Scorch knew what she wanted. Oh yes she did. She knew what she wanted ever since her little egg popped out of her strange golden egg. She'd watched her mother's cold, black, beady eyes just seconds after her hatching, hoping for any glimmers of warmth or welcome. But no. Her mother swept her disgusted eyes over Scorch from horn to tail then kicked her behind bars carelessly, conversing with a burly NightWing shortly after.
"Your dragonet is a filthy runt. Look at it; it's half NightWing with golden scales and long horns. It's disgusting and disgraceful. All I'm deciding now is if to give it a nice, long, painful death, or a short and sweet one. You decide. You're the one who gave me this burden in the first place." Her mother said, fingering her tail barb.
The NightWing glanced back at Scorch nervously. "We don't necessarily need to kill it." He said.
"Oh really? And how exactly does this devious plan work?" Scorch's mother asked, partly bemused.
"If it were to inherit your skills, it could be very useful in the war, with proper training and all. It could become a fine soldier one day." He explained.
"I'll take your word for it, NightWing. You are responsible for its training. But if the dragonet fails, I'm afraid I'll have to bloody my talons." She threatened.
So the very next day, Scorch was let out of her cell to begin furious training with the NightWing. She clawed, bit, scratched, and stabbed the NightWing determinedly, when she could barely walk. She worked day and night, only stopping when the NightWing got tired or she needed to relive herself. Some days, she was starved.
But as the NightWing promised her mother, Scorch was as well trained as an adult by the time she turned three. And as soon as Scorch turned three, she was shoved out onto the battlefield as a loyal foot soldier. There she was, working day and night, only earning disapproving looks from her mother whenever she took so much as a scratch to the arm. Scorch soon grew to hate her.
Scorch shook herself awake from her thoughts, back to camp, where a petite SandWing awaited her.
"Y-your Majesty! I-" He started.
"Don't you dare say that anymore! Someone will figure out you're with me!" She hissed menacingly.
"Yes, G-General Scorch. I have information about your m-mother." He sputtered.
Scorch straightened up. "Is she injured? Can we attack her unscathed?" She demanded.
"N-no, General. I-it's much worse. Spies have confirmed that- that she-she's d-dead."
"Well, well, well. Queen Blister is dead." Scorch said as a malicious smile spread across her snout.