When Thorn was a dragonet, she owned a little SandWing doll stitched out of linen and stuffed with wool. The doll was named Beetle and it would keep her company on the long nights when her mother was away on business. When Thorn’s mother was particularly angry, she threw Beetle in a cave by their home and sealed it with a large slab of granite that strained at her talons. “When you’re strong enough to move the rock,” she said, “then you can play with toys.”
Thorn never could move it. But one night when she couldn’t sleep, she found a slab of wood at the market and dragged it to the cave. She propped it up on a small ridge, wedged one end of it under the stone, and jumped up and down on the other end to send the stone rolling. She retrieved Beetle and curled up on the conquered stone, feeling proud of herself.
Her mother had not been pleased. She hit Thorn and accused her of getting help from another dragon to move the rock. That was the first time Thorn had run away from home.
Thorn was running away again, but this time she was older, and she hadn’t seen her mother in years. Her plan to make a living supplying water to the Scorpion Den was falling apart. She tried to see each obstacle as a boulder, a simple rock that she could move if she was fierce and clever and determined enough. But there was only so much she could take of the Scorpion Den. There were thieves everywhere, and a new fight broke out each day. It was a place to live, but not a home. Not really.
Thorn flew low to the ground, squinting through the cacti and desert plants. It was night, and a dry wind blew sand over her scales. She could see someone shuffling around whose scales blended in with the shadows. Could it be… a NightWing?
Curiosity got the best of Thorn and she landed on the ground behind him. “What are you doing?” she said.
The dragon spun around. “Oh, nothing!” he said. “I’m not doing anything. I’m just a traveler. I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little lost.” He twiddled his claws and gave Thorn a nervous look.
Thorn tilted her head. She’d never seen a NightWing before. His scales were the color of the desert sky at night, and he spoke in an accent she’d never heard before. She could tell he was lying. His worried little movements were almost endearing.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I’m Stonemover,” said the NightWing.