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.'