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.
