Chapter 33
Raven
I feelit before I hear it.
A flutter. A shift. Even from across the courtyard, I sense the faintest vibration traveling through the shell—a connection that transcends distance, mother to child. Then—a scratch. Tiny, tentative, but unmistakable. The sound of a talon dragging against the inside of the egg, testing the boundaries of the only world my daughter has ever known.
She’s ready.
Corvus lifts his massive head from where he guards the egg between his powerful forelegs, his silver eyes locking onto mine with sharp understanding. The obsidian shell rests safely in the cradle of his talons, nestled against his silver-scaled chest. We talked about this. Planned for this. He needs to fly the egg to the upper flight field so I can shift and be with my daughter as she enters the world. A hatching should happen with a mother in her true form—not trapped in fragile human skin.
“It’s time!” I yell, my voice cutting through the chatter of the courtyard.
Silence falls like a blade.
I watch Corvus rise onto his haunches; the egg cradled against his chest with care. His powerful talons curl around the shell with a gentleness that belies his war drake. His muscles bunch beneath his silver scales, and then he launches into the air with a single powerful thrust of his wings. The downdraft stirs my hair, my gown, sends ripples across the fabric like wind over water. He rises fast; the egg protected against his body, sunlight glinting off obsidian and silver in equal measure.
I don’t hesitate.
I spread my wings wide—black leather catching the afternoon light, the membranes stretched taut between bone fingers—and leap into the sky after him. The air rushes past me, warm and thick with the scent of summer grass and distant rain. My wings beat hard, carrying me higher and higher, the courtyard shrinking beneath me until the hatchlings look like colorful pebbles scattered across stone.
Corvus lands on the upper field with a grace that seems impossible for a creature his size. His talons sink into the soft grass, his wings folding against his flanks as he watches the sky for me. Waiting. Guarding.
When I’m high enough above Blackhaven—high enough that no building or tree will interfere with the change—I shift.
The transformation rips through me in a glorious rush of power. Bones crack and reform. Muscles tear and rebuild. My human skin splits to make way for scales, each one sliding into place with a whisper of keratin against keratin. My spine elongates, my skull reshapes, my wings expand from their human size to vast membranes of leather and bone that could blot out the sun.The pain is brief and exquisite, swallowed immediately by the overwhelming rightness of being in my true form.
I glide over to the field on wings that span the length of three horses standing nose to tail. The wind sings through my wing membranes, a low humming tone that vibrates through my bones. Corvus watches me descend, his silver eyes tracking my approach, and as I extend my taloned hand, he places my egg into my outstretched palm with reverent care.
The shell is warm against my scales. Warm and alive and pulsing with the steady rhythm of the life within.
My dragoness rumbles deep in my chest—a sound that shakes the grass beneath me, sends birds scattering from nearby trees. It’s a welcome. A greeting. A promise to the daughter who will soon take her first breath.
I find a good place to settle, a depression in the field where the grass grows thick and soft. I lower myself down carefully, curling my tail around my body, cradling the egg in the curve of my forelegs. The sun beats down on my black scales, warming them until they shimmer with iridescent heat. I can feel each blade of grass pressing against my underbelly, each tiny insect that scurries away from my massive form.
My mates and my family join us on the field, their footsteps muffled by the grass. I hear them before I see them—the rustle of movement, the whisper of voices, the careful tread of beings who know better than to approach a dragoness with her hatching egg too quickly.
Corvus shifts back to his human form in a ripple of silver scales and restructuring bone. He stands tall, his silver hair catching the wind, and raises his hands toward the gathered crowd.
“Stay back.” His voice carries across the field, firm with authority. “I don’t know how she’ll react if everyone approaches at once.”
He knows me well. My dragoness is riding close to the surface, her protective instincts humming through my veins like molten fire. One wrong move, one perceived threat, and I might react before my rational mind can intervene.
But my younger brothers walk past everyone without fear. Maur and Balterion toddle across the grass on unsteady legs, their tiny forms dwarfed by the gathered adults. They chirp at me—high, questioning sounds—and I feel my dragoness settle slightly at the approach of kin. Hatchlings. Family. Safe.
I watch them climb up my hind leg, their soft claws finding purchase in the gaps between my scales. They settle against my haunch, curling together in a pile of dark scales and tangled tails, and begin to purr. The sound is small, barely audible over the wind, but I feel it vibrating against my hide. They’re watching. Waiting. Learning.
My eyes turn back to my egg. The first major crack has appeared—a jagged line running from the crown of the shell nearly halfway down its length. The obsidian surface, once smooth and perfect, now shows the stress of a life demanding release. I can see movement through the gap, the faintest glimpse of something dark and wet shifting within.
I lower my massive head and sniff at the crack. The scent hits me immediately—warm and new and utterly intoxicating. My daughter. She smells of heat and copper and something uniquely her, a blend of my own sea salt and jasmine with something warmer. Spicier. Like smoldering embers and aged oak.
Like her father.
I tap my talons along the edge of the crack, applying careful pressure. The shell gives slightly beneath my touch, fracturing further. Black dragon eggs need humidity to make the shells softer, more pliable—that’s why we traditionally hatch in hot springs, surrounded by steam and mineral-rich water. We’re not in my cavern, but I can help her. I can make this easier.
I crack the egg further, widening the gap with precise, controlled movements. Each tap sends shards of obsidian shell tumbling onto the grass, glittering like black diamonds in the afternoon sun.
Then—a tiny silver talon pokes out.
