping for a glance that would hint she might love him back. He wanted to bring her new scrolls that would make her face light up. He wanted to make her soup when her visions gave her headaches and sing her silly songs to help her stop worrying. He wanted to fly beside her while she saved the world.

He most definitely did not want to watch her fly away, with no idea when she would ever come back.

Qibli saw a glimmer of silver farther down the mountain. It was Winter, gazing after the departing dragons with a soulfully tragic face.

Did I look like that, too, watching her leave?

Probably not. Winter has a much better snout for soulful tragedy than I do. Whenever Qibli tried to make heroic, dashing faces like Winter’s in the mirror, it mostly looked like he was trying to suck bits of scorpion out of his teeth.

“Hey,” he said, landing beside his friend. (He’d decided to fly with the label friend, although parts of him could acknowledge that it was a little optimistic.)

Winter jumped and gave him a sideways scowl. “Hrrmph,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just uh … admiring the sunrise.”

“Oh, yeah, me too,” said Qibli. “Absolutely nothing else interesting happening out here. Nope. Excellent sunrise, that’s it.”

Winter transferred his scowl to the wings that were getting smaller and smaller in the distance. “Well,” he said, “at least Darkstalker will take care of … uh, of them.”

“Moon can take care of herself,” Qibli pointed out.

“He’ll get settled in the rainforest, make some friends, and then she’ll come right back,” Winter said, ignoring Qibli. “And we can all go back to normal. Except now we have a giant magic friend who can tell us the future. That’ll be useful.”

Qibli couldn’t keep the worry off his face as he regarded Winter. He just didn’t sound like the haughty, sharp-minded IceWing prince that Qibli had come to know.

Everyone else under Darkstalker’s spell — if I’m right, and there is a spell — still sounds like themselves. They’re less suspicious of him than they probably should be, but still normalish. Winter is acting like someone’s wrapped his brain in walrus blubber.

“How can everything go back to normal?” Qibli asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead? What happens when your queen finds out you’ve popped up back at school? Or your parents? Won’t that be a little awkward for your brother, who supposedly killed you?”

Winter hesitated. “I … I’m not sure,” he said. “My name must be gone from the rankings wall by now. I think if I choose to stay in exile, it shouldn’t make any difference to my queen or my family. I’m as good as dead to them anyway.” He paused again, then added in a lower voice, “I do worry about Hailstorm. I wasn’t going to come back to school, but … ” He trailed off.

But Moon was here, Qibli finished in his head, feeling imaginary claws sink into his heart. And he’d risk anything to be with her.

Qibli thought he would do the same, but he’d never been tested like Winter, sent through the cold darkness of betrayal and certain death. How could he ever think he’d be worthy of Moon, when she could choose someone like Winter?

Or at least, the real Winter — the one underneath the weird spell.

I have to get him back. For his sake and for hers. Once he’s thinking for himself again, we can figure out what to do about Moon and Darkstalker.

I have to break Darkstalker’s spell on him.

But how?