Free Heir to the Sky by Amanda Sun

sharp like a beak, and tufts of spiky fur sprout from its head and its breast like a shield of bone needles. Another gust of its wings flings me against the ground. The giant cat squirms in the dragon’s sharp talons as it lifts him away. It shrieks once more, and I clasp my hands over my ears from the pain.
    Then the dragon and the cat are gone. My ears ring as I sit there in shock, panting, my hands bleeding over the flint at my side. After what seems like an eternity, the birds in the forest start chirping again.
    And then the tears come, fast and hot in my eyes. I sit there as the sun begins to set, as the sky tints purple and orange and red, all blurred through my blubbering.
    I’m going to die here on this forsaken wasteland.
    No one is coming for me.

SEVEN
    LIGHT HAS NEARLY left the sky by the time I get a hold of myself. There’s only a pale purple glow that lights the clearing as I wipe away the last of my tears with the sleeve of my dress.
    Reason starts to flood back into me. For shame , I think. Would I sit and sob about rebellion with Burumu? Would I merely weep if a dragon attacked Ashra? What kind of leader would abandon hope and logic in a time like this?
    I still don’t have a weapon or a safe place for the night, and now I’ve wasted what was left of the daylight. I’m an idiot, a complete and utter dull cinder. I don’t have a chance to survive, but I refuse to die. And so there’s nothing to do but keep burning, like always.
    I clasp the flint in my hand and search the underbrush of the trees for a fallen branch. It’s hard to see in the plum-colored light, but eventually my hand falls on a stick that’s about as long as my arm. I sit down with my back to the trunk and pull the tiny sprigs off along the length of the branch, then take my flint. I squint in the fading light to see what I’m doing. Should I use the flint to make a fire? But I’m frightened it will attract more monsters.
    My whole body aches for water. I put the branch aside and grab a wide leaf from the yellow-and-blue fern. I snap its wide center vein apart and suck on the sticky sap inside. It doesn’t help much, but I’m clueless and desperate. At least I can pretend it feels better.
    I scrape the flint against the wood again, and this time the rock splits in two. I feel around the ground for the second piece. Its sharp edge nearly cuts into my fingers. It’s a better weapon than sharpened wood, I realize, if I could tie it to the spear somehow.
    I reach for the rope belt around my dress and grasp a length of it in my hand. I hold the tasseled end across the flint, sawing back and forth with the sharp edge. The fibers slide apart and I tie the smaller flint piece to the top of the branch, wrapping the string round and round and tying knots. There’s a small but natural groove in the branch that seems to hold the flint in place. I can only hope it doesn’t completely fall apart when I thrust the spear at something. I take the original piece of flint and slip it into my pocket as a second weapon. It’s completely dark now, and I can’t see my handiwork, but there’s a small comfort in holding the homemade spear in my hands.
    The two moons shine high above in the pitch-black sky. The breeze isn’t as warm as it was in the daytime, and I find myself shivering as the night goes on. Sprays of stars glisten through the dark clouds that float above, but a large and vacant blot in the starry map lets me know Ashra is hovering there, silent and safe in the sky.
    I stare up at my home. The fireflies will be out in the outlands. The pikas will gather fireweed and thistles on my outcrop realm of one. The Rending celebrations will continue, the candles flickering along the stone wall in Ulan. Burumu will bustle with its own festivities, and the scribes on Nartu will have tea and cakes and discuss politics with each other until dawn.
    Or maybe they’ll think their