Thornfang Razorclaw crept over cracked dirt, spike teeth bared at nothing yet. He was small and purple and done being small. Today he would prove he could become the fiercest warrior in Echomaw. Then he saw the stone slab ahead, split top to bottom by claw marks deeper than his whole body. The marks were a warning. Past them rose a grim castle of black stone streaked with old blood, red spires stabbing the sky. Something huge sat at its peak, watching. Spikes bristled along its back, twice the size of his own. Thornfang's legs locked. Every doubter's voice rose up at once. He shoved the voices down and looked for ground to stand on. A jagged sharpening crag jutted from the dirt nearby, crystal edges sharp as teeth. He dragged each talon across it, then each tooth, until sparks flew and his jaw ached. The huge thing on the castle stood up. It roared. The sound shook dust from the monolith. Thornfang knew he could not win this fight today. He turned and ran, sharper than he came, the castle's shadow stretching after him. Above, a winged shape with a spiked tail circled once and watched him flee. He had not beaten the beast. But he had seen the biggest one, and lived, and now he had a name to climb toward.