Chapter 4 - The First Crack
The sharp sound of splitting shell cut through the tense standoff at the doorway like a whip.
Prince Vane froze, his hand halting inches from his sword. Keeper Alistair gasped, his eyes widening in horror and awe as he spun around to face the chamber. Even the elite guards in their dark armor took an involuntary step back, the terrifying reputation of mythical beasts gripping their hearts with primal dread.
The hairline fracture widened, glowing with an intense, blinding white luminescence that cast long, sharp shadows across the ancient bookshelves. A wisp of warm, sweet-smelling smoke—resembling burning cedar and crushed autumn leaves—curled out from the fissure.
"It’s hatching," Alistair breathed, forgetting the intruders entirely as he rushed toward the center of the room.
"Seize it now!" Vane roared, abandoning all pretense of diplomacy. He shoved past the old keeper, drawing his blade with a vicious hiss of steel. "If we cannot control it, we destroy it before it takes breath!"
The guards charged into the sanctum, their heavy boots thudding against the stone. But before they could take three strides, Jaren moved.
It wasn't a conscious decision; it was a sudden, violent surge of instinct. The connection binding him to the egg flared through his veins like liquid fire. Jaren leaped off his stool, throwing his body protectively over the vibrating, cracking shell just as a shockwave of raw, incandescent energy erupted from the center of the room.
BOOM.
The shockwave hit the chamber like a physical wall. Prince Vane was hurled backward through the splintered oak doors, crashing hard against the stone corridor wall. His guards were swept off their feet, tumbling head over heels into the darkness of the hallway.
Keeper Alistair managed to plant his staff, anchoring himself against the gale-force wind of magic, his white hair whipping wildly across his face.
Inside the epicenter of the blast, Jaren clutched the egg tightly against his chest. The heat was immense, but it didn't burn him; instead, it felt like sinking into a warm bath after freezing in the winter snow. The shell split entirely apart in a shower of glittering, diamond-like shards that dissolved into thin air before hitting the ground.
From the glowing nest of light emerged a creature no larger than a hound, yet radiating an ancient, crushing majesty.
Its scales were spun from liquid silver and polished obsidian, catching the lamplight like a field of fallen stars. Its wings were tightly folded against its sleek, muscular flanks, and its eyes—large, luminous, and impossibly wise—fixed entirely upon Jaren.
The dragonlet tilted its horned head, letting out a soft, purring rumble that vibrated right through Jaren’s bones.
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"By the ancestors," Alistair whispered, dropping to one knee, lowering his head in profound reverence.
Down the hallway, groaning as he pushed himself up from the stone floor, Prince Vane wiped a streak of blood from his lip. He stared into the sanctum with eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror and malice. The beast was alive. And worse for the crown, it had imprinted entirely on a servant boy.
