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 panicked. If the egg hatched, the queen would blame him. He shoved it into the cold shadow under a boulder, hoping the chill would slow it down. Then he sat and watched, heart pounding, begging the cracking to stop.

The cold did nothing. The egg cracked harder, and a tiny dragon burst free right there in the dirt. It shook off the chill, looked up at Wren, and chirped. He couldn't help it. He scooped the little thing up and held it close.

Wren tore up the queen's order and threw the pieces over the cliff. He would not serve people who treated a living wonder like a payment. With the dragon on his shoulder, he walked off the road and into a new life of his own.