Thazareth soared through the skies, the wind hissing over her wings as her mind churned with unrest. The egg—that egg—what it implied about her, about her choices, was too heavy to cast aside. She abhorred killing without necessity, she reminded herself. But this had been necessary.
Hadn't it?
She landed at last in her lair—a solitary peak rising from the ocean like a monument to isolation. The winds calmed, and silence wrapped around her as she settled in her favorite hollow, stone warmed from ages of sun.
Why had she flown? Why had she left?
Because she wasn't ready to die… or because some part of her hoped to be stopped?
No. She shook the thought away like smoke. She was right. She had to be.
Bronze dragons mated for life. Her mate was dead. She had sworn an oath that there would be no other. That oath was sacred. She hadn't considered indulging in a human to be a betrayal—hardly worth noting—but another dragon?
That was something else entirely.
And now there was proof. Flesh and blood. A half-blooded child. That was bad enough. But for it to come after her oath—that was worse. An abomination born not just of weakness, but of betrayal.
She had to dispense justice.
The child itself had done no wrong, true. It was innocent.
But its existence was the crime.
The perpetrators were Serethion and herself. And her atonement—her justice—had been simple: destroy it. And the feeling that came with destroying the innocent? That was her punishment.
But he had stood in her way.
He had made her run.
Run.
She bared her fangs at the memory, talons digging into the stone. That shame—that humiliation—was the deepest insult of all.
"Mark my words," she hissed into the dark. "I will kill him."
As for the child… it had committed no crime. She had already disclaimed it. Cast it aside. It was no longer hers.
But its father… he bore the blame. He bore it all.
Could she destroy a child for the sins of its father?
Of course. Justice demands no less.
But that moment had passed. That time was over.
And the fact that he made me run… that alone is unforgivable.
Let the world believe I lost. Let them whisper that I faltered.
He will know the truth:
That I did not forgive.
And I never will.
It was dark. I couldn't tell how long it had been, but the events lined up, one after the other.
First came existence. Then disdain.
The presence I felt showed nothing but contempt. I was a burden—something to be discarded.
Then silence.
Then nature.
And then… two presences.
One was cold. The other was charged—sparking.
Both felt familiar. Both felt like they were hers.
But the sparking one turned hostile. Death was certain.
I trembled in terror.
Then the cold presence flared—massive, immense. It gave off a chill, but it was comforting.
The sparking one turned all its fury on the cold. It wanted to kill us both.
The two clashed, and the storm of it was unbearable.
I couldn't escape.
The cold presence hated the sparking. And the sparking hated us both.
They grew in power, swelling and colliding—
until the sparking one stopped growing.
The cold presence didn't stop.
It kept growing.
It was winning.
Then, at last, the sparking one faded—distant, hateful, gone.
Only the cold one remained.
It drew close. It felt like safety. Like love.
It never left.
It stayed with me.
Everything after that was good.
Sometimes, I was still afraid the hateful one would return.
But it never did.
And the cold, kind presence… it was always there.
Keeping it at bay.
She felt bound—uncomfortably so—but the protector was always present. Until finally, something changed.
A crack in reality.
A brilliant light.
Too bright.
She did something instinctive, and the light vanished. She was no longer bound, but she didn't like the light. She kept it out.
She could move now.
She knew which way was forward.
She turned toward the presence that had always protected her.
It was still dark, but she could feel it—vast and cold, yet comforting.
She wanted to let it know something. So she did.
"You are my father, yes? I know you are!"
"And the hateful one… my mother, no?"
"Correct," the presence replied, calm and certain.
"What is my name?" she asked.
"Open your eyes. Let the light in."
So she did.
And for the first time, she saw him.
The cold presence—unmasked.
A silver giant. Beautiful. Majestic.
She stared, awestruck.
"You are Venaluime." he said in a gentle voice
"Do you have a name, or is it just 'Father'?"
He smiled, and his voice filled the space with warmth.
"My name is Serethion. But yes… you may call me Father."
"Father, what does my name mean?" Venaluime asked.
"Venaluime means a cold thunderstorm that brings snow and ice," Serethion replied gently. "It's a magical weather phenomenon—rare, powerful, and beautiful. The word comes from a long-dead language, once spoken by an equally extinct civilization."
Venaluime scoffed at the word thunder.
"It reminds you of your mother," her father said, not needing to ask.
Venaluime hesitated, then nodded. "It's the name you gave me. And because of that, I treasure it. But I don't like that it includes her—the thunder."
Serethion gave a solemn nod. "Venaluime… you must make peace with the fact that you are half of her. Everything about you will carry some part of her—whether you like it or not."
He looked her over with a thoughtful expression. "You look exactly like her, except for the silver."
He gestured to her features. "The webbing on the fin atop your neck and tail, under your arms, and between your claws—that all comes from her. Your primary color, that rich bronze, is hers. The only parts of me I see in you are the silver stripes, the silver webbing, and the patches of silver at the edges of your wing membranes. Those would have been green if you were wholly hers.
They would have looked like the scales on your chest, the underside of your neck, and underbelly."
She looked down at herself to see her large chest scale. It shined with a dull, metallic greenish grey.
He summoned a mirror and gently pulled it in front of her. "Look at your head."
Venaluime studied her reflection, showing a flicker of pride, then looked at him.
Her father's head bore two strong horns parted by a massive fin that rose between them, with a matching fin extending from his jaw and chin like a graceful beard.
Her own head was different. Sharper, more angular. Two symmetrical crests pointed backward, covering her temples, merging into an upper jaw ending in a sharp beak, sharp teeth lining her mouth. Her lower jaw remained normal, though two small black nubs of horns jutted from her chin. Similar nubs lined the base of her jaw on each side.
Along her crest, she counted eight small black horns in total—four on each side. The topmost pair were already the largest, while the others curled subtly, still growing.
She stared at her reflection for a moment, then spoke softly, "I look different."
Serethion smiled gently. "You look different. From me, that is all."
"All bronze dragons have this head shape, right?"
"You are correct," he answered
Venaluime didn't meet his eyes. "So… if she had wanted to keep me, I would have been welcome among them?"
He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was careful.
"You would have been feared. Perhaps hated. Perhaps rejected. Perhaps harmed. Or you might have been admired, loved, and protected. It would have depended entirely on her."
Venaluime met his gaze. "Then it's good I look this way. I don't want to look like something that would reject me."
Serethion studied her carefully. "And if they hadn't rejected you? Would you have wished to look like them?"
"No," she said firmly. "Because I am not them. I am me."
"And what are you?"
"I am Venaluime," she declared, silver eyes sharp and unwavering. "I am the cold thunder. Not because of her but because of you."
"Do you remember being an egg, Father?" Venaluime asked, tilting her head.
"I do," Serethion said, voice growing quiet, reflective. "Not clearly. More like… a song heard through a wall. Echoes of warmth. Waiting. Someone watching over me. But no words. No fear."
He looked down at her. "You remember more, don't you?"
Venaluime nodded. "Everything. The silence. Her hatred. The fight. I knew she wanted to end me before I even began."
Serethion exhaled. "Then you understand more than most. More than many elders ever will."
She leaned into him, his silver warmth grounding her. "Were you scared? When you realized what she meant to do?"
His wing curled protectively around her. "Terrified. Not for myself. For you. I'd have faced death a thousand times—but losing you? That was the one thing I couldn't allow. Even if it meant making her my enemy forever."
Venaluime was quiet a moment. "She was so big in the egg. So angry. You were… cold, strong, silent. When she turned on you, I thought we'd both die."
Serethion lowered his head beside her. "So did I. But something stopped her. Maybe the gods. Maybe her shame."
"Maybe you," Venaluime whispered. "Maybe… you won."
He didn't answer right away. Then, softly: "Maybe. But not without cost."
She curled her tail. "Why did she hate me?"
"She didn't hate you," he said gently. "She hated what you meant. What you made her feel. But… I think part of her was glad she was stopped. Not enough to love you—but maybe enough not to be ruined by what she nearly did."
"I don't want any part of her," Venaluime muttered.
"You don't have to take any part you don't choose," Serethion said. "You're not just our child—you're yourself. And that is more powerful than blood."
"But don't let her define you through your rejection either. That still gives her control."
Venaluime pulled back, eyes narrowing. "Wait… how did you know I remembered? I never said I was aware. I was just born."
Serethion blinked slowly. "Because you told me. In your eyes, the moment you opened them. Most newborns are confused. You looked at me like you already knew who I was. Like you'd been waiting."
"You also knew about your mother."
She stared, unsure if that comforted or unsettled her.
"And," he continued gently, "because I felt you. When I stood between you and her… I felt your fear. Your awareness. The egg didn't shield you. That… I didn't expect."
Venaluime lowered her head. "So I wasn't supposed to be awake."
"No," Serethion said. "But that doesn't mean it was wrong."
Venaluime's eyes narrowed. "You said she was going to destroy me. You were ready to stop her. But then… something made her stop. What do you mean?"
Serethion paused. Then, quietly:
"She made her choice. I was prepared to make mine."
"You were stronger," she pressed. "So why didn't it end there? Unless… strength doesn't decide a battle."
She tilted her head, thinking aloud. "Are you saying… you both could've died?"
A heavy silence followed.
Then Serethion, voice calm but ancient and bruised:
"Yes. I would have stopped her. But not without cost. She isn't lesser—just different. Proud. Unbending. Wounded in ways she won't admit.
If I had pressed the fight, we might have both fallen. And you… unborn, fragile—you wouldn't have survived either way."
Venaluime's breath caught.
"So… she stopped. But not for me."
"No," he said. "She stopped for herself. She realized what it would cost. That is her burden now."
Venaluime looked away, bitterness flickering.
"Then I owe you everything," she whispered.
"No," Serethion replied. "You owe no one for your right to live."
"If I was aware… she must've known too," she said quietly. "Is that why she stopped? Did she sense it?"
A pause.
"Or would she have done it anyway?" Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from understanding.
"Was her life just more valuable to her?"
Serethion met her eyes, unreadable.
"If she saw your awareness, she didn't acknowledge it. Her judgment was already passed.
If I hadn't been there, she would have done it. Not from malice. Not even hate.
But because she believed it was justice. And she cannot live believing herself unjust."
Venaluime flinched.
"So… it was never about me."
"It was about her oath. Her pride. Her pain," he said softly.
"And yes. Her life. Because what stopped her wasn't your voice—it was me.
She knew what I would do. And what it would cost."
"She wasn't willing to pay," Venaluime said flatly.
Serethion didn't argue.
"She couldn't," he said. "And that… may be the only reason we're still here."
Venaluime's voice grew cold, steady.
"She's going to come back."
Serethion didn't reply. He didn't need to.
"I would," she said. "If someone made me falter when I thought I was right…
If they humiliated me?"
Her claws curled into the stone.
"She won't forget. She'll want vengeance—on both of us."
"Well, too bad for her."
She spread her wings, bronze and silver catching the dim light.
"The longer she waits, the stronger I'll become. And you?"
She looked up at Serethion, fierce and loving.
"You'll always be stronger than her. Older. Wiser. And I'll never leave your side."
Her eyes gleamed—not with fear, but with fire.
"So let her come. She's outmatched. We'll be ready."
Serethion smiled—solemn, proud.
But inside, he felt the weight of her promise.
The love.
The defiance.
And the danger it would one day summon.