“The night I was conceived, my mother walked alone down the lane. In my mind, she shines like a star on the earth, the light of the moon catching on her skin. But she went unnoticed, as she tells the story, so this couldn’t have been the case. She was wearing her thick blue traveling coat, like she always wore when she went out, and she wore no shoes. The soles of her feet were tough with scales, the only sign she bore of our once-great heritage. They made no sound on the stone of the lane, nor the gravel and dirt of the road, and especially not on the undergrowth and leaves on the ground as she approached the sacred Tree that stood vigil outside our town. There were many reasons one visited the Tree, and tonight my mother visited to pray.

“The gods did not smile on their graceless children, and it was said they looked especially harsh on those who had the blood of dragons in their veins, but my mother said she was compelled to go, that not even the heat and warmth of my father’s bed could keep her in one place that night. She knelt beneath the Tree. The snow was cold on her knees, bare beneath the cloak, and as she knelt in silence it began to fall in tiny glittering stars onto her head. I imagine they fashioned her a glittering crown.

“It was not uncommon for mothers to pray to the gods for their children to be strong, to be willful, to be free, to be beautiful. But my mother wanted greater things for me. She knelt beneath the Tree with the snow soaking through her gown, and she looked up into its great dark leaves and she whispered a great dark smile.

“‘I pray for a girl,’ she began. ‘She shall be strong. The people shall look upon her and they shall tremble. She will know no love, unless she wishes it so. She shall feel no warmth, unless it comes from within. She shall need for naught and want for all. She shall be as the great dragons were: fire and greed and strength.’

“She knelt for a long time beneath the Tree, her head turned up to the gods, and I imagine there was no room in her heart for shame at the arrogance of her request. The gods looked upon her, a lump of coal in the snow, and something stirred in their wild, wicked hearts. When my mother rose, she reached up to lift herself up on a branch, and she cut her littlest finger. She did not cry out, but she watched the three drops of bright red blood fall onto the moonlit snow, and she knew the gods had heard her prayer.”