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.'

Nerai tells him the hatchling pressed its fin to her hand and answered her song. Ortham's frown softens. 'A dragon that bonds is worth ten that don't,' he mutters. He grabs the chalk, walks to the pool, and wipes the white cross off its flank.

By morning, Ortham lists the hatchling as Nerai's own to train. She names it Saltwing. It grows slower than the others, but no dragon in the pens answers a song faster. The notched fin never bothers it one bit.