To Jason
who supported this story
from my earliest babbling about ankylosaur battles
all the way to publication
DINOSAURS OF CRETACEA
THE MOUNTAIN KINGDOM
Iguanodon
Name in the Old Stories: Spikegrip
Notable Territory: The King’s Domain, the Tumbling Stream
Iguanodons are large herbivores. They possess spiked thumbs to wield in combat and to strip foliage from trees.
Oryctodromeus
Name in the Old Stories: Earthsinger
Notable Territory: The Broken Ridge, the Twilight Vale
Oryctodromeus are small, speedy herbivores that dig underground burrows. In the Cretacean war, they serve as soldiers, trench diggers, and crafters.
Stegoceras
Name in the Old Stories: Ridgebone
Notable Territory: The Sunless Meadow, the Flowering Crest
Stegoceras are relatively small herbivores that use their domed heads to ram their enemies in combat. They fight in large squadrons, overwhelming mightier foes by sheer force of numbers.
THE PRAIRIE ALLIANCE
Ankylosaur
Name in the Old Stories: Bristler
Notable Territory: The Fern Lea, the Scrub Plains
Ankylosaurs are large herbivores with armored boneplates protruding from their backs. They use their vicious clubbed tails to strike down enemies.
Triceratops
Name in the Old Stories: Moonchaser
Notable Territory: The Lowland Marsh, the Graystone Dale
Triceratops are large herbivores with a distinctive trio of horns on their faces. They use their great size and strength to engage in battle.
NEUTRAL SPECIES
Anurognathid
Name in the Old Stories: Windwhisper
Notable Territory: Lightning Peak
Anurognathids are tiny bird-sized pterosaurs that consume a mixture of plants and insects. They take no side in the war, preferring to serve their own interests as crafters or mercenary spies.
Sauropod
Name in the Old Stories: Starsweeper
Notable Territory: The Cold Canyon
Sauropods are the largest dinosaurs alive, with extremely long necks and tails. They belong to no kingdom, but travel along the Cold Canyon collecting myths and stories.
CARNIVORES OF THE DEADLANDS
Carnotaurus
Name in the Old Stories: Thorneyes
Carnotaurus resemble tyrannosaurs at a glance, although they are stockier and sprout horns above their eyes.
Pterosaur
Name in the Old Stories: Skyprowler
Pterosaurs are massive winged predators. They soar above Cretacea and swoop down to pluck their prey from the earth below.
Raptor
Name in the Old Stories: Nightslicer
Raptors are small, vicious carnivores that roam the Deadlands in search of prey. To compensate for their stature, raptors tend to hunt in packs.
Tyrannosaur
Name in the Old Stories: Coldclaw
Tyrannosaurs are the largest carnivores in the Deadlands. They use their massive jaws and fearsome bite strength to tear apart their prey.
CHAPTER ONETHE STARSWEEPERS
Nightfall leaked into the warren, cold and gray. Eleri tensed in the gloom, his long tail curled around his body. Lichen crinkled as other dinosaurs nestled into neighboring burrows. How long would it take his herd to fall asleep?
As Eleri drew a sharp breath, nerves tingled from his gray face to his speckled legs. His feathers prickled down his spine. His herd lived in the complex web of tunnels they’d dug, sheltered from enemy troops—and wild carnivores. But right now, the last place Eleri wanted to be stuck was underground. He had plans for tonight.
Be still. Be silent.
Eleri repeated the mantra in his head, counting the minutes. Around the corner, his father gave a muffled snort. A snore, or was that just wishful thinking?
If Eleri couldn’t sneak out tonight, he wouldn’t get another chance. His homeland, the Mountain Kingdom, was at war with the Prairie Alliance. The enemy’s triceratops army was on the march—and there were rumors of an ankylosaur siege at the edge of the kingdom. Whenever the war flared up, young oryctodromeus like Eleri were confined to the warren, all the entrances guarded. If he didn’t go tonight, it would be too late.
Now or never.
Eleri rose, muscles clenching as he struggled not to crunch his lichen nest. He tiptoed on his hind legs, balanced by his sweeping tail. His claws were tools for digging tunnels … or tonight, for sneaking out of them.
He crept forward, throat tight as he passed each sleeping nook. His herdmates curled in their nests, feathers rustling as they dreamed. A carved stone marked the Heir’s Cavern, where his brother Agostron slept. Agostron was the perfect soldier: strong, sensible, and fiercely patriotic to the Mountain Kingdom.
Beside him, Eleri was … nothing.
A disappointment.
That was the word his father had used. He’d spoken it in hushed whispers, when he thought that Eleri was out of earshot. Nothing like his brother, I’m afraid. A disappointment, that one …
Eleri’s throat clenched. He didn’t care. He didn’t need approval. Who cared about the Wise Ones, anyway? All they did was dig holes, obsessing about tunnel width and burrow depth. Eleri had other plans for his life. One day he would journey beyond the warren. He would explore faraway lands, collecting the tales of their herds. He would venture where the clouds swelled and ebbed, teasing him toward the horizon …
Where the sky wasn’t dirt, but starlight.
Outside, the air was tangy: a stark contrast to the cool damp of the warren. The breeze bristled, sharp with grit. Ash storms were rare nowadays, fifty years after the Fallen Star had struck, but they did sometimes occur.
Just dirt, Eleri told himself. The Deadlands weren’t burning tonight, and the distant Fire Peak wasn’t ablaze.
His family’s warren lay deep within the Mountain Kingdom. Even if the Prairie Alliance sent a scouting party, it would be easy to hear a gang of ankylosaurs or triceratops smashing through the undergrowth. Horn heads weren’t exactly known for their subtlety.
Instead, he feared the carnivores.
The carnivores held no allegiances. They belonged to no kingdoms or armies. They lived alone—and they killed alone. Like the pterosaur that had snatched Eleri’s mother, plucking her from the Broken Ridge when Eleri and Agostron were still in their eggshells. And so Eleri crept in silence, his claws scrabbling in time with the patter of his heart.
Crunch.
Eleri froze. He whipped around, scanning the undergrowth for signs of movement. Crunch. There it was again: a clawstep in the dark …
If a raptor lunged from the brush, Eleri wouldn’t stand a chance. Carnivores didn’t care that he was a sworn citizen of the Mountain Kingdom. To them, he was just a snack—a trifle to crush between their teeth.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t breathe …
“Eleri?” a voice whispered.
Relief roiled through him, wild and giddy. Then came exasperation as the speaker prowled into a patch of moonlight and Eleri recognized his brother. Agostron clutched a precious starfleck in his claw, using its crystalline shine to cast a path between the trees.
Eleri forced a cool smirk, concealing his moment of panic. “Good evening, Brother Dearest. Nice night for a stroll.”
“You’re a fool!” Agostron hissed, scurrying forward. He loomed above Eleri, making the most of his height and heft. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”
“Only if you tattle on me.”
“Flaming feathers!” Agostron swore.
“Watch it, Princeling.” Eleri threw him a grin. “The Wise Ones don’t approve of cursing. What would they say if they heard their future leader using such language?”
Agostron’s tail gave an unhappy flick. “You’ve got to come back—it’s too dangerous to be out at night.”
Eleri stood his ground. “I can’t miss tonight, you know that! It’ll be a whole year before they’re back again.”
Agostron groaned. “By the stars, you’ve got less brains than a stegoceras. I should’ve known this’d be about them…”
“Hey, I’ve known some perfectly nice stegoceras.”
“That’s not the point!”
Eleri turned from his brother, resuming his trek through the undergrowth. “You’re welcome to tag along, if you like.”
“Tag along?” Agostron hurried after him. “I’m not going to ‘tag along,’ Eleri. I’m going to fulfill my duties as heir. The safety of this herd is my responsibility.”
Was Eleri imagining it, or was there a cold undercurrent in Agostron’s tone? His voice stiffened on the word “heir”—as if to remind Eleri of his superior rank.
“I’m your brother,” Eleri pointed out. “Not just a herd member.”
“I won’t show favor to relatives.”
“You keep telling yourself that, but we all know the truth. Deep down, you want to see the show too.”
“Your skull is overstuffed with daydreams,” Agostron snapped. “It’s time to take your responsibilities seriously.”
“I do,” Eleri said. “Doesn’t mean I can’t take my daydreams seriously too.”
Agostron gave an irritable huff.
As the brothers padded toward the Broken Ridge, the breeze grew stronger. It blew from the Deadlands—and even now, it carried the reek of decay.
Fifty years ago, the Fallen Star had brought death and despair, ash and toxic rain. Thousands of dinosaurs had died on impact. Millions had starved as forests withered and seas boiled. A strange mist had encircled the world, staining its victims with starlight.
But some survived. A few rare herds dwelled in sheltered ravines or found hidden canyons where the forests still grew.
When the dust settled, the true impact of the Fallen Star had emerged. Although the starmist had faded, the surviving dinosaurs had … changed. Their minds grew alert, rich with songs and thoughts and language. They learned to speak. To dream. To share their stories. To trade resources and form alliances.
To wage war.
Agostron was a born warrior, intensely loyal to his herd and kingdom. But from the day he’d hatched, Eleri had been weaker than his peers. As the runt of the herd, he barely reached his brother’s shoulders.
Eleri was no warrior. He dreamed of becoming a storyteller—of traveling the world and collecting legends of distant lands. Of bringing those stories back to the Mountain Kingdom. He would share breathtaking tales of trickery and bravery, cleverness and heroism, while his herdmates listened in awe …
But in wartime, such dreams cracked like eggshells.
Eleri was doomed to be a digger: a disposable soldier who scrabbled at the dirt to aid the war effort. Unless he ran away, he would spend his life gouging trenches on the battlefield, his hopes and feathers stained with mud.
Just a disappointment.
But tonight, Eleri took the lead. He scurried along the Broken Ridge, which capped the peak of a narrow crag. When the trail plunged into darkness on either side, Eleri used his tail for balance. Scraggly trees rose from the edges, painting creases in the night sky.
“No need to run!” Agostron huffed, bustling after him. “And I should go first—I’m the one with the starfleck.”
Eleri glanced at the light in his brother’s claw. Starflecks were precious fragments of the Fallen Star. When they burned, they increased the strength and speed of their bearer. It was wasteful to burn a fleck tonight, but Agostron could afford to fritter away its power. As future Prince of the Broken Ridge, he had a steady supply from those hoping to win his favor.
Beside him, Eleri walked in shadow.
Beyond the ridge, they climbed a gravel slope. Pebbles skittered, but their claws gave them grip and leverage. One at a time, the brothers scrambled up to the Southern Lookout.
“We made it!” Eleri puffed. “Just in time for the show.”
He hurried to the edge of the Lookout, eyes widening as he drank in the view. From here, the whole of Cretacea seemed his to claim. Rangy cliffs protruded beneath him, like the teeth of a long-dead carnivore.
Eleri drew a deep breath, tasting the night. This was his home. His world. The open sky, littered with stars, and the endless plains beyond. Not the damp, stuffy old warren.
“I don’t like this.” Agostron’s voice was a growl. He clenched his claw around the starfleck, cutting off its light. “We’re too exposed here. It’s too open.”
Eleri ignored him, focusing on the sweep of the landscape below. The Mountain Kingdom trailed down from cliffs into foothills. The kingdom was a knot of peaks and vales, home to herds of iguanodons, stegoceras, and oryctodromeus. Far below, the Cold Canyon split the landscape in half, slithering away to the southern horizon.
West of the canyon, foothills melted into a patchwork of scrub and gorges, home to the Prairie Alliance. Out on the plains, triceratops and ankylosaurs banded together, waging war against the Mountain Kingdom in an attempt to claim its fertile land.
On the prairie, a dark mass was gathering. Eleri couldn’t make out any details, but it wasn’t hard to recognize the shape of a mustering army. His insides tightened. It was true, then. The Prairie Alliance planned a fresh attack. Every siege, the Alliance claimed more land. Every battle, their onslaught pushed farther.
One by one, the foothills fell into enemy claws.
But the war was reaching a tipping point. Day by day, the number of soldiers dwindled. No one admitted it aloud, but Eleri had heard the rumors. The elders spoke of it in hushed tones, whispering their worries in the dark of the warren.
Sooner or later, the war must end. One kingdom would win—and the other would lose. And when that happened, King Torive of the Prairie was determined to claim these peaks as his own.
In the silence, Eleri refocused on the canyon’s east side. There, the view held something far more sinister than an army.
“The Deadlands,” he whispered. “Hey, do you think—”
“The migration’s starting,” Agostron cut in. “Since you went to all the effort of sneaking out, I assume you’d like to actually see it?” His mouth curled. “Or has your attention span shrunk to match your height?”
Eleri whirled back, stung by the jab. Growing up, he had always liked to think of Agostron’s insults as brotherly teasing—but recently, the heir’s words had … sharpened. As if something acidic had seeped into the mockery.
Then he heard them. Footsteps. Dozens of footsteps, creaking like mountains. With a rush of anticipation, Eleri pushed Agostron’s insult from his mind. He gazed into the Cold Canyon, searching for the source of the noise.
The starsweepers were coming.
Clouds shifted, spilling moonlight into the canyon. Eleri’s insides flipped as light fell across their bodies: huge and heaving, their necks as tall as trees and their tails as long as rivers …
“It’s them!” He leaned forward in excitement. “Flaming feathers, it’s really them…”
“Now you watch your language,” Agostron muttered.
The final herd of sauropods—the largest dinosaurs left alive—lumbered along in the night. These bards and poets traveled up and down the canyon each year, spreading tales from the farthest corners of Cretacea.
Wise and ancient, the giant sauropods didn’t care for petty wars or border squabbles. They simply traveled, year after year, decade after decade. They were living, walking stories. According to legend, they had swept the stars across the skies, using their elongated necks to scatter specks of light across Cretacea.
In Eleri’s wildest dreams, he made the journey with them.
“How long do you reckon they’ll stay this year?” Eleri breathed.
“Not long,” Agostron said. “Not with another battle brewing.”
“But no one would dare attack them! They’ve got the favor of the stars on their side.”
“Doesn’t matter. They don’t like violence.”
Eleri nodded. His brother was right, of course. Sometimes, the sauropods stayed in the lower foothills for a few days, grazing in preparation for their journey north. But this year, they wouldn’t linger. The giants would continue their migration, passing through the Mountain Kingdom into the Unknown North.
By tomorrow, they’d likely be gone.
“Well, we saw them,” Agostron said dismissively. “One last time, at least. Time to head home.”
Eleri threw him a sharp look. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“‘One last time’—like they’re about to die out or something.”
Agostron shrugged. “Their herd shrinks every year. And I don’t see any hatchlings, do you?”
“But—”
“You’re too softhearted, Eleri. Grow up and face reality.”
Eleri glared, preparing a retort. Of course, countless herds and species had died since the Fallen Star, but this was different. These were the starsweepers. They couldn’t just … die. It would be like a story dying.
Before he could speak, a sharp cry stabbed the night. Eleri flinched, tossing his head skyward to spot the source of the screech.
Dark wings blotted the stars.
“Run!” Agostron screamed. “Run, Eleri!”
For a moment, Eleri stared. Then he tore after his brother, skittering down the slope in a churn of grime and gravel. Dust flew into his face, and he spluttered as his claws scrabbled for purchase.
High above, the pterosaur dove.
CHAPTER TWOWINGS AND HORNS
Psssrhieeeek!
The pterosaur screeched, a whirlwind of claws and hunger. Agostron spun toward the Broken Ridge, but Eleri yanked him back with a cry. “Not that way, it’ll just pick us off!”
“Then where…?”
“Follow me!”
Oryctodromeus were fast on their feet, and Eleri was the quickest youngster in the herd. He vaulted onto a stack of boulders below and hurtled down another gravel slope.
Agostron skidded after him, cursing as talons flashed overhead. Eleri ducked, raising his foreclaws in a futile attempt to ward off the attack, but the pterosaur missed them in the darkness. It wheeled away, arcing in a tight circle, as it prepared to swoop back for a fresh assault.
Psssrhieeeeeek!
Eleri leaped behind a boulder, helpless as a hatchling. His breath rasped as Agostron thudded behind him. The pterosaur whistled above their heads—and this time, its claws raked the top of Agostron’s brow. The heir screeched in pain, his voice half a sob of shock.
“Come on!” Eleri shoved him, urging him down the slope. “Those trees!”
Agostron gave a shaky nod, blood dripping into his eyes. They plunged into the undergrowth, zigging and zagging for cover. Each breath stung, hot and ragged. But the fo- liage was sparse—and with a sharp jolt, Eleri reached an open clearing. No, not open. Someone else had claimed this clearing. He wrenched to a halt, body stiffening as his gaze fixed in horror …
A trio of scouts from the Prairie Alliance.
Two grizzled ankylosaurs stood beside a young triceratops. Like all ankylosaurs, these massive beasts had bristling armored backplates—and vicious tail clubs that could kill with a blow. The lead ankylosaur wore a starfleck on his brow, marking his status as a commander.
Eleri froze, torn between fear and confusion. What were they doing here, so close to the Broken Ridge?
The scouts hadn’t seen Eleri, but they’d heard the ruckus. They spun, searching for the source. In the foliage behind Eleri, Agostron quavered.
Dark wings flared overhead.
Eleri’s blood ran cold. In a wild flash, he pictured another pterosaur—and another victim. Although he hadn’t seen it happen, he had dreamed the scene over and over. His mother screaming as talons raked her spine and a monster swept her from the Broken Ridge into the night …
“Run!” Eleri cried, stumbling forward. “Pterosaur!”
It took a moment for his warning to register. At first, he didn’t realize that he’d shouted it. But then the young triceratops bellowed, rearing on her hind legs and snarling at the carnivore as it skimmed above her head.
Startled, the pterosaur banked away, and again, it barely missed its prey. As the Prairie soldiers roared at it, the carnivore skimmed the canopy, disappearing into darkness.
Silence.
Eleri stood, frozen and exposed. In his panic, he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d shouted a warning to save the enemy—and stumbled into their grasp.
Stupid. So stupid …
The Prairie scouts lumbered toward him, huge and menacing. The young female triceratops was double his height and at least ten times his weight. And as for the ankylosaurs …
Eleri was going to die. But he refused to go down without a fight. He was faster, wasn’t he? Nimbler. What he lacked in strength, he owned in speed.
He raised his foreclaws.
“Tortha!” The first ankylosaur’s voice was a creaking boom. “It’s high time you made your first kill.”
The young triceratops blinked, staring at Eleri with an odd intensity. Eleri returned her gaze, claws raised and heart pounding. He couldn’t reach her eyes—not with those horns in the way. Where else was she vulnerable? Her throat? Her heart? Nowhere he could easily reach, not without being crushed …
But the young soldier didn’t move.
“Tortha of the Lowland Marsh!” the second ankylosaur barked. “You face an enemy combatant. Do your duty, soldier.”
The triceratops hesitated. She glanced at her commanders, her expression tight behind her horn. When she spoke, her voice hitched with the sharp Rs of an outer prairie twang. “But sir, the Laws of Noble Combat say you can’t—”
“Do. Your. Duty.”
Tortha turned.
Eleri fled.
His body exploded into action with all the force of an unleashed strand of lightning. Muscles tensed and released. Claws flashed. He dashed into the undergrowth, careening under ferns and over tangled roots. He reached the gravel slope—and then Agostron was beside him, hurtling through the dark …
“The ridge!” Eleri rasped.
He ran and ran, panting and heaving, scrambling up the gravel slope.
At the top, he dashed out onto the Broken Ridge. Agostron followed—and together, the brothers bolted along the narrow trail of stone. Darkness fell away to either side, each abyss a hungry maw. Halfway across, Eleri hurtled to a halt. Whirling, he scanned the landscape for their pursuers.
Nothing.
The Prairie scouts had stopped, muscles tight with fury. Their enormous bodies were too heavy to risk crossing the Broken Ridge.
Eleri remembered the Tale of Astrilar the Wise, ancient queen of the Fire Peak, who had saved her herd by leading them across a narrow path between two gurgling pits of lava. The Broken Ridge wasn’t quite so dramatic, but this echo of his favorite story made Eleri’s heart race.
Still fighting for breath, he turned to Agostron with a hysterical laugh. “We made it! We got away…”
But his brother wasn’t smiling.
Agostron stared at him, dark eyes cold in his pale gray face. Blood dripped from the wound on his forehead. When he finally spoke, his word sliced the night like a raptor’s claws.
“Traitor,” he said.
CHAPTER THREETHE MOUNTAIN COURT
The warren thrummed, as hectic as a hive of insects. Oryctodromeus soldiers poured into the night, fast and frantic, claws raised and eyes darting.
Clearly, the absence of the heir had been noted.
Twenty yards from the entrance, Eleri’s insides tangled. “Agostron, please … I didn’t mean … I couldn’t just watch that thing swoop down and—”
“You could have. You should have.” Agostron’s voice was raw. “Those soldiers are our enemies. They might have died tonight if you hadn’t warned them.”
“But they—”
“And in the battle tomorrow? If they slay our soldiers, whose fault will that be? You know what’s at stake, Eleri. Every season, the Prairie hordes claim more of our land. With every siege, they move closer to our homes.”
Eleri blinked. “I…”
“If those Prairie soldiers kill our comrades, the blood of the Mountain Kingdom will be on your claws.” Agostron’s voice tightened. “I can’t show favor to my brother. I just … I can’t. You must face justice, like any traitor.”
“But they’ll send me to the Deadlands!”
“I serve my kingdom.” Agostron’s claws clenched on the final word. After a long moment he straightened, drawing a deep breath. “One day I will lead this herd, Eleri. I have a duty to defend it.”
Eleri opened his mouth to retort, but it was too late. The crowd jostled across the clearing, figures flicking between shadow and moonlight.
They’ll send me to the Deadlands …
According to legend, the Deadlands had once been magnificent forest. But the Fallen Star had obliterated the land, burning it to ash and poison. Now it was an endless sea of charred bones and barren wastes.
Eleri inhaled, his tail tight and feathers bristling. Apart from wild carnivores, the only inhabitants of the Deadlands were exiles. These were dinosaurs who had committed crimes beyond forgiveness: killing an ally, stealing an egg … or betraying their kingdom.
Agostron refused to meet his gaze. He focused on the rest of the herd and drew another deep breath, as if steeling himself for the task ahead. Then he waved a foreclaw, demanding the Wise Ones’ attention.
The elders burst into a flurry of questions.
“Where have you been?”
“Are you hurt?”
“Agostron, you’re wounded! How…?”
Agostron cut them off, rising high on his hindquarters. In that moment, as he reared in the moonlight, he wasn’t a youngster. He was a prince in waiting, with a crown of blood on his brow. For the first time, Eleri saw his brother as he truly was. Cold, regal, majestic …
… and pitiless.
“I have news,” Agostron said.
The crowd fell silent.
“Earlier tonight, my brother defied protocol. He snuck out alone from the warren. He refused to return to safety, despite my express instructions as heir.”
There were mutterings of disapproval.
“I followed to keep him safe—every member of this herd is my responsibility, no matter how foolish. But what I witnessed can barely be described.”
Agostron paused.
As the tension stretched, Eleri clenched his claws. More than anything, he had yearned for his herdmates to hear his stories. For their eyes to widen and their breath to quicken, enraptured by his words as a storyteller.
But now Agostron’s story was all that mattered. If Eleri dared to contradict their beloved heir, he would only make things worse. The elders loved Agostron. They tolerated Eleri. In the elders’ eyes, any protest would prove that Agostron was right—that Eleri was too rebellious. Disrespectful.
Traitorous.
“A pterosaur swooped toward us.” Agostron gestured at the bleeding cut above his eyes. “While I used my training to camouflage in the foliage, my brother blundered into an enemy scouting party.”
A sharp sting filled Eleri’s throat.
“Before I could intervene, the pterosaur dove to attack our foes.” Agostron raised a claw. “I thought that a great victory was upon us—a chance to watch the blood of the Prairie Alliance be spilled! An omen of the stars, foretelling our victory on the battlefield tomorrow.”
The elders stared, tense with anticipation.
“And yet my brother shouted a warning.”
Silence.
For the first time since beginning his tale, Agostron met Eleri’s gaze. The sharpness was back: the cold curl of his mouth, a glint of disdain in his eyes. But this time, Agostron wasn’t just delivering an insult.
He was delivering an accusation.
“Treachery.” Agostron bowed his head in regret. “It was an act of treachery, Wise Ones. My brother saved our enemies’ lives.”
The herd broke into murmurs.
Eleri stood still, numb with fear. His throat clenched, just as it had when the pterosaur had swooped—but this time, it was a different terror. That fear had been hot and fast. This was cold, slow, and toxic. This couldn’t be happening.
Could it?
The largest oryctodromeus stepped forward. The Prince of Broken Ridge wore a crown of thorns threaded loosely into his dark blue feathers. His craggy face was as coarse as the cliffs, and his dark eyes stared from a nest of wrinkles.
Eleri’s heart sank. “Father…”
The prince of the herd didn’t speak. He stared at his youngest son, his disappointment raw. Eleri scuffed his hind claws in the dirt, unable to face his father’s stare. In the Old Stories, oryctodromeus were called “earthsingers”—but right now, their most powerful weapon was silence.
Across the clearing, quiet fell.
“My little Eleri…”
His father’s voice was hoarse, almost a rasp. He shook his head slowly, as if struggling to find a way out of this. A way to avoid the proclamation he must make. “Sometimes, Eleri, you are so like your mother…,” he whispered. “I see her dreams in you.”
But Agostron stepped forward, eyes tight and claws raised.
“Eleri has betrayed us, Father,” Agostron repeated, loud enough for the others to hear. “We all know what must be done, for the good of the Mountain Kingdom.”
The herd murmured. Several of the elders nodded, eyes sharp and heads raised.
Eleri’s father stared at them, his own expression trapped. Then his face hardened—and he stepped in front of Agostron, as if to reestablish his rank. The herd watched: a sea of wide eyes and expectation.
“Eleri of the Broken Ridge,” he said heavily, “you have not only betrayed our herd. You have betrayed our entire kingdom.”
The wind tripped across the rocks, sharp with grit. Eleri caught the stink of sulfur in the air—an errant gust from the Deadlands.
“And for that,” his father said, voice cracking, “you must face the Mountain Court.”
* * *
The Mountain Court met at dawn.
It was a gathering of the kingdom’s most important dinosaurs: the rulers of every herd and King Nylius himself. Stegoceras, iguanodons, and oryctodromeus met atop the highest peak. Messengers had been sent across the crests and valleys, forewarning the lords of each herd that a defendant would be tried today.
Just before dawn, Eleri climbed the mountain. Alone.
His father was already at the summit, awaiting his arrival. Again, Eleri remembered those overheard whispers. Nothing like his brother, I’m afraid. A disappointment, that one …
Eighty yards below the court, Eleri paused next to a cliffside plateau. It jutted into the frigid sky, wide and imposing. Behind the plateau, a cavern punctured the mountainside. The King’s Domain was home to King Nylius and his herd of royal iguanodons. In that cavern, the king was likely preparing to hold court. Right now, his assistant might even be placing the Crown of Judgment on his brow.
Eleri’s stomach flipped.
He hurried up the path, mouth dry and shoulders tight. But at the next bend, Eleri jolted to a halt. Ahead, the path curved around a stack of boulders. Between the rocks, a narrow crack threaded into the cliff, a back entrance to the king’s private chambers.
And there, two figures lurked in the shadows.
Eleri shrank behind the boulders, heart racing. The first figure was King Nylius: a muscular iguanodon, his authority writ from his sharply ridged head to his sweeping tail and vicious spiked thumbs.
But it wasn’t the king who drew Eleri’s attention. It was the second figure, lurking in the shadows: a beady-eyed stranger, with razor-sharp teeth and grasping foreclaws, ready to impale the throats of its prey.
It was a raptor.
Eleri’s muscles tightened, every instinct jerking him backward. Ever since the Fallen Star, carnivores had dwelled in the Deadlands. This raptor was a wild beast, a predator. It would happily feast on the bones of every dinosaur in the Mountain Kingdom.
So why was it here?
And why was King Nylius talking to it?
Eleri’s breath quickened as the conversation continued. He couldn’t make out any words, but King Nylius looked agitated, waving a spiked foreclaw. Then the king turned back to his royal cavern, slipping away into the dark.
The raptor glanced around, its beady eyes flashing, before it scuttled into a patch of brush. It avoided the main path, picking its own way down the slope to avoid prying eyes.
Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty …
The raptor was gone. Still, Eleri forced himself to count to sixty before he moved again, drawing a deep breath to propel himself up the path. His body pulsed with nerves. It didn’t make sense. The king should have summoned the guards, or sounded an alert …
Something wasn’t right.
Was it a diplomatic envoy? No, that made no sense. The carnivores were a disorganized rabble. They couldn’t even form an army, let alone a kingdom of their own.
Was this a trade deal? No, the predators had nothing to trade. They lurked in the Deadlands, where the sky was choked with ash and the Fire Peak snarled. No natural resources, apart from broken stone. Perhaps …
But as Eleri climbed higher, rounding the final bend, all thoughts of the raptor were wiped from his mind.
The Mountain Court lay waiting.
It was a vast, cold expanse of rock. Eleri had seen it before, of course, but never as a defendant. In the past, it had seemed a grand monument to the kingdom: a stony crown at the nation’s peak.
Today it lay stark and bare.
His legs quavered, threatening to buckle. What had he been thinking, crying out to save his enemies? He had been so reckless. So foolish. One shout in the dark—and now his future hung in the balance. Again he thought of his mother, snatched by a pterosaur while Eleri was still in his eggshell. If someone had shouted a warning cry, perhaps she …
Don’t think it, Eleri ordered himself.
Should he have let the Prairie soldiers die? The question had two answers, battling like armies: the instinct in Eleri’s gut … and the contempt in Agostron’s eyes. You’re too softhearted, Eleri. Grow up and face reality.
The court had already assembled, composed of the rulers of each Mountain herd. They stood in a solemn circle, waiting for Eleri to take his place in their center. His throat tingled as he took his position by the Rock of Judgment.
To his left stood the Prince of the Tumbling Stream. He led a prominent herd of iguanodons, who dwelled in fields and caves by a waterfall. His crown of waterweeds twitched, its fronds prickling in the gritty breeze.
The Prince of the Tumbling Stream held a high position in the court, thanks to his status as an Eye of the Forgotten. In some rare cases, the mist of the Fallen Star had brought strange dreams. These were visions of the distant past—and of ancient tales that the dreamer shouldn’t know. In their sleep, they saw shadowy flashes of the world before the star had fallen.
A world lost forever.
According to legend, Astrilar the Wise had been the first Eye of the Forgotten. She had used her visions to guide her herd to the Fire Peak, saving them while the world burned. These powers were rare, but they still existed. Such dinosaurs were held in high regard, and their visions of the past were always trusted.
Beside him stood the Princess of the Sunless Meadow, the Prince of the Dappled Stones, the Lord of the Ferns, the rulers of half a dozen other Mountain herds …
And finally, Eleri’s father.
The Prince of the Broken Ridge was stiff-backed and stone-faced. His thorn crown looked as sharp as his eyes, which fixed on the horizon.
The Deadlands.
Be still, Eleri told himself. Be silent.
It took all his courage not to run. He felt like a hatchling again, crawling from his egg into a world full of dangers.
To calm himself, Eleri silently recited the Tale of Astrilar the Wise. He had always clung to old stories: tales from the Time of the Fallen Star, when dinosaurs had faced unspeakable horrors and survived. If Astrilar could be brave, Eleri could too.
Couldn’t he?
“The king approaches!” a guard called.
King Nylius’s crown was a glorious tangle of thorns, starflecks, and flowers, woven by the oryctodromeus. With their dexterous claws, the members of Eleri’s herd were the designated craftsmen of the Mountain Kingdom. The king had a fresh crown woven every two days—and in a bitter twist of fate, Eleri had helped weave this one himself.
Now it would seal his doom.
King Nylius took his place at the front of the court, as the princes and lords rearranged themselves behind him. “State your name, rank, and offense,” he ordered, not quite meeting Eleri’s eyes.
Eleri strained to hide his fear. “Eleri of the Broken Ridge, Your Majesty. I don’t have a rank yet, sir. I’m not old enough. But I’d like to be our herd’s storyteller one day.”
There were a few murmurings of interest, but no one protested. The king gave a slow nod and then waved a spiked claw. “And your offense?”
“Last night, I saw a scouting party from the Prairie Alliance.” Eleri tripped over his own words, scrambling to share his story before the king formed his judgment. “A pterosaur swooped overhead, Your Majesty, so I … I shouted out a warning cry.”
The murmurings became angry mutterings.
Eleri’s insides sank. “It was just instinct, Your Majesty. I wasn’t trying to help them—I mean, I was, but I wasn’t thinking that they were enemy scouts. I just saw some herbivores about to be attacked, and I…”
“You saved them?”
“I don’t know,” Eleri said. “They were quite big, they might have survived an attack anyway.”
“But you tried to save them.” No pity sparked in Nylius’s eyes. “A group of enemy soldiers, who may well kill our own soldiers on the battlefield later today. And what of the land they might claim? Year after year, those Prairie beasts are stealing what is ours.”
Eleri’s breath caught in his throat. “Your Majesty, I…”
“Silence!” King Nylius turned to his court, his expression grim. “This is an act of treachery as bleak as any that I have seen in my time as ruler. Do any disagree?”
None of the rulers of the herds spoke up—but for a moment, Eleri’s father wavered on his feet. A glint of wild hope kindled in Eleri, fierce and fragile. His father blinked, tight eyes crinkled in the glare of the rising sun.
Would his father speak for him? Would he declare that Eleri was innocent, that he deserved a second chance?
Silence.
Eleri’s hope flickered out.
“Very well,” King Nylius said. “The defendant has confessed to his crime. This is not a question of guilt, but of sentencing. Those in favor of leniency, step backward. Those in favor of exile, step forward.”
One by one, the dinosaurs stepped forward. Each clawstep echoed on the hard stone, slicing Eleri’s nerves with a rhythmic beat. He could hear their judgment in the weight of their steps. Guilty, guilty, guilty … It was the horror of Agostron’s verdict again, the heir’s voice sharp with that single word.
Traitor.
But one figure didn’t move. His father remained in place, refusing to step forward. For one brief moment, their eyes met. Was he wavering? Would he…?
With a raw breath, his father stepped backward.
Eleri jerked, biting back a cry of emotion. In that moment, he didn’t care that the court had ruled against him. He didn’t care that he was going to be exiled, that he would likely die before the day was out.
His father had voted to save him. His father had voted against Agostron’s wishes. And in his moment of despair, Eleri found a single spark of hope to cling to. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Enough to keep him on his feet.
Enough to keep his head held high.
“Eleri of the Broken Ridge,” King Nylius said, “you are sentenced to exile. Your herd is responsible for carrying out your sentence. May the Deadlands show mercy and end your suffering quickly.”
Eleri stumbled backward, as if the sky itself had shoved him. As the court broke into whispers again, a southern wind curled across the mountaintop. It sent leaves skittering and pulled Eleri’s feathers into ruffles.
The desert wind was hot. Harsh. Hungry.
It was the wind of the Deadlands.
And this time, it had found its prey.
CHAPTER FOURTHE SPY
Zyre lay cocooned in her wings.
Her roosting tree sprouted on a high peak, beyond the reach of most predators. Not that flightless carnivores could catch her, but better safe than sorry. After all, there was always the risk of larger pterosaurs.
Zyre unfurled her wings and forced herself onto her hindclaws. Dawn dripped over the prairie, signaling time to start the day’s work. Since she’d been kicked out of her parents’ nest, she had no one to boss her around.
Life or death, Zyre was responsible for herself.
As an anurognathid, Zyre was barely the size of a warmblood bird. In the Old Stories, her kind were known as “windwhispers.” Though omnivores, they didn’t prey on other dinosaurs, but ate a mixture of plants and insects. In wartime, they took no side but their own.
The wealthiest of her kind lived at Lightning Peak—but Zyre could never afford a nesting spot there. The highly exclusive flock demanded ten starflecks in payment, and Zyre had yet to earn a decent haul.
Like the wind, she flew alone.
Zyre examined her food supply, feeling glum. A pitiful stash, really. All she had were a few dead beetles from the forest and the dried-up husks of water greens from the Lowland Marsh. Her starfleck pouch was even sadder: an empty scrap of fabric, woven from dried weeds. It had been weeks since she’d earned a single fleck.
Still, no point moping. Zyre would find some larger dinosaurs today, and hopefully they’d be keen for a trade. They could provide better food—or even a precious starfleck—and she would pay them with information.
Most anurognathids worked as crafters, using their dexterous claws to build objects for wealthy triceratops or ankylosaurs. They wove thorny crowns, plaited pouches, or twined delicate blankets of fern fronds. But like the most ambitious of her kind, Zyre had found a more interesting role to play in the war.
Spying.
Zyre liked going unnoticed. Being forgettable. It allowed her to overhear things … things that certain dinosaurs might not want their enemies to learn. And if those enemies paid handsomely for the information, who was Zyre to complain?
The Prairie Alliance gathered in the distance, its squadrons resembling stains on the landscape.
Time to fly.
Zyre launched herself into the sky. The wind buffeted her sideways, so she flapped harder to keep her featherlight body on track. Cretacea stretched out like a secret below, belonging only to her. What had her parents always said? You are a windwhisper, Zyre. A master of the sky—and all those fools who crawl beneath it.
With a twist, Zyre streamlined her wings and dipped into a descent. She plummeted so fast that the world blurred. Twenty seconds to impact with the fern prairie, then nineteen, eighteen, seventeen …
She wrenched herself upward and flared her wings. Her gnarled claws brushed the ferns as she skimmed the surface. A joyous laugh rose inside her: the bubbling thrill that only a decent flight could provide.
But where to fly today? Zyre was overdue for a lucrative trade. She held some information for the Mountain Kingdom regarding the Prairie’s new general. On the other hand, the Prairie Alliance had promised a starfleck for details of King Nylius’s latest plan …
Then again, why not both?
If Zyre visited the Mountain Kingdom first, she could sell King Nylius her information about the new enemy general. At the same time, she could gather fresh intelligence on Nylius’s plans—and sell that to King Torive of the Prairie Alliance.
She flapped faster, buoyed by an invisible smirk. If Zyre played this right, she could end the day with a full belly and a starfleck in her claws.
It wasn’t a bad life, being a windwhisper.
* * *
Approaching the Mountain Kingdom, Zyre rode a gust of wind skyward. Her beady eyes searched the land below for anything of interest.
Her heart skipped a beat.
The Mountain Court was in session—and by the looks of it, a defendant was on trial. Zyre circled high above, wary of descending into view of the dinosaurs below, but her curiosity won out.
As a compromise, Zyre descended into the canopy just beneath the peak. It was always a gamble, shooting into a forest from a height. Each branch threatened to slash her wings—and a broken wing was a death sentence.
Still, Zyre was an agile flier. She slipped into the foliage and landed on a branch. Her empty starfleck pouch hung from her leg, slapping down with barely a whisper. The cover of trees dappled the undergrowth with light and darkness. Zyre felt a faint twinge of unease. She never knew what might be hiding in such shadows—and for Zyre, knowledge was currency. If there was one thing she hated, it was not knowing something.
Breath tight, she edged toward the leafless crest of the kingdom, sidling behind a pile of rocks to stay unseen.
This was no ordinary day in court. A young oryctodromeus stood on trial, alone by the Rock of Judgment—and from the fear in his eyes, it wasn’t going well.
Zyre watched, silent in the shadows.
“This is an act of treachery,” King Nylius bellowed, “as bleak as any that I have seen in my time as ruler. Do any disagree?”
No one did.
The only herd leader who voted for leniency was an oryctodromeus who shared the dark sapphire feathers of the defendant. They were probably related—perhaps the elder was an uncle, or even his father?
Either way, his vote stood alone.
Before the court could disperse, Zyre scurried back down the path. In the forest, she paused for a moment. Slivers of sunlight danced like insects between the leaves. There was an opportunity here. There had to be, didn’t there?
A young oryctodromeus had shouted a warning to save a Prairie scouting party—and apparently, the traitor was related to the Prince of the Broken Ridge. Why would he risk it? And more importantly, why had enemy scouts been lurking so high in the mountains? They had no reason to venture so far from the battlefield …
The scouts hadn’t even been sneaking near the king’s quarters. Instead, they had been creeping around near a warren of oryctodromeus. But why? What was so important about the Broken Ridge herd?
In the right set of claws, the truth might be quite valuable.
CHAPTER FIVEINTO THE DEADLANDS
The Exile Cliffs sliced a jagged scowl between the Mountain Kingdom and the Deadlands.
All his life, Eleri had dreamed of leaving home to collect the world’s tales—but not like this. He had imagined crossing Cretacea, exploring its forests and plains, rivers and ravines … and then returning home with a hundred stories to share.
He had never dreamed of the Deadlands.
At noon, Eleri’s herd gathered on the clifftops, stern and solemn. Eleri stumbled in the middle of the pack, a runt in a sea of full-grown oryctodromeus. Fear curdled in his belly, twisting like a murkthorn vine. He would die alone, starving and dehydrated in the desert—unless a carnivore grabbed him first. The idea of setting out into the Deadlands, with its scorching sun and ravenous beasts …
It couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real.
And yet it was.
His herdmates formed a tight ring around him, as if he might try to run for it. But where could he run? Behind lay the kingdom that had exiled him. To curve back around toward the mountains, he would have to cross the Land of Falling Sky: a vast, shallow gully prone to rockslides from the slopes above. Ahead, the Deadlands sprawled to the horizon: an endless stretch of sand and rock. No trees or meadows. No rivers or woodlands.
Just … death.
Out there, the only remnant of life was the Forest of Smoke: a labyrinth of petrified trees, obliterated when the Fallen Star had crashed to earth. The forest stood bitter and twisted, as inedible as charcoal. According to stories, smoke poured through cracks in the forest floor, and fireblast stones exploded at the slightest hint of a spark.
But there was still hope, wasn’t there? The stories also told of oases, far out in the desert. Pools of water, patches of surviving foliage. If Eleri could find an oasis, he might survive …
For a while, at least.
His herd clustered at the edge of the cliff, where a sharp bluff dropped away into the desert below. Only his father wasn’t present. Despite his vote for leniency, the Prince of the Broken Ridge hadn’t attended his own son’s exile. He claimed that he needed to prepare for the coming battle—but perhaps he was simply too ashamed.
Disappointment …
Nothing like his brother …
Agostron had volunteered to take their father’s place as the Deliverer of Justice. As future prince of the herd, he claimed it was his duty to lead his first real ceremony.
Of course, Eleri knew the real reason. Agostron was desperate to prove himself a worthy ruler, with no hint of weakness. A wartime prince could spare no mercy.
Not even for his own brother.
“Eleri of the Broken Ridge,” Agostron announced, his tone cold, “you have been found guilty of treachery. Go. And never again darken the borders of our fair Mountain Kingdom.”
Eleri turned to face the Deadlands. Every gaze in the herd weighed on his back, silently urging him onward. They had always tolerated Eleri, but they had never loved him. Not as they loved Agostron.
Eleri’s insides cracked.
Secretly, he had dreamed that one day they might look at him as they looked at Agostron: as a valued member of the herd. He would grow old and wise, telling tales to eager hatchlings. One day, his herdmates would love his stories. Perhaps they would even love—
Don’t think it! Eleri told himself, cutting off the sting.
It would never happen now.
With a sharp breath, Eleri descended.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Thorns snapped under his claws, keeping time with the snapping of his nerves. Burntflecks slipped under his weight. These gritty stones had once been starflecks, but their power had long ago winked out. Eleri lost his footing and skidded, crying out in alarm, but caught himself with a jolt.
Trembling, he pressed on.
Step by step, Eleri pushed through a sea of bristling thorns. He used his tail to steady himself, trusting its weight for balance. His skin stung, dashed by countless tiny scratches.
Just like a story, he told himself. He tried to remember Astrilar the Wise, the first Eye of the Forgotten, who had saved her herd in the Time of the Fallen Star. Or there was Yari the Strong, an old iguanodon who had battled an entire pack of raptors to save a nest of hatchlings …
If this were a story, what would Eleri’s name be? He was no Eye of the Forgotten. He had no visions, no magical powers. He was just a runt. Eleri the Weak? Eleri the Coward? No, he refused to allow it. He would be strong, like the heroes in his favorite tales. He would face the Deadlands with his head held high.
At the base of the slope, Eleri looked back. His herd was gone. Only one figure remained, silhouetted against the clouds. Agostron. The heir stood alone, staring. Was it a silent farewell? A brotherly salute?
No. Eleri knew the truth in his gut.
Agostron was waiting to watch him fall.
Eleri walked on. The slope gave way to hot, fractured earth. Earthsinger. That was the name for oryctodromeus in the Old Stories—but even so, Eleri found no songs in this landscape. No living earth, ripe with soil and moss and fungus. No worms or beetles. Just scorched rock, cracked and crumbling.
Wasn’t this what he’d wished for? An endless horizon, without elders to decide his path. No dirt. No burrows. No rules. He remembered Agostron’s furious words: Your skull is overstuffed with daydreams …
His own wish slapped him in the face.
The sun burned. Eleri walked faster, his head down, trying to shield his eyes from the glare. His scratches throbbed, but he refused to buckle. This was his story, wasn’t it? One day, he would tell it. All he had to do was survive …
Enormous craters pockmarked the landscape. It would be cooler down there, in the shade. But if Eleri slipped into a crater, he would never come back up. He was too broken. Too exhausted from a night without sleep. He had to keep going.
He wouldn’t let Agostron see him fall.
And so he walked on, farther and farther across the sun-scorched terrain. Blood dried on his scratches, forming an ugly crust. Every time he looked back, Agostron was smaller and smaller. A dwindling figure, alone on a clifftop. Then he was a smear, a dot, and … nothing.
Eleri was alone.
* * *
High in the mountains, a stream gurgled.
It lay in the darkest crook of the Mountain Kingdom, tangling between two jagged peaks. No sunlight touched this ravine—and the only trees were stunted and twisted.
Zyre perched on the Stone of Secrets, making herself as visible as possible. If any high-ranking member of the Mountain Kingdom wished to engage a spy, they would come here to hire an anurognathid for the job.
The day they kicked her out of their nest, her parents had brought her here. Their voices had been cold, laced with disappointment. In their eyes, Zyre had always been too soft. Too spoiled. To grow up, she must prove herself.
To survive, she must be merciless.
“This is a place to trade,” her father had said. “To trade truths—and sometimes, to barter lies. Learn the worth of both, or you will not live for long.”
Today, the valley lay silent. Zyre perched high, straining for the slightest sound of movement. Her starfleck pouch hung from her claw, empty as ever.
The trees whispered. The breeze curled …
Crunch.
A clawstep. She whipped around, trying to hide the jolt of excitement. “Is someone there?”
As her eyes focused, she made out a slight glint in the trees. Someone was sticking to the shadows, concealing their face—and even their species. In the darkness, the figure might be an iguanodon, an oryctodromeus, or a stegoceras. It might even be King Nylius himself.
Of course, Zyre didn’t particularly care. Most of her clients valued their privacy and kept their identities secret. It didn’t bother her, so long as they paid for her services.
“Is someone there?” she asked again. “For a price, the wind may carry whispers.”
A long pause.
“I am here,” said the stranger.
Zyre didn’t recognize his voice—but that didn’t mean much. The speaker might be disguising his tone. All she could discern was that the speaker was male, presumably a citizen of the Mountain Kingdom.
“I am Zyre of Lightning Peak,” she lied, feeling bold. Of course, she could never afford to buy a valuable nesting place on the peak—but as a windwhisper spy, she added some heft to her reputation. “Who are you?”
Another pause.
“You may call me … Shadow.”
Zyre laughed. “Very original.”
But when the stranger replied, there was no joke in his tone. “I’m not here for a grand show of creativity, Zyre of Lightning Peak. I am here to negotiate a business deal.” He paused. “An urgent deal.”
Zyre perked up. Urgency meant she held negotiating power. If she played this right, she might fly away with a hefty payout.
“Go on,” she said. “What’s your offer, then?”
In response, Shadow tossed an object into the clearing. Zyre glanced down—and with a start, she recognized it. A shining fragment of crystal, the size of a piece of gravel.
It was a starfleck.
“What…?”
“Twenty starflecks.” Shadow’s voice was a quiet hiss. “One upfront, as a gesture of goodwill. Nineteen later, if you bring what I ask for.”
Zyre stared at the tiny stone, her insides churning. Twenty starflecks. More than she had seen in her life—enough to thread the crown of a monarch. Each fragment of the Fallen Star was worth a week of decadent meals.
If she owned twenty starflecks, she could trade them for months of feasting. No, even better—she could buy a prime nesting spot. She could join the flock at Lightning Peak: the most revered anurognathids in Cretacea …
Of course, it wasn’t just about the prestige.
When Zyre was a hatchling, she had briefly stayed at Lightning Peak with her grandmother. While Zyre’s parents were cold and ruthless, her grandmother was … different. For three short weeks, the old windwhisper had made Zyre feel safe. Wanted. Protected. Her world was a soft nest, built of moss and mauve-berry leaves. She had told Zyre tales of faraway places: of the Salted Scorch, of secret pathways, and of the Brother Peak that lay beyond the wastes. Zyre had listened, enthralled by tales of a life not her own.
Then Zyre’s parents had returned to collect her, and the world’s edges had sharpened once more.
Zyre would never admit it aloud, but the memory made her insides twist. Her grandmother was too old to travel—and now that Zyre was almost grown, she could no longer visit the peak for free. To see her grandmother again, she had to buy a nesting spot of her own.
Twenty starflecks …
Focus, Zyre told herself. Time for business, not daydreams.
“Today at noon, an oryctodromeus was exiled into the Deadlands,” Shadow said. “His name is Eleri of the Broken Ridge, and he betrayed his kingdom. I want you to track him down—and make sure he never returns.”
Zyre stiffened. “What?”
“It won’t be difficult. The Deadlands are rife with peril—and of course, there are always the carnivores.” Shadow’s voice curled. “Follow the exile and tell a pack of raptors where to find him.”
Zyre’s skin crawled. “I’m a spy. Not an assassin.”
“You’re a windwhisper. All you need to do is whisper into a few raptors’ ears. For twenty starflecks, surely it’s worth it?”
A long pause.
“How will you know I’ve done it?” Zyre asked. “I could just come back here and say, ‘Oh hurrah, the exile is dead!’ and you’d have no way to know if it was true.”
“When Eleri was a hatchling, one of his rear claws was broken,” Shadow said. “When the predators are done with the rest of him, bring me that broken bone, to prove that he is dead.”
“But I…”
“Each night for the next week, I will wait here at midnight. Once you have the claw, you will meet me here—and give it to me. Then, and only then, will I pay the remainder of your fee.”
Zyre did not speak.
“I’m not asking you to kill him,” Shadow said. “He will die regardless, out in that desert. All I want is proof that the job is done. It will … put my mind at ease.” He paused. “Consider it an act of mercy, if you like. To end his suffering quickly.”
Silence.
Zyre stared into the trees—but when those cold eyes met her own, she quickly looked away. The exile had seemed her own age, barely more than a hatchling. Why should anyone want him dead?
Perhaps Eleri knew a secret. A deadly secret. Perhaps he had seen something he shouldn’t have or held some vital information to ransom. It wouldn’t be the first time that she was hired to suppress a whisper rather than to spread it. But Zyre was a trader of secrets, not of flesh …
She fluttered down and seized the starfleck, examining it carefully. It was genuine. She could tell from the glint inside the stone and the way that it tingled in her claws. With a squeeze and a thought, she could set its power ablaze.
Gently, she slipped it into the pouch around her leg. Then she glanced into the gloom of the trees, her insides tight. “You’ve got a deal.”
Shadow didn’t respond.
Zyre refused to speak again. She didn’t want the stranger to glimpse her uncertainty. If Shadow decided that she was too young, or too cowardly, he would choose another spy for the job.
Her parents’ words rang in her ears, lessons drummed into Zyre over and over again. A great windwhisper spy was ruthless. Relentless. Master of the sky …
Either way, the exile would die. The Deadlands would kill him: the burning dust, the carnivores, or simply starvation.
Why shouldn’t Zyre profit from it?
She took to the sky: wings flapping, mind buzzing. Her mind tingled with memories of sweet moths and mauve-berries, of mossy nests beneath the stars …
Of her grandmother.
As Zyre wheeled toward the Deadlands, the breeze tossed her higher. Who cared about the exile’s life, anyway? The herbivore armies were lumps on the ground: filthy puddles of scales and muscle. Earth crawlers, the lot of them. They thought they were better than anurognathids because they were larger, stronger, faster.
But Zyre could fly. She was free. Her kind were the real rulers of Cretacea. Not the triceratops, not the iguanodons, but the windwhisper spies. Those who traded their secrets—and ultimately, who soared above them all.
With twenty starflecks, Zyre could earn a place in their greatest flock. And for the first time since she was a hatchling, she could rejoin the only windwhisper who had made her feel worthy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, a huge thank-you to Tracey and the team at Adams Literary—this book might never have existed without your help and guidance. Thanks also to the Henry Holt team, including Claire Maby, Mia Moran, Carina Licon, Jackie Dever, Jessica White, Kelly Markus, and Ann Marie Wong. I am especially grateful to Brian Geffen, who threw his support behind this manuscript and led our little dino buddies on their journey to publication.
Many thanks to the Goosemoot crew, including Nic, Ellie, Liz, Kate, Eliza, Peta, and Ebony. I owe an extra special thanks to Amie and Lili, who both read early drafts of this book and offered such insightful feedback. After my hiatus from writing, you gave me the motivation I needed to get back on the horse (or rather, the dinosaur).
As always, thanks to my amazing parents for your love and support—and for being such excellent sounding boards for plot ideas!
Sending a giant hug to Jason for your love, patience, and encouragement. I remember babbling about my ideas for this story while we lined up outside the art gallery on one of our earliest dates. In the years since, my ideas became a book and our relationship became a marriage. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Above all, thank you to my readers. I hope that you have fun joining me on this new adventure!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Skye Melki-Wegner started writing as soon as she could hold a pen. She was immediately drawn to fantasy—and soon her notebooks overflowed with dragons, pixies, and wizards. After graduating with an honors degree in law, she traded in practicing law for writing fantasy novels. Her first middle-grade trilogy, The Deadlands, draws inspiration from her time working in a museum (where some of her colleagues were dinosaurs). You can sign up for email updates here.
Copyright © 2023 by Skye Melki-Wegner
