It was dark, warm, and moist. For many hours, perhaps longer, that was all he knew. The warmth, though, wasn’t unpleasant; it felt like a campfire during a blizzard. His body was curled up tight, numb, as if he’d been sleeping that way for an eternity. Somehow, it felt as though he had never moved in his life. Bit by bit, he struggled to shift, even if only a single muscle. The space around him was unnervingly cramped. Though he couldn’t see, he felt too large for it, as if the walls were slowly closing in. Slowly, but surely. He had no sense of time, only the persistent effort of trying to move. At first, the confinement was bearable, but now it felt like a coffin.

  Eventually, his moisture-clogged ears began to function. He could make out muffled sounds from outside, indistinct, but something nonetheless. Forcing his eyes open took effort; they’d been sealed shut so long that prying them apart felt impossible. When he finally managed it, there was only blackness. It was as if he hand’t really oppened them. His eyes twitched, struggling to focus, but the darkness didn’t change.

  Somewhere beyond it came noises, grunts and snorts, faint yet real. He tried to move again and felt a sharp pain in his leg. A throbbing, stabbing ache that made him whimper. The pain worsened with every attempt to move, even by a millimeter. It was frightening, but over time, fear gave way to determination. He had to break through these walls. There was something outside, and as long as there was an outside, he wanted to see it.

  As he adapted to the darkness and kept moving little by little, desperation began to build. He struck at the walls. First weakly, then harder. Every impact felt futile; the surface was solid, unyielding. His limbs ached, his body screamed, yet he couldn’t stop. There were things beyond those walls, he could feel them, hear them, yearn to understand them.

  Even as exhaustion dragged him into brief blackouts, his hope only grew. The world was changing out there, and he wanted to see it. A tap. Another. Then many. He felt it… A crack! Then another! Slowly, the darkness began to thin, a sliver of light bleeding through. He couldn’t stop now. Adrenaline coursed through him, numbing the pain as he pounded at the wall with renewed strength. A hole formed. Light, reddish, dim, poured through that tiny crevice.

  He pushed harder, breaking away fragments until the gap was large enough to crawl through. The dry air that met him was hot, but refreshing against his body. He reached an arm through, desperate for freedom. The heat brushed his face as he widened the opening, inch by inch, until he could finally push his head out. When his eyes adjusted to the light, horror replaced hope. The world outside was barren black stone, jagged ridges and rivers of cooled lava twisting across the land, stinking of sulfur. But what froze him wasn’t the landscape, but the huge entity watching him. Massive. Black scales glimmering like wet obsidian, eyes gleaming in the light. A dragon.

  He froze, retreating back into his prison at once. The creature was enormous, large enough to swallow him whole without effort. Panic surged with the following realization. Logic crept in, with the fact that if he could break through the shell, what would stop that thing from doing the same? He couldn’t stay there, not if he had any desire to live on.

  Striking the walls, even with his head, driven by fear and sheer will. He wouldn’t die here. Blow after blow, the wall finally gave way. He tumbled outside, collapsing on the scorching stone, face to face once more with the towering monster. It was time to take action.

  Despite the terror clawing through his chest, something within him stirred, a strange pull toward the beast. Amid the fear and confusion, he felt an inexplicable desire to be near it, to trust it. The idea frightened him even more than the dragon itself. The fragile warmth of that moment shattered when he noticed another dragon moving uncomfortably close. Unlike the first, this one bore streaks of pale, ashen white scales woven through charcoal black. It wasn’t as vast as the mountain-like creature beside it, but to him it was still impossibly large. It let out a low growl, a rumble that vibrated through his chest and sent his heartbeat racing.

  Before he even made the decision to flee, the larger dragon, the first one, intervened between him and the smaller aggressor. A sweep of its massive tail formed a living barrier, forcing the other dragon to back away. That was good. He had no desire to get any closer to that hostile-looking foe. The presence of that tail alone steadied his trembling body, nudging his fragile trust in the great creature upward, if only by a little.

  He had no choice but to trust, for now. As he looked around, he spotted other dragons in the distance, their forms varying wildly in size and shape. A part of him ached for the safety of the prison again, when the world had been smaller, simpler. Nearby, another oval prison rested close to the great, trustworthy creature, beside the one he had just emerged from. Curiosity stirred, and his gaze drifted instinctively toward the massive behemoth his body seemed to yearn for. When he finally made a sound, it came out as a guttural growl, weak, thin, nothing like the thunderous voices the others could summon.

  While he kept groaning his way to some more insteresting sounds, lost in curiosity, he didn’t notice the colossal head lowering beside him until her shadow swallowed him whole. To that, his instincts were akin to that of a potato. He didn’t so much as flinched as giant rows of pointy teeth closed in around him. He dangled helplessly, as he was lifted from the ground, until placed him before a carcass. Something large, lifeless, and foul, bigger than him, as all things seem to be.

  He was nudged closer, once, then again. It took far too long for him to stop testing the patience of the murder machine looming above before he finally bothered to look at the body it was so insistent on pressing him toward. Sniffing at the hide, then giving it a tap with his claw, it sure wasn’t that interesting. He shot a glance back at the black-scaled mountain, irritation flickering through him. Half annoyed at being shoved around, half tempted to keep resisting simply because it was, in a strange way, fun.

  Then. A powerful low, rumble rolled through the creature’s chest, vibrating the ground beneath his claws. Instinct flared. He didn’t like that sound, or the way it made the world shudder around him. His body coiled in on itself, shrinking away from the source of that discomfort. Not knowing what might keep the rumble from happening again, he turned back to the corpse instead. Maybe looking at that massive entity had been a mistake.

  His gaze lingered on the collapsed body before him. It bore no scales, and he started to discern how the brown thing differed from the rocks beneath his feet. He reached out with a tentative claw. Softer. Not like his prison, not like the ground. So his claws eventually sunk so deep while being dragged along that they made an oppening in the hide. As he dragged his claws along the surface, they sank deeper than expected, tearing into the hide until it split open. A strange scent spilled out, thick, warm, and overwhelming. His head snapped back, senses flooding, hunger stirring where curiosity had been moments before.

  His mouth flooded with saliva, an instinctive urge urging him to sink his teeth into the exposed depths. He leaned closer, nose brushing the opening, breath hitching as the scent grew richer, heavier. His jaw parted on its own, teeth pressing in, guided by some parts of him that seemed to know what they were doing. Although it was soft, yet stubborn, it kept clinging to itself resisting being broken apart. He braced his front limbs, then all of them, claws digging into the ground as he pulled.

  Until something finally gave.

  The tear came with a wet sound, and a strip of flesh came loose between his teeth. Warmth spread across his tongue. Before he could even appreciate the sensation, he had already gulped it down. It felt right, in a way that dulled the sting of effort, even as it left a faint ache behind. Now that it was inside him, there was nothing to do with it, only to feel it: the weight, the heat, the strange satisfaction of having taken something into himself.

  Curiosity bloomed. That feeling lingered, coaxing him to continue. The second tear came easier than the first, his body already learning the motion, already adjusting. He swallowed again, then again, each mouthful feeding the quiet fire spreading through his limbs.

  After so much twisting and yanking, his body gradually lost interest in the sensation. With that, he turned at once toward the great black creature that had fallen to second place in his curiosity, now reclaimed as first. Again aught between two urges: to put as much distance between himself and it as possible, and to press as close as he could manage.

  The other dragon was still nearby. Even without seeing it, he knew. The awareness lingered like an itch beneath his scales. As if summoned by the thought, the not-quite-black dragon appeared in his vision, approaching once again.

  A sharp, burning unease flared in his chest at the sight of it. If only he knew how he’d brought that wall before, that tail in his mind, was a very welcomed change of scenery. He didn’t know how to use the “power of tail” again. Instead, he scrambled away on unsteady limbs, only to freeze when the approaching dragon halted mid-step. Its head tilted, nostrils flaring.

  Another low, heavy rumble rolled through the air—thankfully not the sharp, earth-shaking kind. It was slower, deeper. Effective. The troublesome not-quite-black dragon hesitated, then veered away, retreating out of his immediate world. With that threat gone, he felt a quiet certainty settle in him. The part of his body that urged him closer to the great creature no longer felt like a mistake. If anything, it felt right. Safer.

  He began to move, limbs working as best they could manage, awkward but determined, carrying him toward the towering form. The creature was not truly black. A deep, ember-red glow pulsed faintly beneath its scales, as though heat lived just under the surface. And high above, two yellow points gleamed.

  Whatever this black thing was, it seemed tough. To be sure, he reached out and clawed at it. His small talons scraped against the black scales within reach, skittering uselessly, unable to leave even the faintest mark. That was when he noticed the great ivory claws extending from those same scales. He stared at them for a long time.

  His world was small. He had little to compare against. But slowly an idea began to take shape. Those curved extensions… they shared the same form as the things protruding from his own limbs. Smaller. Paler. Likely softer. But shaped the same. He looked down at himself. At his forelimbs. At the short, pale scales that covered them. Then at his tail. Then back again. There were differences, many of them. Size. Color. Strength. But beneath those, a pattern repeated.

  Then the black-scaled creature lowered its massive head toward the fallen body and bit. Flesh disappeared between its jaws, vanished inside it in a single, effortless motion. From his angle, it was distorted. And the creature swallowed the whole thing in a way he never could. But that didn’t matter. In that moment, certainty crystallized. That thing was like him.

  He didn’t notice when it happened, only that at some point he was curled close to the great dragon’s body. When awareness crept back in, his eyes opened on their own. A small yawn escaped him as his four limbs pushed himself up on unsteady limbs.

  His attention drifted to the claws again.

  They were impossibly large. Ivory hooks resting against black scale. He lifted his own claw beside them, the comparison immediate and stark. So small. So fragile. For a moment, uncertainty stirred. Maybe this thing wasn’t like him after all.

  Then the great claw curled. His own body responded before thought. He shifted too, mimicking the curl, tucking himself closer without touching. The difference in size remained, undeniable. But the shape, the intent, the rhythm of movement matched.

  The doubt faded. For now.

  The urge crept in again, uninvited and persistent. He gave in to it, raking his claws against the great limb to test it, properly this time. There was no restraint in the effort; he committed fully, scraping and tugging as if determination alone might change the result.

  Then he tried to bite it. His jaws closed awkwardly, teeth skidding uselessly against an unyielding surface. There was no edge, no weakness to seize. He pulled back, frustrated. And in that pause, something clicked.

  He stopped.

  Slowly, he backed away, putting space between himself and the massive form. Understanding was beginning to take shape. If this thing could bite as he did… then it could be bitten as well. Torn. Broken. The image returned unbidden: the corpse disappearing whole in that single quick munch.

  The conclusion that he was not hard to destroy settled heavily in his chest.

  That was when he truly noticed the black scales. They weren’t pitch-dark after all. Light slid across them, caught, shifted, changing subtly as he moved. A faint sheen rippled beneath the surface, as if something lived there, just out of reach. The sight drew him in completely. The fear he’d felt moments ago dissolved, replaced by a bright, restless curiosity. He hopped and circled, watching the reflections change, tilt, scatter. Each movement altered the surface, and he followed it, absorbed.

  The game didn’t last that long.

  The great dragon moved, lifting the limb he had been gnawing at. He watched, transfixed, as it rose. Vanishing briefly from his small world, before returning with something held carefully between its claws. The limb lowered again, and the object was placed on the ground before him. A flat shape. A rectangular plane, angled toward his gaze.

  Something was there. Another dragon stared back at him. With no more than a thought he realized, the same way he was affecting the scales with his movement, when he tilted his head, it tilted too. When he stepped closer, it did the same.

  That was him over there.

  He wobbled toward it, eyes wide and unblinking. Indigo met indigo. Black scales bled softly into pale ones along the curve of his body, the gradient unfamiliar yet unmistakably his. He shifted his wings. The reflection answered, membranes trembling in perfect time. He parted his jaws and caught sight of small, sharp teeth, horns, ridges he hadn’t known were there. The sight rooted him in place. He couldn’t look away.

  At the edge of the reflection, barely visible, loomed a larger shape. A vast, dark form framed behind him, distorted by the plane but impossible to miss. A bigger version of what he now understood himself to be.

  As he had guessed. They were alike.

  Another rumble followed—again softer than the ones before. It rolled through the air like distant thunder, felt more than heard. Turning towards it, he could now recognize the two yellow gleams atop the massive head as eyes, he understood something else as well. He was being watched. Those pitch-black pupils directed straight at his little body.

  The realization stirred conflicting feelings. Curious, maybe a little. But also a sharp edge of unease. If the great creature was curious about him, he hoped it wouldn’t act on that curiosity the way he had acted on everything else so far: with claws and teeth first.

  They remained like that, eyes locked across the space between them. The sound lingered in him, vibrating faintly in his chest. Maybe it was different only because the creature was larger. Maybe that was all. With that thought, he opened his mouth and tried.

  A sound slipped free, thin, rough, barely more than a breath shaped by his throat. It sounded nothing like the deep resonance that had rolled from the other dragon. The difference startled him. He paused, then tried again. Another grunt. A short growl. Then another. He shifted his stance, chest lifting as he pushed air harder, searching for something that felt right. Each sound echoed back to him small and inadequate, but he kept going anyway, instinct tugging him onward.

  Above him, the great dragon did not interrupt.

  However that didn’t last forever. After enough screeching, that dragon eventually brough it’s head down to the effortful hatchilng below. Although he noticed the slow and steady movement of the appreaching gargantuan creature, he kept focused in his task up until he received an overwhelming lick that threw off his grove completely. So much so that he was pushed to the ground inadivertingly. He wasn’t at all pleased with the abrupt interuption, neither with the bath. He barely knew how to shake, but he kept doing it relentlessly after getting up on his four limbs. The great dragon simply laid it’s head somewhere as the little hatchling struggled with the discomfort.

  That did not last forever.

  After enough screeching and strained attempts, the great dragon finally lowered its head toward the struggling hatchling below. He noticed the slow, steady, controlled movement. Yet, stayed focused on his task, pushing sound from his throat again and again. That was until a massive tongue swept over him.

  The lick was overwhelming. Far too forceful, it shattered his concentration completely and sent him tumbling onto the ground. For a heartbeat, he laid there stunned. He was not pleased.

  Not with the sudden interruption, and certainly not with the unwanted bath. With an indignant huff, he scrambled back onto his four limbs and began to shake. He didn’t really know how, his body lacked the coordination, wobbling and shuddering as if determination alone might fling the discomfort away. Droplets scattering around him.

  Nearby, the great dragon rested its head against the ground. After a while, the hatchling’s frantic shaking slowed. His chest rose and fell heavily, damp scales clinging uncomfortably to one another. He cast a cautious glance toward the black dragon, only to find its eyes closed. Gone. That surely caught his attention.

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  If the eyes were shut… then it couldn’t see.

  He tested it. Closing his own eyes for a brief moment, the world vanished at once. Darkness. Nothing. When he opened them again, everything rushed back into place. The thought unsettled him. Why would anyone do that? Why give up the world like that, even for a moment? He felt the pull himself sometimes, a strange pressure that urged his eyes shut whether he wanted it or not. The big one probably felt the same and couldn’t hold it.

  He watched the massive chest rise, then fall. Slow. Even. Untroubled. Something about that steadiness tugged at him. The urge crept in again, heavier this time, wrapping around his thoughts. His limbs felt warm. His head dipped.

  There was no clear decision, no moment where he chose to move. His body simply drifted closer, guided by warmth and the quiet certainty of the presence before him. He curled against the great dragon’s side, small form fitting naturally into the space it offered. By the time he noticed, it was already too late to resist. The heaviness pressing on his eyes deepened, holding them shut. He could have fought it, perhaps, the thought barely formed. Letting go felt better. Resisting felt wrong in a way.

  The ground beneath him was warm anyway, better enjoy it. Each breath seemed to smooth the edges of the world, drawing him further down. His muscles loosened. His thoughts blurred. Even with the roars of dragons every now and then poluding the calm sounds of the lava lakes, the little hatchling didn’t budge.

  He woke again with a wide yawn, snapping upright as if some hidden urgency demanded he spend whatever energy had gathered in him. The world felt fresh, restless. He glanced at the great dragon. Its eyes remained closed, the vast body unmoving, breath slow and deep. Maybe that was the cost of being so large. Curiosity nudged him forward. He wobbled over to the creature’s forelimb, crouched low, and gathered himself. With a small burst of effort, he pounced.

  The landing failed.

  His claws scraped uselessly against the smooth scales, finding no purchase. He slid back down in an undignified tumble. He tried again. And again. Each attempt ended the same way. His annoyance grew. His gaze drifted, searching, until it settled on the massive tail stretched out nearby. He considered it for only a moment before scuttling over. He pressed himself close, using the ground for balance, claws digging wherever they could, inching upward despite the slick surface.

  It worked!

  Slowly, awkwardly, he climbed along the great tail, using its sheer size and his own persistence to keep from slipping. Ahead, it rose toward the vast body, and before long he reached the space between the wings. They were furled tightly against either side of that unnecessarily huge frame. Beneath him, the body rose and fell in a steady rhythm. To the hatchling, it felt as though the world itself was breathing, rather than the dragon supporting him.

  He kept climbing, scrambling higher until he reached the space between the horns. The terrain there was chaotic, jagged ridges and uneven scales, but he ignored them. His pouncing abilities made quick work of it. Soon, he found himself standing atop the snout. He paused, surprised and a little disappointed, that the journey had ended so soon. Turning back, he looked down the long path he had climbed. The tail, the place where he had slipped and struggled way back when.

  A small, proud wag worked its way into his own tail.

  He faced the great dragon’s unmoving visage and edged closer to the eyes. The approach was difficult. The surface sloped away at awkward angles, and more than once his claws skidded, nearly sending him tumbling back to the ground below. There was no safe way to get close without risking a fall.

  The frustration built quickly.

  He wanted to touch the eyes, wanted to pry them open, to help in whatever way made sense to him. Circling toward the nostrils instead. That was no better. Warm air rolled from them in steady bursts, and the stone-smooth scales offered little grip. One wrong step, and he knew he would slide helplessly away.

  He kept growling, again and again, without any clear purpose. There was simply nothing else demanding his attention, and nowhere else he felt like going. His earlier curiosity about the great dragon had dulled, weighed down by the constant risk of slipping and falling back to the ground.

  Perhaps he should have explored instead. Returned to the other prison beside his own. Done anything else.

  Too late. Now this hatchling is distressed. So wasn’t long before the ground stirred, no, that isn’t quite it… The great dragon did, while two vast yellow eyes emerged, focused instantly, sharply, locking onto him where he stood atop the snout. Joy flared through the little hatchling, sudden and bright, his tail sure made it obvious.

  The ground shifted again, more decisively this time, as the great dragon drew in a deeper breath. The snout beneath the little one’s feet tilted, sudden and unavoidable, forcing him to splay his limbs wide and cling. A sharp chirr tore from his throat, half alarm, half exhilaration. The feeling didn’t last.

  In the next heartbeat, the world dropped away. Gravity took hold, and he met the ground in an ungraceful tumble, the impact knocking the breath from his small chest. For a moment, he laid there upside down stunned, limbs spread, senses ringing.

  The great dragon’s head settled nearby, close enough that the heat of its breath washed over him in slow, steady waves. He scrambled upright, wobbling, and looked up. One enormous eye hovered above him again, vast and luminous, fixed on him without blinking. It was awake. That realization filled him with a sudden, swelling pride. He had done that. Somehow.

  The feeling barely had time to settle before another sensation crept in, familiar, unwelcome. He knew it before it happened. He’d felt it once already.

  He was right.

  The massive head leaned closer, and then he was bathed again. A broad, unapologetic lick swept over him, warm and slick, plastering his scales and knocking him off balance. Instantly, he switched into what could only be called shake mode. He flailed upright and shook with everything he had, rattling from snout to tail, utterly unable to tolerate the clinging liquid coating him. Droplets flew everywhere as he shuddered and stomped, indignant and relentless.

  Above him, the great dragon watched.

  He paid that despicable creature no further mind, he wanted nothing to do with it anymore. Instead, he made his way toward the egg resting beside his own, the oval prison he had once been trapped within. Looking at it now, he found himself piecing things together. Sooner or later, something his size, his shape, would break free from it. Surely that would be easier to deal with than the enormous one looming nearby.

  The next second he was clawing at it, soon trying to find a good bite, His teeth slid uselessly over the smooth surface. He circled it, trying again, gnawing at ridges and jagged imperfections, but the shell gave him nothing. It was too round, too solid. Even his claws couldn’t find purchase.

  Disheartened, he abandoned it and tottered back to his own broken shell. There, he vented his annoyance with sharp, decisive chomps. To his surprise, this felt… better. The fragments cracked satisfyingly beneath his teeth, yielding with loud crunches as he swallowed piece after piece. He didn’t stop until there was nothing left. Only then did he realize the shell was gone.

  That had been good. Very good. He glanced back at the intact egg, eyes lingering, curiosity rekindling. Maybe, just maybe, it deserved another try. But that wasn’t the case, a single attempt was enough for him to realize that.

  Wandering was all he really had left to do. But each time he put enough distance between himself and the great black dragon, that deep, shuddering rumble came again. It startled him every time, rattling through his small body, and after a few attempts he stopped trying to go far at all.

  He didn’t want that to happen again.

  The safest choice, he slowly realized, was not leaving. It took several false starts for that lesson to sink in. Each time he stared out at the vast horizon, something inside him urged him forward, tugging him toward it. But the desire to explore never outweighed his wish to avoid those awful sounds that shook him down to his bones. So he changed tactics. If he couldn’t explore the place, then perhaps understanding that big version of himself was the next best thing. Curiosity still lingered, stubbornly high on his list of instincts.

  He tested it carefully. Clawing at its scales earned no reaction. Chewing them didn’t either. Even bumping his head against that massive body seemed to go unnoticed. Being thrown to the ground once hadn’t discouraged him much; he simply climbed back up, again and again.

  Sometimes, though, the dragon would move without warning, shaking its body as if on purpose, sending him tumbling back down. Once, he clung to the tail only to be flung far across the ground, farther than he had ever dared wander on his own.

  That startled him enough. Not wanting to provoke another rumble, he hurried back to the great dragon’s side, pressing close once more.

  During that time of testing, a familiar feeling crept through him, one he could now identify as coming from the big dragon. He couldn’t yet name it, but his mouth watered in response, an instinct he no longer questioned. Almost on cue, a carcass landed near the same spot as the previous one. His mind barely lingered on the sensation itself; he was far more drawn to the memory of the last body he had gnawed, the strange satisfaction it had brought.

  He made his way over and indulged again, teeth sinking in as best they could. The feeling was pleasant, a brief respite from the lingering boredom. But eventually his body went quiet, no longer responding, and he stopped, glancing at the massive dragon as expected. It was watching him.

  Fluctuating sensations radiated from it, binging memories of his previous tests and eperiences. Then he recognized that one sensation he now dreaded. Even from across the space between them, he saw the dragon lick its teeth. Understanding struck him: these signals meant what was coming. He would need to pay attention if he wanted to avoid the discomfort that followed.

  Before he could react further, a sensation flared, one that he only felt once he got too far away. He wasn’t far, not really, though instinctively, he moved closer anyway. A massive claw came near him. He didn’t even think and clawed at it frantically, remembering then, that it did nothing. By then he was already gnawing at the claw.

  Incredibly, it wasn’t all for nothing. Each sensation from his experiments seemed to be presented in a deliberate sequence, guiding him to repeat the actions almost instinctively. Then the familiar feeling returned, the one he always sensed while climbing the big dragon. That’s when he noticed the massive tail inching closer.

  He wasn’t entirely in the mood, but he obeyed the impulse. Just a small hop onto the tail, then back down. It was oddly satisfying. The sensations seemed to radiate directly from the dragon itself, hinting that maybe, he could start predicting what it was about to do.

  He woke again, stretching lazily where he lay. He had done so much testing with the big dragon that he understood it more and more. Yet, despite all this, the food he had grown used to was missing. He waited, growing impatient, and finally let out a low, desperate growl toward the big dragon—but got no response.

  He tried again and again, but with little success. The longing for the food gnawed at him, twisting into a restless distress that made him dive and wriggle with anxious energy. Then, that familiar sensation radiated from the big dragon, and he knew instantly what it meant. Soon, food rained down once more, and he pounced on it without ceremony.

  Afterward, curiosity bubbled up. He approached the big dragon and focused, thinking about climbing it again. The enormous yellow eyes narrowed in response. Fascinated, he yearned for it with even more intesity and the tail eventually moved to meet him, accompanied by that unmistakable sensation radiating from the dragon.

  It dawned on him: the big dragon could sense his intentions, just as he could sense its own. That explained why his longing for food had summoned it.

  So he went, paying careful attention to the sensations radiating from the big dragon, while simultaneously intensifying his own intent. Soon he noticed that the dragons flying overhead also emitted faint signals, though he couldn’t yet understand their meaning. Perhaps it had something to do with being in the sky, since that’s where they were.

  Looking upward seemed to stir something within the big dragon. For the first time, it rose onto its four limbs and unfurled its massive wings. Along with the motion came a new, distinct sensation. Nudging one of the nearby eggs briefly with its tail, the big dragon fixed its gaze on him. Its intention was clear: it wanted him to approach. The sensation paired perfectly with the impulse to climb, as if he was being guided to perform two actions at once. Understanding this, the little hatchling eagerly scrambled onto the dragon’s back.

  With a powerful beat of wings, they were airborne. Below them, the landscape unfolded in vast patterns: rivers of lava, jagged ridges, dense vegetation, and scattered ruins. The hatchling’s attention was fully absorbed in the new signals he was receiving. His memory was sharp enough to detect repeating patterns, to sense the rhythm of the big dragon’s intent.

  Soon, other dragons appeared. It became clear that the big black dragon was deliberately reaching out to them with its signals, and they responded in kind. This repeated several times, forming a web of subtle communication. Eventually, one of the other dragons seemed to notice the little hatchling perched on the black dragon’s back. That’s when he realized the signals weren’t all the same, they varied depending on which dragon they were directed toward. Though he could feel them all, they appeared intended specifically for him. Yet he was too shy, too uncertain to respond. He barely understood how, or even what to send back.

  During this time, the hatchling realized that the signals could convey more than intent—they could carry concepts. By clawing at different objects, experimenting with movements, he received different signals from the big dragon. Gradually, he began to piece together what each signal meant, though his understanding was often imperfect, and the messages he received weren’t always complete. With repetition and careful attention, the range of concepts he could grasp slowly expanded. The more he learned, the more complex the ideas he could digest.

  Yet he soon discovered that receiving signals was far easier than sending them. By the time he understood the big dragon’s role in his life, he could barely send a single coherent signal in return.

  One day, he awoke, a signal had reached him. A sensation that felt like hearing even though it wasn’t: “Time to wake up.” Simple enough, now, but such a signal was impossible for him to reproduce. It had taken several flights and lessons to recognize it with precision.

  After a yawn, he stared into those watchful yellow eyes. For a moment, he wanted to convey his discomfort at being observed. Words were useless, but then he noticed a familiar presence approaching, the other dragon. It had been so long he almost forgot the memory, buried beneath countless sleeps. Yet seeing it again stirred something deep within him, and the familiar sensation returned. Perhaps it was time to put all he had learned to use in this fateful encounter.

  “Help,” he sent, a signal he had learned to rely on. Whenever the flight became too fast, whenever the big dragon’s play turned rough, this signal always kept him safe.

  The big dragon’s tail came down to pat his little head, but nothing more. And the not-quite-black dragon, thankfully, halted once again. His signal had worked; it had been understood. Relief washed over him, bright and immediate, and he felt a spark of pride for the first time in mastering it.

  But soon, a signal came from the other dragon. From his understanding, it wasn’t complicated and seemed directed at him: “You want to play?” There was a subtle nuance he hadn’t encountered before, but he grasped enough to recognize it as a question rather than a statement. Play was usually a good thing, and the word made his trust radar twitch upward toward the not-quite-black dragon.

  A quick glance at it confirmed what he had already suspected, this dragon wasn’t all that different from his own reflection. The shape of the limbs, the curve of the horns, even the gradient of its scales bore a familiar pattern. Only the size betrayed it: this one was clearly larger, stronger, and far more capable. Yet, despite that, the signal felt welcoming, almost inviting.

  He twitched his claws, hesitated for a heartbeat, then sent a small, tentative signal back: “Yes.” The other dragon’s head tilted, and a low, rolling rumble came in response.

  To an uneventful sleep, perhaps the game wasn’t all that bad. He enjoyed the change of pace, running in a chase with a dragon not a hundred times his size, it was a relief. Still, the difference in size was undeniable; the little hatchling barely reached the other’s chest. A mere flick of that tail sent him tumbling, and every time he was pounced upon, he could only hope for the mercy of being released.

  He managed to dodge a few tackles, his lighter frame giving him some advantage, but the other dragon moved with an incomprehensible speed, betraying what sight led one to beleive. The hatchling’s claws scrabbled against the ground, kicking up dust, wings flaring for balance.

  At that moment, he was breathing heavily, and the big black dragon radiated a signal: “Enough playing.” There were more words woven into it, but the hatchling didn’t need them all, he understood the core: stop. The game had grown painful, the thrill dulled by exhaustion.

  He quickly made his way to the black dragon’s massive paw, pressing close, letting his presence serve as agreement without words. The steady warmth and the subtle, grounding vibration under his claws reassured him.

  After resting, he noticed the other dragon still nearby. Curiosity stirred again. He raised a claw and pointed toward it, sending the signal to the black dragon: “Who?” Slightly different from the usual “What?” he had learned. He wasn’t asking for a general concept, but for a specific identifier, a recognition of this individual among others. He watched the black dragon’s yellow eyes narrow slightly, processing.

  The answer didn’t come simply. To understand it, the hatchling had to grasp a tangle of new concepts, far beyond what he’d learned so far. Even with everything he’d already absorbed, the complexity of labeling relationships, of mapping signals to meaning, was taxing.

  First came the simplest idea: family. He had to understand it in its most basic form, two dragons forming a bond and bringing forth multiple hatchlings. Then came the web of connections: each individual needed a label, a place in that network. It seemed straightforward in theory, but in practice, he had to learn the nuances of gender, birth, and age. Words had to encode how they related to each other, yet, beneath the difficulty, a spark of fascination grew.

  After the long lesson, the hatchling finally got an answer. That was his sister, apparently, and the flood of knowledge crammed into his little mind left him dizzy. His fascination dimmed under the weight of it all. Grasping everything felt impossible, so he simply closed his eyes and pressed closer to what he guessed was one of his parents, letting the world fade around him.

  When he woke, the knowledge still simmered in his mind, slowly settling as he replayed it, testing connections and recalling names. The big black dragon remained still, eyes shut, radiating the calm signals of sleep. The hatchling, stirred by curiosity and emboldened by his growing understanding, sent out the most complex signal he had ever tried: “Are you my mother?”

  The moment the signal left him, the yellow eyes snapped open. The intensity of their gaze, was new, along with unfamilar waves, surprise might be the only one he could identify. The hatchling held his ground, trembling slightly, and waited. His guess of Mother rather than Father had been based on the family connections he’d just learned, a tentative assumption amidst the flood of new concepts.

  “Yes.” His mother finally answered, raising her head toward the sky instead of returning to sleep. Looking down at him, the little hatchling realized he had hit the nail on the head. Not only had he identified her, but he’d managed to form a proper sentence, an accomplishment that, in his mind, deserved some respect. Respect, a term he had learned during the family lecture, still felt abstract, but it carried a pleasant weight.

  Emboldened, he pressed on. “Father?” The word left his throat uncertainly. He didn’t yet know enough to form a full sentence, so he relied on context and instinct, hoping it would be enough.

  Receiving an answer from an ambiguous question, one ought to anticipate similar levels of ambiguity. “Far.” She said, glancing toward the horizon, leaving the rest to interpretation. Fact that left the little hatchling still all kinds of puzzled, trying to make sense of it.

  Tentatively, he stepped closer, sending a small signal of his own: “Show me?” The concept of asking for guidance was still raw, untested, but somehow, he felt it might be understood.

  Thanks to his fledgling understanding of age and time, he could interpret the reply with some clarity. “Later,” she answered, though it came with an unwelcome follow-up. She lowered her massive head toward him and gave a lick, an action he always despised, yet one she carried out constantly.

  As usual, there was no way for him to resist. Even with the anticipatory warnings that his body and instincts offered, he was swept along, pushed, and carried in ways that left him helplessly flustered. His limbs scrambled instinctively, claws scraping for traction, but the smooth scales offered nothing. When the lick finally ended, he shook himself fiercely, tail lashing in irritation.

  He didn’t ask any more questions after that, perhaps that was her purpose all along. He kept a respectful distance, occupying himself with small curiosities—tossing rocks, pawing at the ground, as if the weight of his previous inquiries had melted away.

  Time passed. Sleeps came and went, and the little hatchling slowly absorbed the patterns of the world around him. He learned which gestures brought attention, which sounds indicated danger, and which signals conveyed comfort. Once he grasped the concept of family, understanding individual identity was only a small step. Names. Labels for self and others.

  The moment came for him to learn his own.

  “You are Sylth, the youngest and smallest, but you have a mind to make up for it,” his mother said, so many words followed his name, cascading over him in a flood of sounds and meanings he could barely process. He sensed that some were important, some not, but one thing was clear: she had acknowledged his smallness just now.

  Spreading his wings, as if to mimic his mother’s gesture when she’s about to say something grand. “Sylth.” He repeated, feeling proud of having a name, as far as he knew it, it was a sign of growing up. A certain turning point on his journey.