Nobody asked Wren if he wanted the job. The soldiers just pushed the kingdom's last dragon egg into his arms and told him to walk. The queen's order sat folded in his pocket: deliver it to the Cinder Tower, sealed and whole. So down the mountain road he went, the cold egg against his chest. Then, near a sharp bend in the trail, the shell started to warm. It shook in his hands. With a soft, wet snap, a crack split across it.

Wren froze. The order said to deliver the egg sealed and whole. A hatched egg would be worthless to them. He sat on a flat rock, cradled the egg in his coat, and let it crack. He wanted to see what came out before he decided anything.

The shell broke open. A small dragon tumbled out, wet and silver, no bigger than a cat. It blinked up at Wren and let out a thin, hungry squeak. Then it climbed straight into his coat and fell asleep against his heart.

Wren decided to go back. He would bring the little dragon to the queen alive and bargain for its freedom. He wrapped it up warm and walked down toward the Cinder Tower, rehearsing his speech the whole way.

The queen heard Wren out, then smiled coldly and reached for the dragon. But the little dragon snapped at her hand and shrieked. In the chaos, Wren scooped it up and bolted through the tower gates. He ran into the forest and never came back, the queen's shouts fading behind him.