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 boy knew pitchforks would not stop an army. As the Legion massed at the bridge, he had the farmers light the dry brush they'd piled along the banks. Thick smoke rolled across the river. The soldiers choked and stumbled, unable to find the narrow crossing. By the time the smoke cleared, the village had emptied into the hills, every soul alive.