Chapter 34
Hemlocke
Watchingour 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 warmhoney. 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.
