A boy's frozen fingers slipped on the icy rock, and he nearly fell off the mountain. He caught himself and kept climbing. At the top he crawled into a black cave that smelled of old smoke. Deep inside, one huge yellow eye slid open. "Go away, child," the dragon rumbled. "Please," the boy gasped. "The Ashen Legion is coming. They burn my village at sunrise. You're the last dragon. You have to fight them." The eye narrowed. "I don't fight. Not anymore."

The dragon pulled its wing over its face like a blanket. "Three hundred years I've hidden here," it said. "I won't die for strangers. Leave me." The boy stared at the huge scaly back. His hands shook, and not from the cold now. "Fine," he said. "Then I'll do it myself." He turned and started back down the mountain alone.

The boy reached his village as the sky turned gray. He banged on every door. "They're coming! Wake up!" Sleepy farmers stumbled out with pitchforks and axes, nothing more. The boy climbed onto the well and pointed at the ridge, where black banners were rising. "We block the bridge," he shouted. "It's the only way in. We hold it."

The farmers held the bridge as long as they could. They were brave, but tired and few, and the Legion was many. By midday the bridge was lost. The villagers fled into the hills with what they could carry. They lived, but they lost their homes. The boy never forgot that he'd asked a dragon for help, and it had said no.