Prologue

It's hot. It's hot, and there's sand blowing in Anzi's eyes with the stiff wind that keeps rising from the direction of the horizon. The sun is setting, but this is when the desert fringes and the savanna awaken, when life stirs in the shaded burrows underground. Rabbits and foxes will be making tracks soon, rabbits to the succulents, foxes to the rabbits.

And her, to the foxes.

Once the sun sets, she'll be watching for dinner. Tonight's a special occasion that calls for meat, and Mama is both sad and ecstatic. So is Baba. It's not that they're surprised - there's always been something different about her, after all, and during the annual Selection on the summer solstice, all eyes were on her as she ran faster, leaped higher, and hit harder than all the other children her age who came from the same district. This is expected. This is right. Even at ten years old, she's always known she was born a hunter, a warrior, a fighter. Being Selected for Service is no surprise to anyone at all.

But it's not about her. It's about Oza, her brother. Only three, he's far too young, but when the family came to the Imperial City to attend her Selection, the proctors saw something in him even though he was doing nothing but sleeping in his mother's arms. And now they want him, too.

Anzi doesn't like it. He is too young, too small, too sickly. He's skinny and tiny and sometimes loses his breath if he moves around too much. He's half the size he should be, and if it weren't for Anzi putting the fear of the gods in the other children, he would be bullied mercilessly for his weak constitution and inability to speak.

And yet the Empire wants him, so it's their sworn duty to give what is asked. Family above self. Clan above family. Empire above all. For the nation to thrive, Oza must be given over. She doesn't like it, but she knows what they must do.

At least this means she won't have to leave him behind. She was worried about that, whether the other children would torment him now that she's going to the Imperial City and can't wallop them anymore for putting their hands on him. But this way, she can keep watching over him there, and she's sure that his new position will protect him, too. It's almost unheard of, a child so young being taken into Service. But that makes him special. Important. Surely his mentors won't let him come to harm.

Anzi's dark eyes flicker from side to side, waiting for signs of life as night falls and drapes the land in darkness. She's perched in the fork of a desert acacia tree, knowing to keep her feet off the ground so that the underground dwellers won't detect her movements as they come to the surface. And she's above line of sight, too, and wearing her hooded brown desert garb: tonight, she's going to take something home with her.

The first twitch of movement she sees isn't prey, though, and when she leaps eight feet off the tree and darts over the sandy dirt to stab down on whatever has popped its head out of the sand, she freezes with the short javelin poised over her head. She doesn't run or back away, but she does hold still as the shadowy thing pulls itself across the ground and moves closer to her with halting, jerking wiggles. The frills on the head are folded back flat against the serpentine neck, and a slender, pointed tongue darts out twice before disappearing again.

Ye gods. She's never seen a wyrm from up close before. Even the tiny ones captured for sale back in the Imperial City market were stowed in cages with iron bars so thick that she could only see the tip of a snout poking out between them, and when she tried to get a closer peek, Mama dragged her away again. This one is different. It's enormous, and she wishes it didn't blend in so well with the nighttime with its pitch black hide. The only comfort is that wyrms have no limbs, and they only move as fast as a snake. Thankfully, Anzi is faster than any snake out here in the sands and dry grass.

The thing has to be at least 3 meters long and an armspan wide. How did it make it all the way out here from the desert? Only the wyrmskin traders dare to venture deeper than the fringes, and even then, it's a common complaint that there are fewer and fewer to find every year. But one this big - she can scarcely believe it hasn't run into anyone with sharp flaying knives on its way here.

It twitches again...and then sighs with a tired chuff. It's no more than two feet away, but it's stopped moving. She wonders if it's dying. It's no good for food since wyrmflesh is toxic, but if she harvests its skin, the money she can get for it will be astonishing -

It snorts again, then lifts its head to look up at her and opens its eyes. She sucks in a gasp when she sees the brilliant gold hue of the irises surrounding vertical slit pupils. They're glowing.

It's a shame to let such a perfect, beautiful thing die. The thought is so foreign and jarring that she blinks hard to try to wake herself up out of the reverie, but something wraps tight around her heart and convinces her to stay. She doesn't know what it is exactly that makes her kneel then, but in the next moment, her legs are folded up under her, and she's holding up the creature's head under small, childish fingers as she strokes its pitch black scales.

There's such human intelligence in the unblinking eyes that the thought of doing them harm cows her.

"I'll feed you," she says. "But you need to go back after."

And she does. Feed the thing, that is. She hunts well, better than she ever has, and she catches not only two foxes but two rabbits as well in no time at all. She still needs something to take home, however, and she explains that to the wyrm as if he can understand her.

He? It, she meant.

When he's done eating - it, that is - she's stunned when it wriggles off the ground and stretches out short, spindly limbs. Not a wyrm, then, she realizes. A wild dragon? But that's impossible. Dragons can't survive in the wild all alone. They need a rider, a human companion to take care of them. Everyone knows this.

But she says nothing as the creature struggles back onto its claws, and when it stares up at her, she jerks her chin in the direction of the darkened desert.

"You gotta go. If someone catches you, they'll skin you and...stuff. I guess."

It doesn't move. It continues to stare up at her and capture her with that spellbinding golden gaze, until at last she gathers her nerve to kick the dirt and pucker her lips in an angry pout.

"Go!" she exclaims. "What are you waiting for."

She doesn't want to let it go. No, wait, she does. There's something crazy and confusing happening inside her, and she doesn't like it. Confusing is bad. Confusing is dangerous. And dragons in the wild - that's the most confusing thing she's ever heard of. But for some reason she wants so badly to let it go and keep it a secret, even if that means it's doomed. Dragons can't survive alone, and yet instinct tells her that if she takes it captive, it will surely die.

She doesn't want to, but she has to let it go.

Something is telling her that it has to happen this way.

It's a hypnotic urge that makes her reach forward to stroke the creature's dark frill again, fingers running along the webbing between the flexible spines. She thinks she feels it purring, but that can't be right. She rips her hand away, suddenly frightened.

"I'll - be in trouble if I don't go home," she stammers. It's the first time in her life that she's ever felt so flustered, and she scrambles back up to her feet so that she can back away. Those eyes must be magic. She can feel them burning inside her like molten metal. "Go - go away. Bye."

She flees, and doesn't look back.