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, but what crawled out was wrong. The little dragon was twisted and weak, one wing crumpled under it. It could barely lift its head. Wren realized the long cold journey had hurt it badly.

Wren knew he couldn't save it alone. He remembered an old healer who lived in a hut at the foot of the mountain. He bundled the dragon close and hurried down the path, praying he wasn't too late.