Kyra

KYRA, LANTERN LIGHTER

Kyra's job, ever since she was a hatchling, was to light the lanterns.

She had fond memories of her mother, Roveda, showing her how to do it. Her paws were so gentle and elegant as she handled the precious bits of light, light they had to save up throughout the year in the glass spheres underneath the lair.

"Each lantern represents someone in our family," Roveda had told her that first time. "The Scarred Wasteland was a dangerous place. We lost many dragons when we migrated. Your grandma Aunde and most of your uncles didn't make it, and so many others simply didn't have the heart to start a new clan with us. Your uncle Sorin went off on his own to take shelter in a Water clan."

"Uncle Sorin still visits, though."

"Yes."

The lanterns were all stored in the highest tower of the lair, their light held back by the heavy doors, and when Acoma rang the ancient bells, Kyra would turn the lever that opened them. Then she would make her way back behind the crowd of lanterns, all floating there like jellyfish, and flap her wings. Only a few lanterns ever drifted out on their own, and Kyra acted as the breeze that got them moving. When every lantern was gone and the tower vault was dark, Kyra would sit in the windowsill with Acoma and watch them drift away to join the stars. She liked to think that the dragons lost in the great migration rested far away in the heavens, and the lanterns reminded them of home.