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 named the little dragon Ash. For three days they climbed higher into the mountains, sharing what food he had. Ash grew fast, already the size of a big dog. But smoke rose from the valley behind them. The queen had sent hunters.

Wren built a signal fire on the ridge to call the wild folk who lived beyond the peaks. They had always honored dragons. By nightfall, riders with painted faces surrounded him, and they offered Wren and Ash a home in their hidden valley.