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 stays at the bars and tries something strange. She hums the low keeper's song her mother used to sing to calm the dragons. The hatchling goes still, then presses its notched fin against the cold iron, right where her hand rests.