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.

Halfway down, the boy heard wings, huge and slow, beating the air. He spun around. The dragon dropped out of the dark sky and landed on the path in front of him, blocking his way. "You stupid child," it growled. "You really meant to fight an army with nothing." It lowered one wing to the ground. "Get on. I changed my mind. But we do this my way."

The dragon flew low over the marching army, but it did not breathe fire. Instead it roared, long and deep, the oldest sound in the world. The horses panicked and threw their riders. Soldiers dropped their torches and ran. The Legion broke apart in the dark without a single drop of blood. The boy laughed in disbelief, clinging to the dragon's neck.