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."

"I won't fight," the dragon said. "But fighting isn't the only way to win." It rose up, enormous, scales scraping the stone. "The Ashen Legion fears two things. Old magic, and the dark. Lucky for your village, I am both." It crawled toward the gray morning light. "Come, boy. We have until sunrise to be clever."

The dragon flew the boy to the river above the valley. "The Legion must cross here," it said. "Help me." Together they shoved boulders into the narrow gap. The dragon breathed a slow, low heat, not to burn but to melt the snow on the peaks. Water began to rise behind the rocks. "When they're on the bridge," the dragon said, "we let it all go."

But the dam broke too early. A trickle became a crack became a flood while the Legion was still on the far bank. The soldiers saw the water coming and pulled back in time. Worse, now they knew the dragon was real and afraid to fight. "It plays tricks," the commander sneered. "Tricks mean it's weak. Burn the village."