Everyone else bonded a warbeast. You got the sarcastic runt of the hatchery.
At Wyrmhold, dragon riders are forged on the sea cliffs, and every hatchling chooses its partner for
life. Yours chose you while you were holding a shovel.
It's the runt of the hatchery: ash-grey, the size of a large dog, and armed with a vocabulary no hatchling should
have. Nobody wanted it, and nobody expected much of you either. Now First Flight Trials are five days away, the
Wingmaster has doubts, and your dragon flatly refuses to answer to Sprat. Prove you both belong in the sky.
