The culling-pens stink of salt and rust. In the smallest pool, a sea-dragon hatchling shivers behind the bars, no bigger than Nerai herself. Its wings are dull gray, and one fin is notched from birth. The breed-masters have chalked a white cross on its side: runt, unfit, to be drowned at dawn. Nerai grips the cold bars. She has until sunrise.

Nerai runs instead to wake the head breed-master, Ortham. She pounds on his door and begs him to spare the hatchling. He opens it, half asleep and frowning. 'A runt is a runt,' he says. 'But say your piece, girl.'

Ortham shakes his head. 'Rules are rules.' But Nerai blocks the door. 'Then let me buy it,' she says, and dumps out everything she owns: three coins, a knife, and her mother's old keeper's whistle. The old man stares at the whistle for a long moment.

Ortham takes the whistle and turns it over. 'I trained your mother,' he says quietly. 'She was the best I ever had.' He hands it back, then unlocks the pool himself. 'The runt's yours. Don't make me regret it.' Nerai grins through tears.