Chapter 33 Raven #2
Her curved horns are the exact color of Solaris’s scales—that distinctive burnt orange that I’ve traced with my fingers a thousand times, that I’ve watched gleam in firelight and catch the sun.
They curve like scythes, like mine sharp and lethal, already hardening into the weapons they’ll become.
Even her horns are larger than my brother's—more developed, more defined, as if she’s been growing for months instead of weeks.
His orange scales are mixed with my black in a pattern that reminds me of a rattlesnake—diamonds and zigzags running down her spine in perfect symmetry. Most of her body is onyx-like mine. The contrast is striking, beautiful, a visible declaration of her parentage written in scale and pigment.
She has a pattern of diamonds down her back, each one outlined in black and filled with orange, creating a chain of fire that runs from the base of her skull to the tip of her tail—all six feet of her.
The bone fingers of her wings are as black as mine—pure obsidian, strong and sharp—but the leather stretched between them is orange.
Sunset orange. Ember orange. The color of her father’s flames.
When she stretches those wings experimentally, they span wider than any newborn’s should; the membranes are already strong and supple.
I drop the remains of the shell immediately as she begins to climb.
Her talons find purchase on my scales, and she pulls herself up my forearm with determined strength.
She’s wobbly, uncertain—her muscles still learning how to work, her eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the world—but she doesn’t stop.
Six feet of hatchling scaling my arm like it’s a mountain she was born to conquer.
She climbs up my forearm, across my wrist, and onto my dragon’s neck.
She settles there, in the hollow where my skull meets my spine, and lets out a chirp of satisfaction.
Her wet scales press against mine, cool and damp, already beginning to dry in the warm afternoon air.
I feel her heartbeat—rapid and strong—pulsing against my neck.
The weight of her is substantial, far heavier than my brothers are.
My daughter.
My precious, perfect, impossible daughter. I lift my head slowly, carefully, and turn to look at my mates gathered on the field. At the family standing in stunned silence. At the one male whose entire world has just shifted on its axis.
The look on Solaris’s face says everything. His amber eyes are fixed on the hatchling clinging to my neck, tracing the orange scales, the curved horns, the sunset-colored wing membranes. His lips part, but no sound emerges. His hands hang limp at his sides, trembling.
He knows.
He knows he’s the father.
I watch him fall to his knees.
The most powerful dragon besides my dad’s I’ve ever known—an ancient being who has survived wars and betrayals and centuries of loneliness—crumples onto the grass as if his legs have simply stopped working.
His amber eyes overflow with tears, the wetness tracking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
I can’t tell if it’s joy or shock, or if I’ve just completely shattered his understanding of what his life could be. Maybe all three. After centuries of existence, after believing he would never have children, after watching his bondmates hope and dream and yearn—he is a father.
A sob tore from his throat—raw and broken and beautiful. “A daughter.” His voice is barely a whisper, thick with his Scottish brogue, cracking on the word. “I have... I have a daughter.”
He doesn’t approach. He doesn’t move. He just kneels there in the grass, tears streaming down his face, his amber eyes locked on the six feet of hatchling nuzzling against my scales.
Our hatchling.
Our daughter.
I lower my head slowly, bringing her closer to his eye level.
She chirps at the movement, her talons tightening on my scales, and turns her head toward the sound of his voice.
Her eyes crack open for the first time—amber, just like his, glowing with an inner fire that marks her as his child beyond any doubt.
“Solaris.” I rumble his name, the sound vibrating through my chest, through my neck, through the hatchling perched upon it. “Come meet your daughter.”
He looks up at me—this ancient, powerful male reduced to tears by a six-foot newborn—and I see everything in his eyes. The love. The fear. The overwhelming, terrifying joy of holding something precious after convincing yourself you never would.
He rises on shaking legs. He walks toward us with steps that seem to take forever. And when he reaches out with trembling hands to touch his daughter for the first time, I watch his face transform into something I’ve never seen before.
Pure, incandescent happiness.
“Hello, wee one.” His voice breaks on every word, his brogue thicker than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m yer da.”
The hatchling chirps at him—a curious sound that seems too big for a newborn, too resonant—and stretches her neck toward his palm. Her forked tongue flicks out, tasting his scent, learning him. Then she presses her head against his hand and purrs.
Solaris makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. And I realize, watching him fall in love with our daughter, that this—this moment, this family, this impossible miracle—is worth everything.
Every battle. Every scar. Every sleepless night.
All of it led here.
To a field bathed in afternoon sunlight, surrounded by the people I love, watching my ancient mate meet his firstborn child.