The sky was heady and dark, clouds thick like the scent of honey and ash. They pressed on the hillsides, flattening the grass against the soil.
"A storm is coming," said Avizandum, great grey head tilted up at the sky. In his ears he heard the distant rumble of thunder, on his wings he felt the graze of the fierce wind, in his eyes he saw the lightning flicker through the rain, bright and blinding. "It will be a strong one."
"A good day for a prince to be born," agreed the Skywing guard. She stood guard at the top of the stairway, perched delicately on the ledge like a hawk. Her wings splayed out behind her, hanging easily from the small of her back, soft, as elves often were.
The only thing softer would be the scales of a hatchling, strengthened gradually over time as they tousled with the wind. Avizandum himself had been taught to fly by his father, and then guided through his first hailstorm by his mother. He hoped the same for Azymondias, biding his time until the storm reached its peak.
He stretched his neck out and breathed into the thin air. This was the storm of Prince Azymondias and Avizandum wanted to know it. He blinked long and slowly, and found the words in his head.
Windstorm. This was a windstorm, blowing stones across the open plains and sweeping clouds across the sky. At the border, this would have been a day he spent soaring close to the sun, gathering power and energy the higher he rose, the Sky Arcanum pulsing under his scales. Today, the storm was a release.
Zubeia would be enjoying herself; she had always adored thunderweather, and the skies in the eastern regions of Xadia had an odd warmth to their air currents that made her giddy. She was so graceful in a storm, and so fast; Avizandum expected her and the delegation of representatives from the other groups to return long before the tempest reached its peak.
Something crackled and someone shouted.
"–intruders! My King! Intruders!"
The Skywing guard tensed at her post. She flipped open her spear and held it into the air so it flashed in the light. Higher up, the rest of the Dragon Guards fell into formation, all attention focused on the distant figures on the rain-soaked plain. The first was the King of Katolis, furious and wrathful. The second was his mage, drenched in the turpitude of Dark Magic.
Avizandum drew himself up, tail whipping the ground and wings snapping open. The flesh beneath them was still warm from the nest and he felt the ghostly imprint of Azymondias' egg against his scales. He would not be disturbed today. His son's birth, sacred and rare and revered, would go uninterrupted.
The sky flinched, wind sinking into rain, and the body of Avizandum fell to the ground, cold and heavy, stone wings half open. At the very top of the Storm Spire, the egg of his son sat unmoving and helpless, and something bloody and squalling was born instead.