The years passed.
They didn't pass quickly, and they didn't pass easily. But they passed.
Drak'thar grew. The floating islands spread outward, new buildings rose from the stone, and new gardens bloomed under the constant twilight. The Hatchery never went quiet anymore. There were always new eggs, new hatchlings, and new generations of dragons taking their first flights.
The five original dragons were elders now.
Storm's lightning had faded to a soft glow, and she spent her days teaching the youngest hatchlings how to control their affinities. She was strict with them, the same way she had always been strict with herself.
Current's silver scales were streaked with white. She ran the Hatchery's breeding programs and made sure the bloodlines stayed strong.
Thistle's thorns had grown softer with age. She tended the gardens that now covered the eastern islands, and most of what grew there had come up from ground she had planted herself.
