Shaska Driftclaw pressed her claws into the hot sand and lifted her snout to the desert wind. The Sandspire clans had turned her away when she was young—her scales bore marks from two bloodlines, and they called her neither one thing nor the other. She would prove them wrong. The northern clan camped three days away, near the salt flats. They respected strength and survival above all else. Shaska had spent six seasons learning their ways, tracking their movements, and studying what mattered to them. Now she knew their routes and their traditions. She would earn her place among them, not through birth, but through action. The tribal hut where they gathered for important meetings stood decorated with cactus flowers and desert leaves—a place where the clan made their most serious decisions. That was where she needed to be. She started with the warriors. Each morning she arrived at their training grounds before the sun rose. They used spears with glass heads and shafts wrapped in cactus needles—weapons that demanded careful handling and quick reflexes. The warriors watched her from a distance at first. She gripped the unfamiliar weapon and felt the needles press against her scales. Her first throws missed the targets completely. The warriors turned away. But Shaska returned the next day, and the day after that. Her throws grew stronger. Her stance grew steady. After two full moon cycles, one of the warriors nodded at her. It was a small thing, but it was a beginning. The clan leader finally called her to the decorated hut three seasons later. Inside, the elders sat in a half circle. They had watched her train. They had seen her hunt. They had tested her knowledge of desert survival. The leader spoke her name—her full name—for the first time. She had earned what birth could not give her. Shaska stood tall as they welcomed her into the clan.