Chapter Two - Six Months
Ashwing's first days in the world were a blur of warmth, clumsy movements, and soft, curious chirps that echoed through the cave like tiny bells.
Liora barely slept, afraid that if she drifted too deeply, she would wake to find him gone, stolen away by fate the same way everything else she had ever loved.
She kept him pressed against her chest, his small body radiating a gentle heat that seeped into her bones and soothed the ache she had carried since the fire.
Every time he shifted, she felt the faint scrape of his tiny claws against her shirt, a reminder that he was real, alive, and impossibly fragile. But fragility didn't last long.
By the second day, Ashwing was already stronger.
His wings fluttered with more purpose, his legs steadied beneath him, and his golden eyes followed her with an intelligence that startled her.
He chirped whenever she moved too far away, and when she returned, he pressed his head into her palm as if claiming her.
He was hungry—constantly, desperately hungry. And Liora had no choice but to hunt.
The first week was brutal. Liora had survived alone for a month before Ashwing hatched, but feeding herself was one thing; feeding a dragon hatchling was another entirely.
She spent hours each day tracking rabbits, setting snares, and fishing in the icy stream.
Her fingers cracked from the cold. Her stomach growled more often than not.
But every time she returned to the cave with food, Ashwing chirped with such joy that the exhaustion melted away.
She fed him by hand at first, tearing small pieces of meat and offering them gently.
He snapped them up with surprising speed, his tiny teeth sharp enough to nick her fingers more than once.
He always looked guilty afterward, nudging her hand with a soft whine until she forgave him.
"You're learning," she whispered each time, stroking the smooth scales along his jaw. "We both are."
At night, he curled against her stomach, purring softly as he slept. His warmth kept her alive through the coldest nights. Her presence kept him calm through the darkest hours. They were two broken creatures learning how to survive together.
By the end of the first month, Ashwing had doubled in size.
His wings strengthened, his legs grew steadier, and his curiosity became a force of nature.
He followed her everywhere—tripping over roots, pouncing on leaves, chirping indignantly whenever she walked too fast for him to keep up.
He watched her hunt with rapt attention.
Every time she crouched low, he mimicked her.
Every time she stilled her breath, he froze beside her.
Every time she lunged, he flinched forward as if ready to join. But he wasn't ready yet.
One morning, after Liora caught a rabbit and laid it beside him, Ashwing sniffed it, chirped, and then nudged it back toward her.
"You want me to eat first?" she asked, surprised.
He chirped again, more insistent.
Liora smiled softly. "You're sweet. But you need it more than I do."
She pushed the rabbit back toward him. He hesitated, then devoured it in seconds. But the moment stayed with her. He wasn't just learning how to hunt. He was learning how to care.
By the second month, Ashwing was the size of a large dog, though he still believed he was small enough to sit in her lap.
His wings had grown strong enough for short glides, though he often misjudged his landings and crashed into bushes, trees, or Liora herself.
She laughed every time, even when he knocked the wind out of her.
His enthusiasm was impossible to resist. But hunting—real hunting—was a different challenge.
Liora had been feeding him rabbits she caught herself, but Ashwing's appetite grew with him.
One morning, after devouring two rabbits and still chirping for more, he stalked a squirrel with surprising focus.
Liora watched from a distance, holding her breath as he crouched low, tail twitching, wings tucked tight.
He pounced. The squirrel darted away, and Ashwing face?planted into the dirt.
He lifted his head, covered in leaves, and let out a frustrated growl that sounded more like a kitten's complaint than a predator's fury.
Liora laughed so hard she had to sit down.
"You'll get it eventually," she promised, wiping tears from her eyes.
Ashwing glared at her, then stomped toward her with exaggerated indignation, his wings flaring dramatically. She scooped him into her arms before he could protest and pressed her forehead to his.
"You're trying," she whispered. "That's what matters."
He huffed, but leaned into her touch.
By the third month, Ashwing's instincts sharpened.
His body lengthened, his wings broadened, and his movements grew more precise.
He no longer tripped over his own tail. He no longer crashed into trees.
He no longer pounced blindly. He hunted.
Liora watched him stalk a rabbit with the silent grace of a creature born to rule the sky.
He moved low to the ground, each step measured, his pupils narrowed to slits.
When he pounced this time, he didn't miss.
He returned to her with the rabbit in his jaws, chest puffed with pride. Liora knelt and stroked his head, her heart swelling.
"You did it," she whispered. "You really did it."
Ashwing chirped triumphantly and dropped the rabbit at her feet, nudging it toward her as if offering her the first bite. Liora froze. He remembered. He remembered the morning she had offered him food first. He remembered her hunger. He remembered her kindness.
"You sweet boy," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. "You're taking care of me now."
Ashwing chirped proudly and nudged her again.
She ate half. He ate the rest. From that day on, he brought her food every morning—sometimes a rabbit, sometimes a fish, sometimes a squirrel he had clearly chased too enthusiastically.
He dropped each offering at her feet with a triumphant chirp, waiting for her praise.
"You're becoming a real hunter," she told him each time. And he was.
Fire came next. It happened on a cold morning in the fourth month. Frost clung to the leaves, and Liora's breath fogged in the air. Ashwing sat beside her, shivering slightly, his wings wrapped around himself like a cloak. She rubbed his neck, trying to warm him.
"You're getting too big to sleep on my chest," she teased. "You're crushing me."
Ashwing chirped indignantly and nudged her shoulder.
She laughed and leaned into him. Then he sneezed.
A tiny spark shot from his nostrils and landed on a pile of dry leaves, igniting them instantly.
Liora yelped and scrambled to stomp out the flames.
Ashwing stared at the smoking leaves, eyes wide, then looked up at her with a mixture of pride and confusion.
"You breathed fire," she whispered, stunned.
Ashwing chirped again—louder this time—and attempted another sneeze. A small puff of smoke escaped, followed by a weak flicker of flame. Liora's heart pounded. Fire meant danger. Fire meant power. Fire meant he was growing into what he was meant to be. But fire also meant they had to be careful.
She cupped his face gently. "Only when we're outside. And only when I say it's safe. Understand?"
Ashwing blinked slowly, then nudged her hand. She took that as a yes.
By the fifth month, Ashwing's fire was no longer accidental.
He learned to control it—first in short bursts, then in longer streams. Liora trained him carefully, choosing open spaces far from dry brush.
She taught him to aim, to stop, to breathe deeply before releasing the flame.
He learned quickly. Too quickly. One afternoon, he incinerated an entire fallen log in a single breath, then turned to her with a proud chirp.
Liora stared at the smoldering remains, her mouth hanging open.
"You're terrifying," she whispered.
Ashwing puffed out his chest.
"And adorable," she added.
He chirped smugly.
Flying was the hardest. Ashwing's wings were strong, but flight required more than strength. It required balance, instinct, and courage. He practiced every day—running, leaping, gliding, crashing. Liora patched countless scratches and soothed countless bruised egos. But he never gave up.
On the first day of the sixth month, he climbed a large boulder overlooking a clearing. Liora stood below, heart pounding as he spread his wings. He looked back at her, golden eyes bright with determination.
"You can do it," she whispered. "I'm right here."
Ashwing chirped softly, then leapt. For a moment, he fell.
Then his wings caught the wind. He soared.
Not high. Not far. But he flew—truly flew—gliding across the clearing with a grace that stole Liora's breath.
He landed clumsily, skidding across the grass, but he didn't crash. He didn't fall. He flew.
Liora ran to him, laughing and crying at the same time. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his warm scales.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered.
Ashwing wrapped his wings around her in a clumsy hug.
He flew again the next day. And the next.
And the next. Each time higher. Each time farther.
Each time stronger. By the end of the sixth month, Ashwing could soar above the treetops, his silver wings cutting through the sky like a blade of moonlight.
Liora watched him from below, her heart swelling with awe and fear and love.
He was magnificent. He was powerful. He was no longer a hatchling.
And that was when everything changed. Because on the morning of the seventh month's first day, as Ashwing circled above the forest with a triumphant roar, Liora heard something she had prayed she would never hear.
Wings. Not his. Many. Heavy. Powerful. Trained.
She looked up. And saw shadows moving across the sky.