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Story: A Fire in the Sky

There was time for nothing else.

And yet amid it all she had taken a mate. Not just any mate. Asger, the heir apparent of their pride, son of the alpha. When his father had fallen in the Hormung, Asger had risen to the role.

They were already mated by then. She had not looked for it. Had not wanted it. And yet it had found her... And when love found a dragon, it could not be denied. Before she knew it, they were bonded. There was no severing them. For as long as she lived, there would be no other for her. Like a seed to the pod, they were a set, a duo, a pair.

Not that there were a great many options for mates these days.

Their population had declined dramatically, dwindling down to sixty, maybe seventy, since the Hormung. She couldn’t know every pride in existence. Hopefully there were others out there, more prides with more dragons. But they might be it. The only pride left. The only dragons left. It was grim to contemplate. Especially considering they had once filled the sky with their vibrant colors and the clapping beat of wings. No more.

Now the skies were silent.

The labyrinthine tunnels and caves they called home were still, too. Hallowed and hushed as graveyards, their tread and voices no more than whispers for fear of giving away their location to those still hunting them.

Survival depended upon how well they hid. They came out only at night and only when necessary. They were safe as long as theworld thought them gone. Dead. Extinct. They had once ruled this world, but now they were reduced to this, scurrying about like rats on a sinking ship. The Butcher of the Borderlands was determined to pick off the last of them. Most humans believed them all long dead, but the Butcher was ever cautious even these many years later. He had eyes on the skies, giant catapults capable of slinging enormous scale-tipped arrows of dragon bone into the air aimed and ready. Ironic. The only thing that could break through dragon hide was... dragon.

Which was why this day was all the more significant. Hatchlings were rare. A gift. A blessing to a dwindling species, to a dying pride. A gift when so many of their kind had been slain, struck down from the heavens, torn apart by wolves, cursed by witches.

With their numbers on the decline, each new birth was cause for celebration. Yrsa had longed for a hatchling for years, ever since she had bonded with Asger. Even in their war-torn world, she had wanted that.

A dragon could only expect one, perhaps two hatchlings in a lifetime, but in the chaos of the Threshing, few hatchlings had been born. Not nearly enough to replace the dragons lost. They were well on their way to extinction, just as humankind had wanted.

Yrsa functioned, fought side by side with Asger, using her talent as a shader to muddle the minds of many a hunter who discovered dragons deep in the caves of the Crags. Her efforts, combined with the skills of other dragons in her pride, had saved them on more than one occasion.

So busy surviving, she almost didn’t realize she was spawning until Eyfura looked her over and proclaimed it. As a verga and one of the oldest dragons in the pride, she would know. A verga dragon knew all about healing and herbs... and spawning.

It was a miracle. Yrsa was bringing new life into the pride.

For months, Asger hovered and fussed over her, plying her with food, covering her with furs, stopping her from leaving their moss-shrouded den, insisting it was safer within and that others could perform her duties, patrolling the tunnels and hunting forfood aboveground when darkness fell. To be fair, Asger wasn’t the only overprotective one. She had no shortage of visitors. Everyone checked on her, sat with her, brought her meals. Yrsa didn’t mind, though. There had been little happiness for them. A dark cloud had dimmed their days and nights long enough. They needed this, and she would gladly share her joy.

Even when she began to labor, she was still in high spirits. With pain ripping across her distended abdomen, she felt only anticipation. As Asger’s great form paced their den, she panted. The pressure tightened, radiating through her.

“Is this normal?” she asked Eyfura after several hours. “It’s... taking... so long,” she gritted out as another clenching wave rolled over her.

She was not weak. The Threshing had killed all that were weak. War had taught her what pain was in all its names and forms. This was a good kind of pain, a pain that you didn’t mind, because it brought reward. She told herself that, reminding herself that she would have a hatchling of her own at the end of this.

The excruciating tightness released with a snap. Relief came in a rush. She fell back, her muscles immediately loosening.

There was a gasp—Eyfura’s—followed by several beats of silence.

Asger’s great muscled form crouched beside Eyfura, his fire-gold eyes gleaming anxiously.

“Well?” Yrsa attempted to peer down her body. It was the lack of response that bothered her. There were no exclamations of delight, no congratulations, no reassurances given. In fact, Eyfura looked... worried, which was not something one wanted to see at a moment such as this.

And then...

A high-pitched wail. Decidedly un-dragon-like. Never had such a sound echoed through the deep caverns of the Crags. Hatchlings sounded different than this.

This sounded like...

No. She couldn’t even think it.

Everyone outside her den had to have heard it, too. Even beyondthat. It would serve as a beacon for any humans within range—a fact that should have alarmed her, but she could not even summon concern. She could only gaze in bewilderment at...

It.

“Impossible,” Eyfura breathed, lifting the bundle in her arms and setting it on the waiting bed. Leaning forward, Yrsa looked down into the basket she had so carefully and lovingly readied for this moment.

“What in all that burns is that?” Asger asked, baring his teeth with a snarl.