Chapter 34 Hemlocke
Hemlocke
Watching our family’s first hatchling arrive in this world is a humbling experience.
The afternoon sun beats down on the field, warming my skin, casting long shadows across the grass.
The scent of summer hangs heavy in the air—fresh-cut hay and wildflowers and the underlying musk of dragons.
My heart still pounds from watching that obsidian shell crack open, from seeing that tiny—no, not tiny at all—form emerge into the light.
Raven’s hatchling is bigger than the babies from her mother’s clutch that hatched three weeks ago. Far bigger. The difference is staggering, impossible to ignore.
The baby on Raven’s back is mostly black, her scales gleaming like polished onyx in the sunlight.
That diamond pattern along her spine catches the light differently—orange and black alternating in perfect symmetry, a chain of fire running from skull to tail.
She moves with surprising coordination for a newborn; her talons find purchase on her mother’s scales as she slowly climbs down Raven’s side until she reaches the ground.
Her legs wobble slightly when they touch the grass, but she steadies herself quickly. Over six feet of hatchling, standing in the field like she owns it.
Soon after, the twin black dragons slip off of Raven’s hip, their small bodies sliding down her scales until they land on the ground next to their new cousin.
Maur and Balterion chirp excitedly, their tiny tails whipping back and forth, but they barely reach the baby’s shoulder.
They are half her size—maybe less. Three weeks older and half the size.
The ancient power in Solaris’s bloodline is already making itself known.
Ruby toddles over to join the twins, her red and green scales catching the light in flashes of jewel-bright color. Even she is smaller than Raven’s hatchling, despite being from Klauth’s line. Raven’s hatchling towers over all of them, a gentle giant surrounded by her smaller kin.
Raven shifts back to her human form in a ripple of reforming bone and receding scales.
The transformation is fluid, practiced, and in seconds she stands in the grass wearing that long black gown, her black leather wings folded against her back.
She drops to her knees without hesitation and wraps her arms around her baby’s neck, pulling the hatchling close.
“Shift, my most precious one.” Her voice is thick with emotion, trembling with love so fierce I feel it pulse through our bond. “Mommy will melt the world to goo to protect you.”
She opens her wings wide, the black leather membranes spreading like a dark embrace, and kneels there in the grass without caring that her gown is going to be ruined.
The silk pools around her, soaking up moisture from the earth, grass stains already spreading across the fabric. She doesn’t notice. She doesn’t care.
The hatchling approaches her mother with cautious steps, those amber eyes—so like Solaris’s—fixed on Raven’s face. Then she rises on her hind legs, placing her taloned hands on her mother’s shoulders. The claws are careful, controlled, leaving no marks on Raven’s skin.
Raven wraps her arms around her baby first, then her wings, creating a cocoon of leather and love that blocks out the rest of the world. I can hear her purring from here—a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the air.
I watch in fascination as the transformation begins.
The dragonic tail slowly disappears, shrinking and receding into the mass of scales and limbs hidden within Raven’s wings. The form beneath the leather membrane shifts, reshapes, and grows smaller. The outline changes from reptilian to something else entirely.
Then we hear a gasp.
Not from the baby—from Raven.
Mina approaches quickly, her maternal instincts clearly overriding any hesitation about getting too close. She drops a soft blanket down into Raven’s wings, the fabric pale against the dark leather, and steps back to give them space.
Several tense moments pass. The field is silent except for the whisper of wind through the grass and the distant chirping of the younger hatchlings. I hold my breath without meaning to, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Then Raven opens her wings.
We see the baby bundled in the blanket—human now, small and perfect, with tufts of dark hair and skin the color of warm honey.
Tears streak down Raven’s cheeks, cutting paths through the dust that settled on her face during the hatching.
She purrs deeply for her baby; the sound rumbling from her chest, vibrating through the air between us.
Her sapphire eyes move between all of her mates—Corvus with his silver hair catching the light, Keir with his stormy gray eyes wide with wonder, Finlay with embers flickering in his gaze, me with my heart lodged somewhere in my throat—then lock on Solaris.
He approaches hesitantly, his massive frame moving with uncharacteristic uncertainty. His footsteps are slow, measured, as if he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly. He moves to stand beside Raven, looking down at the baby in her arms.
His amber eyes widen in shock.
Then he looks at Raven’s wings—the black leather membranes folded against her back—and then back to the baby. His mouth opens, but no sound emerges. His throat works as he swallows once, twice.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly, and the question snaps Raven out of whatever thought held her captive.
She looks up at me, and I see it then—not distress, but awe. Pure, overwhelming awe.
“She’s like me.”
Raven closes her wings again, wrapping them around her daughter, and I hear the baby make a soft sound of contentment. Several seconds pass. Then Raven opens her wings once more.
Her daughter has wings in human form.
Just like her mother.
They rise from the baby’s small back—strong obsidian-covered flight bones and fingers, the structure already developed despite her newborn status.
The leather stretched between those bone fingers fades from black at the edges to a vibrant orange near the center.
Sunset orange. Ember orange. The color of her father’s scales.
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
“I thought you said a female with wings is a rare occurrence.” I look over at Thauglor, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Raven’s father stands beside Klauth, his sapphire eyes fixed on his daughter and granddaughter with an expression I can’t quite read. He looks over at the Dragon King, some silent communication passing between the two ancient beings, then turns back to me.
“Maybe this is part of the change that dragon kind needs.” He shrugs his massive shoulders, but I catch the tremor in his voice. The wonder he’s trying to hide. “Perhaps the old ways are evolving.”
He looks at Raven and the hatchling, and for a moment, I see past the terrifying legend to the father beneath. The grandfather. A male watching his bloodline transform into something unprecedented.
I watch Raven carefully place her daughter into Solaris’s arms, guiding his massive hands to support the baby’s head and back.
The baby fusses for a moment at the transfer, then settles against her father’s chest with a soft coo.
Raven leans against Solaris’s shoulder, her eyes drifting closed, exhaustion finally catching up with her.
Through our bond, all I feel is peace.
Whatever taking him as a mate did for her, it was well worth it. The turmoil that usually churns beneath Raven’s surface—the conflict between the warrior she was raised to be and the path she wants to forge—is quiet now. Still. She’s found something that centers her in a way nothing else has.
I walk closer, drawn by the sight of those small wings peeking over the edge of the blanket. The peaks of the baby's wings are strong, the bones already defined, the leather catching the light with a subtle sheen. She’s going to be magnificent when she’s grown.
“What are you going to name her?”
Raven smiles—that soft, secret smile she reserves for moments of genuine happiness—then rises on her tiptoes and whispers something in Solaris’s ear. His amber eyes light up, and a smile breaks across his face.
“‘Tis a fitting name for the wee one.” He presses his lips to his daughter’s forehead, lingering there for a moment, breathing her in.
Then he turns to face the family gathered on the field, his voice carrying strong and clear despite the emotion thickening his brogue. “We are naming the wee one Nova.”
Nova. A star. An explosion of light. The beginning of something new.
“Nova MacLeod, third in line for the throne.” Raven’s smile broadens as she looks down at Ruby, who has waddled closer to investigate the commotion. The little red and green hatchling tilts her head curiously at the announcement. “You, my little love, are fourth.”
Raven smiles the broadest smile I’ve seen in a while—weeks, maybe months. The expression transforms her face, softening the sharp edges of the warrior into something younger. Happier. More like the girl she might have been if the world hadn’t demanded she become a weapon.
Solaris hesitantly hands Nova back to Raven, his reluctance visible in the way his fingers linger on the blanket, the way his eyes follow the baby as she transfers from his arms to her mother’s.
Raven takes her daughter and walks over to her fathers and mother, the gathered ancients parting to let her through.
“I totally get it now.”
Tears roll down Raven’s cheeks, cutting fresh paths over the dried tracks from before. I cross the distance between us and slip my arm around her, pulling her against my side. She fits perfectly there, her head tucking beneath my chin, her wings rustling softly against my arm.
“The waiting, the first time you can scent the hatchling.” Her voice is soft, thick with wonder. “The first time they look in your eyes. Nothing and no one else matters but them.”