A dragon is a memory of beginnings, born of the same fire and ice as Toril herself. Even a newly hatched wyrmling is yet old, with a memory going back millennia, before the kingdoms of men and elves, before the gods of the lesser races. Io’s children need not be taught their place in the world. They know whence they come, even when their hatching is twisted by isolation, violence and enslavement.
In the Ice Spires of northeastern Faerun, the frost giants of the Icefang tribe have carved out a piece of the mountains they call Fangheim. Their voracious hunts have decimated the herds of Spire greathorns that roam the rocky peaks. The jarl has made a tenuous alliance with a pack of winter wolves, promising them rich hunts in the vales to the east. He plans to expand his influence on the backs of his many slaves, including a small stable of captive wyrmlings. Yet the power he has woken may sweep beyond his grasp as swiftly as the northern wind…