Weredragons, men call them. Monsters. Cursed ones. People who can turn into beastly reptiles.
In an ancient world just rising from darkness, they are everywhere. Some wander the plains with clans of mammoth hunters. Others are born in riverside huts. Some live across the ocean where seafaring tribes are discovering the secrets of bronze and writing in clay. Everywhere their curse is the same--people who can grow wings, breathe fire, and take flight as dragons.
And everywhere, they are hunted. They hide in forests and caves, dispersed. Many are alone, unaware that others exist. They are shunned, afraid, dying . . . until a group of these lost souls binds together and stands tall.
They say the world used to turn. They say that night would follow day in an endless dance. They say that dawn rose, dusk fell, and we worshiped both sun and stars.
That was a long time ago.
The dance has died. The world has fallen still. We float through the heavens, one half always in light, one half always in shadow. Like the moth of our forests, one wing white and the other black, we are torn.
Long ago stood the kingdom of Requiem, a land of men who could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and take flight as dragons. Requiem ruled the sky.
But Dies Irae, a tyrant leading an army of griffins, hunted Requiem's people, burned their forests, and shattered their temples. Requiem fell. This ancient land now lies in ruin, its halls crumbled, its cries silenced, its skeletons littering the burned earth.
In the wilderness, a scattering of survivors lives in hiding. The griffins still hunt them, and every day promises death. Will Requiem's last children perish in exile... or once more become dragons and fly to war?