507 A. U. C.


    Rubin tucked his paws close to his body as Melodia drenched their egg in white fire.


    It was a thing as customary as it was necessary. As the only dragons blessed with fire, the Ablyns needed heat to hatch, and with their turquoise egg nearing hatching-time it was imperative the parents stay at its side, warming it with their flames.


    From time to time Rubin added his, the reddish-orange glow complimenting the white of his mate, deepening the shadows that flickered against the cavern’s walls and accentuating the deep black and crimson of his own scales. It was, though, only a symbolic gesture—he could never hope to produce flames as hot as Melodia’s. Still, leaving her alone in the work was out of the question.


    ‘Now, of all times,’ he said wistfully. ‘What kind of world will they hatch into?’


    The stream of white fire broke. ‘We’ve talked about this, love.’ There was no reprimand in her voice, though Rubin could still sense her impatience with the topic. ‘By the time they grow up—’


    ‘I know, I know,’ he acquiesced. ‘Still, in, what, a year? Two? Jagrav will want us back. How can we hope to raise a dragonet with that over our heads?’


    ‘We’ll manage,’ Melodia said with unwavering resolve, sending a particularly strong breath of fire for emphasis. Rubin admired her confidence, as much—if not more—as when they had met. The glow of her flames reflected off of her swirly patterns in varying shades of blue, danced in her turquoise eyes. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘if not now, when? Do you think the war will end in just a few years? As it is, our child may not hatch into peace, but could live long enough to see it. Perhaps even help bring it.’


    ‘I know.’ He sighed, and then, quieter, added, ‘I know.’


    She bumped his snout with hers. ‘I don’t like it either. But it’s not like our parents wanted this for us either.’


    ‘You’re right, mine would’ve given me over to the Cavrians even if it did nothing to stop this.’ Rubin couldn''t quite stop this slight outpouring of bitterness, but regretted it as soon as it left his maw. He preferred not to think about it.


    ‘Rubin dear. Stop giving them as much thought. Past’s past. This—’ she sent another short stream of fire— ‘is now.’


    He added his own orange flames in silent agreement.


    The egg began to rock.


    Rubin inhaled sharply and looked to Melodia, who looked back and beamed. She turned back to the egg ready to redo its white-hot coat.


    They continued their silent watch, adding occasional fresh flames, until, at last, a crack marred the otherwise perfect shell.


    Rubin shuffled forward, Melodia at his side. Her turquoise eyes, matching near-perfectly with the egg, shone with joy. His heart beat faster and faster as the fracture lengthened, widened, until finally, with a gentle crack that echoed weakly through the cavern, the egg split and a little dragon came awkwardly tumbling down.


    ‘Hello, little one,’ said Melodia, her snout a picture of adoration. ‘Oh, how gorgeous you are.’


    The dragonet wehed, squeaked, and lifted her head to peer at them, wide-eyed. Melodia’s blues and Rubin’s blacks blended across her scales, and her paws boasted dull silvery-grey claws, all shiny with the wetness of the newly hatched. A deep blue crest ran proudly along the back of her neck, and the twin pairs of her would-be horns were tiny whitish nubs, and her wings beat awkwardly as she struggled to stand up.


    Rubin thought his spirit might leave his scales to sing all through the sky as he looked down at his daughter.


    He tossed her bits of softened meat and chuckled proudly when their little hunter leaped and tripped and began vigorously gnawing at the things. When she was done, punctuated by a squeaky-hiccupy sound, Rubin scooped her up in his paws and held her close to his chest. He turned to his mate. ‘Cynobria, then?’


    Melodia nodded and scooted closer to look at their newhatched daughter. Cynobria peered back at her curiously.


    ‘Welcome to the world, Cynobria. We promise we’ll make it as good as we can, for you.’


    ‘Squeak,’ chirped Cynobria by way of a response.


    511 A. U. C.


    It was a stormy night and Kyr was growing restless. The howling wind rid her of any ideas of sleep and she moved from window to window, looking out to see if any dragon found themselves fighting the merciless gale.


    Kyr didn’t fear storms—not most of them at least, but this time it seemed strong enough to toss a dragon down from the sky. She was safe here, within the walls of their tree, but just thinking of anyone stuck out there was making her uneasy, and the creaking-straining sound of their home and the violent howl outside hardly eased the anxious knot in her gut.


    ‘A tin for your thoughts?’


    She nearly jumped at the sound. Hryns could pad as soundlessly as a lynx if he wanted to. She should really get used to that.


    ‘You need not spend tins, silly.’ She turned and, sure enough, standing in the wide entryway with a satisfied grin splitting his snout, was her sneaky mate in all his orange-green-grey glory. ‘Though I might take some other things.’


    He laughed at that, and she grinned, and for a moment she forgot her worry. She wondered when would come the time they no longer got drunk on each other’s smiles and laughs, and hoped it would never come.


    ‘Weather’s rough tonight, huh?’ he said, coming to stand next to her. ‘I don’t envy anyone who’d have to fly through this.’


    ‘Where’s Nythr?’ she asked, if only to take her mind away from the storm. Outside the trees bowed low against the might of the wind, bending so hard she feared they might snap.


    ‘Where do you think he is?’ Hryns snorted. ‘That dragon would sleep through the end of the world, and then some.’


    ‘At least one of us will be alive tomorrow.’


    Hryns looked at her pointedly. ‘It’s an off-day. You’ve got any plans?’


    ‘That—’ Kyr nodded at the window, at the storm— ‘will need some helping paws when it’s over.’


    ‘Ah, my sweet.’ Hryns extended his ash-grey wing over her and pulled her tight against his flank. ‘Ykyrsh the Great, saviour of all!’ he jeered and she looked at him sharply, and he relented with a gentle smile. ‘Of course we’ll help too, Nythr and I. Wouldn’t think of anything else.’


    A shape, some green-and-yellow blur, flitted across her vision.


    ‘What was that?’


    ‘Hm?’ asked Hryns, confused. Kyr shifted under his wing and rested her paws against the window, leaning closer to investigate the scene outside.


    ‘I think I saw something fly by.’


    He moved closer to the window. ‘What kind of something?’


    ‘I’m not sure.’ She continued to stare outside, but the night and the storm worked together to render the scene unreadable. ‘It was too fast to make anything out.’


    ‘Are you sure?’ Hryns withdrew a little. ‘Because if you ask me, it’s hard to see shit out there.’


    Kyr sighed. ‘I know. Still…’ She let the word hang between them and didn’t move away from the grown-in glass. Hryns was right, should have been right, and yet she was almost sure she’d seen something.


    She fruitlessly scrutinised every bit within her line of sight, then sighed once more and moved away to join Hryns, who started making his way back across the room.


    ‘I’ll try for at least a little shut-eye. You in?’


    Feeling resigned, Kyr nodded absentmindedly, coming to join him, but as she passed by another window, she caught some movement in the corner of her eye. ‘What was that?’


    ‘Kyr.’ Hryns sighed, turning to her. ‘You’re tired. You’re just seeing things now.’ But she was already looking out the window, searching.


    ‘Hryns,’ she said, urgency rising in her voice. ‘Come look at this.’


    He must have picked up on her tone, because in moments he was next to her, looking out.


    His ears went flat. ‘Is that…?’


    ‘I think it’s an egg.’


    It was a guess—it was hard to see anything in this kind of weather, rain and wind and flying leaves—but the bounding shape looked very egglike, a greenish, greyish, yellowish thing of just about the size and shape. It was currently trapped in tangled vines, but the heavy wind jostled it to the sides with such force it could get dislodged at any moment.


    ‘How could…’ He seemed to be at a loss for words. ‘How.’


    ‘I’m going out,’ said Kyr and, without waiting for his reply, headed for the mudroom.


    ‘Woah, woah, wait! You can’t be serious!’ Hryns called and she heard pawsteps against wood, following her.


    She was already by the door, searching for a wingstrap, when he caught up. The room was little more than a bare live-tree tunnel, three boxes and two doors and a single window its only features. ‘Of course I’m serious,’ she said, finding the strap and turning to him. ‘How could I not be? It’s a fucking egg! It will get crushed in this storm! Here—’ she handed him the wingstrap— ‘help me with this.’


    He accepted the strap, shocked at her outburst. ‘We’re not sure it’s an egg. You want to risk yourself for a guess?’ But even as he was saying it, he was helping her put on the strap, and then tightening it against her body.


    ‘Wish me luck,’ she said, noting that a touch of nervousness slipped into her voice.


    ‘You don’t need luck.’ He smiled, almost encouragingly, but with too much uncertainty to truly lift her spirits. He gave her snout an affectionate nuzzle. ‘Go get it, love.’


    Her stomach tightened into a knot, but she nodded, and as Hryns withdrew deeper into the house and closed the door to the porch, she braced herself and opened the door outside.


    The gale nearly swept her off her paws, and the rain drenched each scale in seconds. She pushed a little forward, dug her claws into the ground and somehow managed to pull the door closed with her tail. The wind tugged at her wings, but the strap held them firmly against her body—had she not put it on she’d have joined the hurricane of leaves in but a blink. She looked around, but didn’t see anyone out there, just her against the storm, everyone else tucked safe inside their homes.


    Thunder roared while she trudged onward in the direction she saw the supposed egg. It was on the other side of their home, and with its cover the wind there should be less violent. Kyr made slow progress, but progress she did, and after a small eternity of tiny uncertain steps along the bark of their home-tree the wind lessened and she saw the window from which she’d spotted the egg—behind it she could now see a dragon’s shape. And then there it was—the tangle of vines that held the small round shape.


    There came a cracking then, amid the ceaseless howl, and then a groaning and a rustle, and a tree came toppling onto her.


    Heart in her throat, she moved before she could think, jumping to the side of the falling tree. She avoided the brunt of it, but a heavy branch broke off and, carried by the wind, it slammed against her.


    The impact sent her careening upwards with the storm, the air pushed out of her lungs in a single terrible moment. Vertigo dulled each sense as she spun head-over-tail and slammed into another tree, the bark scraping at her scales as she slid down. She struggled to turn around and to find her grip, and halfway down her claws found purchase in the rainsoaked bark, allowing her to slowly clamber down the rest of the way. Her back and chest ached terribly, and she was short on breath, but she got her footing once more. She looked around and was surprised to see she had landed not too far from the little egg. She allowed herself a small smile as she crept to it on careful paws.


    Up close she had no doubts—it was an egg. Its surface was smooth, but marred with weirdly regular cracks.


    Her ears flattened, claws flexed. Was it already hatching? Or had the storm damaged the shell?


    She reached to pick it up and at that moment, weakened from the scraping of the bark, her strap gave way.


    She scrambled to clutch the egg to her chest as she struggled to not unfurl her wings despite the relentless gale. She looked up to the window, but it was empty now, no one left to see. She gritted her teeth, growled low. Had Hryns left?


    Holding the egg close, she hobbled back on three paws. It was treacherous, walking like this in a storm as strong as this one, and one misstep could cause her to be swept again, and the egg to be crushed to bits. She nearly crawled and tried for cover all she could, but even so the wind was doing its worst to spread her wings, to goad her into a final flight.


    And that it did.


    In a heartbeat’s span her wings went wide and the wind rushed eagerly to fill them, and it was all she could do to hold the egg tight as she was flung skyward. She watched the ground recede in a muddy blur.


    Is this how I end?


    Another log slammed into her from above, pinning her to the ground. Her heart hammered faster than it ever had and she wasn’t sure if it was luck or misfortune until she realised the thing that hit her wasn’t a log—it was not a thing at all.


    ‘I’ll hold them closed!’ Hryns roared, barely audible in the storm. ‘Inside, quick!’


    Despite his urgent tone it took all too long for Kyr to see the door, and then several more painfully slow moments to crawl back with Hryns on top of her. They managed to scramble inside, falling to the floor in a wet heap of wings and scales, and Hryns rushed to close the door. Kyr surveyed the mudroom only to see the other door open too, and the house farther in was in a state she had not expected to see until they had hatchlings.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ‘Did you get it?’


    The question roused her from her thoughts. The egg!


    Her paws shook as she withdrew the egg from against her aching chest and set it gently on the floor. It was perfectly round, a dull yellowy green. As she examined it more closely, what she had taken for cracks turned out to be letters, scribbled clumsily in washed black lines.


    Zhyr.


    ‘So you were right,’ Hryns said unsteadily. ‘It really is an egg.’


    ‘I wonder how it got here.’ Kyr mused aloud. ‘Where are its parents?’ She lifted her head to look out the small mudroom window, suppressing a wince of pain. A puddle of rainwater gathered on the floor under her. All she could see through the rain-battered glass was the frenzied dancing of the leaves.


    A soft tapping came from the direction of the hall and in a few moments the bright green-and-blue form of Nythr stood in the round doorless doorway.


    ‘What is this mess?’ their mate asked sleepily as Kyr and Hryns collapsed onto the floor.


    They couldn''t find the egg’s parents when the next day the skies cleared and the storm died down. They asked around the village, and in others close by, but no one claimed to have lost an egg. Unsure of what to do, they decided to keep it and waited for someone to come asking, all the while taking care of the little treasure.


    No one came.


    And when, in around two months, the egg hatched, revealing a scrawny light-and-dark green hatchling with grey-brown stripes and ecru socks, they decided to name him Zhyr.


    512 A. U. C.


    Ruari sat guard in the Royal Hatchery, looking after two beige eggs.


    The opulence of the place had never ceased to rouse her awe, even as she was no longer new to the line of Lasthúir. She had traded sturdy valley manors for the mountain-set Lightbringers’ palace, the seat of queens and kings. The gilded walls and ornaments, and softest silks she’d ever touched were middling compensation for the scrutiny that came from being the wife of a possible future king.


    Aodhan wasn’t with her, and he rarely ever was when she looked after their clutch. He was a busy dragon, he would say, and he’d been right, but, in Ruari’s mind, even the Prince Lightbringer could spare a moment to join his wife in looking after their brood.


    ‘Well,’ said Onóri, ‘then tell him that.’


    ‘Do you think I have not tried?’ Ruari shook her head in exasperation, ruffled her wings to get them more comfortably against her sides. ‘He always says the same one thing. That he needs to study under the Queen’s wing, be ready to take the rule when it is his due, and these are just eggs, and until they hatch they are not of his concern. Sometimes I almost wonder if he will keep this attitude when they do hatch—if he notices, of course.’ She could not stop a bitter note from slipping out.


    ‘You are being a little harsh on him, don’t you think?’ Onóri patted Ruari’s paw with her own. ‘King or not, he would not leave his own children out of his life.’


    ‘Cáondai did.’


    Onóri sighed and withdrew her paw. Ruari regretted her comment at once, wanted back her sister’s comforting touch. ‘She did,’ Onóri said. ‘But he is not the Conqueror Come Again, despite what she might be claiming. Did you not tell me that yourself, back when you two were courting?’


    ‘I did,’ Ruari admitted. She was glad to have Onóri here with her. From anyone else these words might have been empty things, but the two sisters would always manage to find a way to lift each others’ spirits. She suspected Unity might have blessed them with some special bond of twins.


    Her husband could hardly claim such a connection with his own clutchmates.


    ‘Ruari,’ said Onóri suddenly, urgently. ‘Ruari, look!’


    Ruari frowned, unsure what her sister meant, until she spotted it too. One of the eggs was rocking gently. She watched with bated breath, and soon the other joined, and then small cracks were spiderwebbing along their surfaces.


    Breath hitched in Ruari’s throat, and when she got her voice back, she called, ‘Servant. Servant!’ and when a dragoness came rushing to them Ruari said, ‘Send for Aodhan. The eggs are hatching.’


    The dragoness needed no further encouragement. She nodded and immediately set off, manoeuvring expertly out of the hatchery.


    ‘Dear me,’ Onóri said a little breathlessly, eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘I am very glad I came with you today.’


    She left unspoken the fact that she had accompanied Ruari on a near-daily basis, ever since the eggs were laid. She left unspoken who had not. The two dragonesses waited with their eyes set on the rocking-cracking eggs. A small crowd of hatchery workers in their distinct simple white vestments and higher nobles, scales adorned with gold and yellow gems—worn as jewellery or, like the Conqueror Queen, embedded in their scales—was slowly gathering around them, but there was no sight of Aodhan. Ruari, despite the joyous moment, could not help a prickle of exasperation rising in her heart.


    Right as she saw a small snout trying to push its way out the cracking shell, murmurs came from outside, and the clanking of metal as the guards moved aside, and then, in all his white-and-gold radiance, entered Aodhan ál éoghan ith Lasthúir, the Prince Lightbringer, grand and resplendent and almost late to the hatching of his own first clutch.


    The tiny crowd parted for him as he settled next to Ruari at the precise moment the first hatchling pushed her way out of the egg. He sent a mildly critical look towards Onóri, but said not a word, turning back to watch the hatchling and the egg, his snout curving in a gentle smile that looked honest to its core, from his posture to his mat gold eyes.


    A small stab of guilt at the earlier accusations pricked Ruari’s heart, but it dissipated in a flash. He had not been there all those days she’d been waiting, checking, looking after the eggs. She hoped after today he could spare more of his time for them.


    The second one was coming too—a tiny paw already free of its confines, white-and-gold scales exactly as Aodhan’s. It took a few more clumsy tries, but soon enough he was out of the shell, and the two hatchlings—their daughter with Ruari’s white and beige and specks of chestnut brown and her husband’s minimal patterns, and their son with the white and gold of the prince, and Ruari’s small spirals across his body, smoke-like patterns on the wings—were peering up at them with curious eyes, both the Lasthúir colour of matted gold.


    The Naming Ceremony took place the next day.


    What scant preparations had not yet been made were completed with swift efficiency. The eggs had been expected to hatch soon, and most necessities had been arranged the past week. All that was left was to attend.


    ‘Congratulations on the hatching.’


    Ruari stilled, startled, and turned around to see the pearly-gold visage of her husband’s sister.


    Iona ál úna ith Lasthúir was a startling presence, but ever since Ruari had started courting Aodhan, the dragoness had been making her uneasy. Under this dignified veneer was a mind Ruari dared not try to guess at.


    ‘You are kind,’ she said simply, dipping her head.


    Iona smiled pleasantly. ‘No need to be as formal. We are family now, after all.’ She tilted her head. ‘Might we walk?’


    ‘Of course,’ she said. Iona beckoned with her wing and Ruari followed.


    ‘I must say, dear brother is in some haste. The first of us to court as seriously, and already with heirs. How does one manage to accommodate such responsibilities with the duty to the empire?’


    He is twenty-eight, thought Ruari, but did not voice it. Of the royal triplets he was the only one with a partner—assuming Lorcan’s escapades were mere rumours—and the other two seemed to be in no hurry to join him. Though with the current Queen Lightbringer having her first clutch at forty-four, when her iron grip on the empire was unbreakable and the conquests in full swing, Ruari saw where Iona might have been coming from.


    ‘It is not an easy thing,’ she ventured carefully. ‘But I am certain my husband can manage.’


    ‘And what of you?’


    Ruari stopped short for a moment, and had to rush a little to catch up to Iona. ‘Pardon?’


    The Princess Lightbringer sent her a pointed look, topped with a gentle smile that made Ruari want to cower, but she stood her ground. ‘You are Aodhan’s wife now. You have a rare privilege of joining the Lasthúir ranks, albeit not by blood. You might have a say in the workings of the empire.’


    Ruari shook her head. ‘Not yet. I must admit, I have still not grown used to the goings-on of the court at this tier. One day, perhaps, but presently I want to make sure everything is handled properly with the hatchlings.’


    ‘Truly,’ said Iona. Her tone gave Ruari an impression of a hidden snakepit. ‘Thank you for your time. It was illuminating.’


    ‘Likewise,’ lied Ruari and let herself drop back as Iona continued forward. She let loose a shaky breath. Every conversation with Iona felt like a test—one she was never sure she had passed.


    If Ruari were to name one thing she did not like about the high court, it would be the endless tangled web of intrigues, dragons suddenly expecting her to know it all and bear herself properly, navigating through this twisted maze. It made her feel inadequate, thrust into a world she had not been ready for.


    ‘My love? Here you are.’


    She turned at the sound of this voice. The one in this palace that made her feel she belonged.


    ‘The Naming Ceremony is going to start,’ said Aodhan. ‘Come.’


    And so she came, and there proceeded the Naming Ceremony of the royal clutch, the first heralds of this new generation.


    Ruari stood there with Aodhan, the two hatchlings before them looking up curiously. It was a small event—every dragon present invited personally, from Aodhan’s siblings, Iona and Lorcan, to his and Ruari’s parents. Onóri was there too—the most deserving guest as far as Ruari was concerned—together with her wife and their other two sisters (one hard look was argument enough to quell Aodhan’s protest). The final guest, aside from temple staff, was Núallan, the King Consort, an empty place at his side. The Queen Lightbringer, Cáondai ál Dealái ith Lasthúir, called the Conqueror still in her life, did not come to witness the naming of the two new scions of Lasthúir.


    The useless generation? Ruari held back a scoff at the thought. For all she cared the queen could eat her tail.


    The chapel was bathed in muted half-light—enough it could not be called a darkness, but only so much that the inner glow of a diamond set on a low white marble platform was the brightest thing inside.


    As all the prayers had been said, and all the blessings bestowed, and all the other minute details taken care of, Ruari nudged her hatchlings forward and they came to a stop in front of the priest. He wore the ceremonial cloth of grey embroidered with arcs of white and black and darker grey, all outlined with golden thread. The symbol of Unity.


    He placed his paw against the diamond. The hatchlings peered at it curiously, little heads tilting, and then the little dragoness touched the gem. It blinked with a sudden white-light flash and the hatchling leaped back, startled. Ruari smiled and said, ‘Taori.’


    The priest nodded. For a moment that was it, until Aodhan nudged their little dragonar too. He gingerly rested his paw against the diamond, and a similar flash followed.


    ‘Fáolan,’ said Aodhan as the hatchling continued to stare into the brilliant shimmering interior of the ceremonial gem.


    ELSEWHERE, SAME YEAR


    Cynobria exhaled with as much fury as she could muster, but no fire came out.


    She huffed, irritated. Mum and Dad had said it would come, eventually, as it did to all the dragons of their kind. Except Cynobria was five already and she was yet to breathe her first plume of flame.


    She sighed.


    She turned her attention to the metal contraption she was playing with—a tangle of bars and loops. She had seen it once at a market, at the stall with other such curious trinkets. She’d asked what it was and was told it was a puzzle, one where she was supposed to separate the two pieces. The dragon selling the thing separated them under the counter, showed her the undid loops, joined them back and let her try to unhook them, and then Cynobria did try and couldn’t, and tried again, and then the seller took it back and she’d asked Dad enough times that he’d got it for her.


    It had been over a week since then and she still couldn’t do it. Maybe if she tried to loop this piece through that opening and twist it—


    ‘Bree, dinner’s set up!’


    Cynobria jumped at the sound and the thing tumbled to the floor. She huffed, annoyed, and tried to repeat what she’d done, but the metal bar-loop-thing did not cooperate, so she threw it to the floor and scampered over to the kitchen where Dad was setting the table with a variety of meats and herbs. The whole kitchen was saturated in the smell of them, and her nostrils flared as it hit her.


    There was a commotion at the entrance, a thud, a bang, then rushing steps, and Cynobria only had time enough to look before Mum stood in the open doorway. ‘Rubin!’ she said, urgent and breathless. ‘Have you heard?’


    ‘Hello to you too, dear,’ said Dad, and it almost sounded as cheery as usual. ‘Heard what?’


    Mum grinned. ‘The Conqueror is dead.’


    He froze. ‘Is she now?’ He set a plate down, giving a short tap to the table before dropping to all fours. Cynobria wasn’t sure who this Conqueror was—she had heard her mentioned here and there, but nothing much. She seemed important. ‘Does Jagrav know?’


    ‘He brought the news,’ said Mum. ‘You know how he works, eyes and ears everywhere.’


    Dad nodded. ‘That he does. Do we know who takes the throne now?’


    Cynobria looked between them. She hadn’t been hungry before, but surrounded by the smells of herbs and meat her maw began to salivate. She padded to the basin to wash her paws, keeping a single ear on their parents, even if she understood little of what they were talking about.


    ‘Not yet,’ Mum was saying. ‘My guess is on Iona or Aodhan, but I hope against hope they somehow choose Lorcan.’


    ‘That’d be for the best,’ Dad chuckled. ‘Still, any of these three is better than Cáondai.’ He grimaced at the name before smoothing his snout and clapping his paws. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that is that. Now, dinner.’


    They washed their paws and took their places and Cynobria crawled-climbed-clambered onto her high stool. In front of each of them was a plate with the herbed slabs of meat Dad had prepared.


    ‘May I, Bree?’ he asked, reaching for her plate.


    ‘I want Mum to do it!’


    He hesitated as Mum failed to hide a snort. ‘Look, Bree,’ he said slowly. ‘You know Mum’s fire is—’


    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want it.’


    ‘Alright,’ said Mum, chuckling softly. ‘Pass it to me.’


    Cynobria forced herself to stop bouncing on her stool as she slid the plate across the table. Mum took it in her paws and lifted it a little, then she opened her maw and breathed a thin stream of white-hot fire onto Cynobria’s dinner and at once the kitchen was filled with a much stronger scent of burned herbs and charred meat. Cynobria looked in awe at the pouring whiteness, drooling at the tasty scent.


    When the flames abated, Cynobria blinked away the afterimage, took her now-ready (if a little scorched) dinner and said, ‘Do you think I’ll be a whitefire too?’


    Mum smiled at that. ‘We’ll see, Bree.’ And Cynobria grinned back.


    Whitefire. Breathing fire was a trait unique to Ablyns, and most of them could produce a reddish, yellowish flame, like Dad. Some, though, like Mum, could breathe white fire, much hotter than the regular one.


    And Cynobria really, really wanted it for herself.


    Mum and Dad leaned over their own plates and each breathed a little fire onto it. The beautiful scent only grew stronger and Cynobria drummed her claws on the table, waiting for her parents to start. Her tail was twitching impatiently, thumping against the legs of her stool, when she was struck by a thought.


    ‘How do other dragons eat if they have no fire?’


    Mum and Dad looked to each other, then both snorted a laugh, which Cynobria didn’t understand. She had asked a serious question. None of the other dragons Cynobria knew could breathe fire, and though Cynobria herself couldn’t do that either, she knew she would, eventually. But they lived in Tarange now, where the dragons’ eyes were violet, not blue, and where they had no fire in their breath.


    ‘Cooking meals with our own fire is an Ablyneese tradition,’ said Dad. ‘We could do it like it’s done elsewhere—with hot coals, or a fire made a different way—but we are Ablyns and, even when we’re far from home, it’s important to keep living the Ablay way.’


    ‘But we live in Tarange. Aren’t we Tarang…eese?


    ‘Tarangean. And no,’ said Mum, gently but sternly. ‘We may have come here, but we were, all of us, hatched as Ablyns. That’s who we are, and that’s who we’ll always be.’


    ‘Why did we move away?’ asked Cynobria.


    Mum and Dad exchanged a weird look, and then Mum said, ‘We had to do it for work.’


    Cynobria tilted her head, frowning. ‘There was no work back home?’


    ‘It’s… a little complicated, Bree.’


    ‘Who is Jagrav?’


    At that both of them went quiet, and Dad sent Mum a serious look. He said, ‘Now, Bree, your dinner is cooling down. Eat up.’


    Cynobria pouted, but obediently dug in, and so did Mum and Dad. If she had any qualms about her unanswered question, they were gone with the first bite of seasoned meat. Even if a little too scorched, Dad’s mixture of herbs and spices gave it a tail-twitchingly good taste, and in some mysterious way Cynobria couldn’t get out of him, he managed to make the meat so soft it came apart at the slightest tug of her teeth.


    ‘He’s a colleague from work,’ said Mum. Cynobria looked up from the meal, confused. Mum added, ‘Jagrav.’


    Many other questions ignited in her head and almost forced themselves to spill from her maw, but Mum’s tone held them back. Not now, Cynobria decided. She would ask them later.


    ‘How was school?’ asked Dad, in-between his sizable bites.


    ‘Ermf…’ mumbled Cynobria and dug into her dinner.


    ‘Did something happen?’ Mum asked, a touch worried.


    Cynobria swallowed a chunk of meat. ‘No, no, just…’ She sighed. ‘Others are looking at me a little weird.’


    ‘Weird?’


    ‘Weird.’ She nodded. ‘Nothing much. Sometimes they say I look different. That my eyes are odd. They ask me to say things in Svarish. Some tell me to speak in “Ablyneese”. And it’s nothing mean and nothing much, but it feels odd.’


    ‘Bree,’ said Mum, a little sadly. ‘You are a Svar. You are an Ablyn. Even out here, you are fire. It’s a reason for pride. Never forget that.’


    ‘But I don’t want to be “other”. I want to fit in with my friends!’


    ‘You can, still. We’re all equally dragon. But you will always be an Ablyn, and you’ll—’


    ‘Then why did we have to MOVE?’ she yelled, and flames poured from her maw.


    Mum and Dad looked at her, stunned, and Cynobria sat still, wide-eyed, then hiccuped, and another little plume of fire appeared in the air.


    It wasn’t white though. But neither was it the orange-red of her dad.


    It was blue.


    ‘Well,’ said Dad, still not moving from where he sat. The remnants of his dinner were still on the table, though the spices’ scent was covered by the new hot-metal smell of Cynobria’s flames. ‘It looks like you’ve got your fire, Bree.’