spring baby. | sylus qin and his mama
saw a post with a reminder that Sylus was abandoned by literally everyone in his life as a child and that made me physically ill. i need him loved at every point in his life, so i wrote about him and his mama.
lol watch me write like i know ANYTHING about dragons
AGAIN I AM NO WRITER!! just for funsies!
KITCHEN FAN LULLABY by claire boyer
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• ∞
It is early spring, and a mother waits with bated breath.
Her muscles coil and uncoil with restless energy, steam curling from her nostrils as she watches the others’ eggs splinter open under the red moon. She tries to stay still, but her tail lashes, claws kneading the nesting stone. Her own egg—her runt—is smaller than any she has laid before. Smaller than any in the entire flight.
Still, she remains close. Protective. Hoping.
This is not her first clutch—but if fate favors her, it will be her first to survive past hatching.
But the night stretches on. One by one, hatchlings chirr and screech their first breaths, limbs flailing as they learn to find footing on trembling legs. The chorus of life cuts at her like ice.
Hers remains still. Unmoving.
A dead egg. Another wasted season.
But she stays. Just one more night. She coils around it beneath the red moon and stars, pressing her body close. If nothing changes by morning, she will leave it behind. Let the scavengers and ground-things take it. That is the way of things.
Dawn spills over the nesting cliffs. The flight stirs, hatchlings mewling as sires and dams prepare to migrate toward new hunting grounds—fresh territory to raise the fledglings until they grow strong enough to brood clutches of their own.
She gives the egg one last nudge with her snout, reluctant, slow. The shell is cool, still. She should leave.
Her head snaps back. Another crack—soft, but certain.
She crouches low, eyes wide and unblinking, breath held so tightly it burns in her chest. The scent is faint but sharp: wet, new, hers. Her talons twitch, tail curling tightly around her paws as she watches.
The shell splinters again. A tiny fist pushes through, pink and trembling. No claws. No sheen of scales. No horns. No wings.
She snarls, confused. Recoils slightly. The hatchling’s scent is hers, yes—but what is this?
It whimpers. Then cries. A sound like pain, like need. It punches into her gut in a way she doesn’t expect. Her body reacts before her mind does—move closer, cover it, warm it, protect it.
But it’s wrong, isn’t it? It doesn’t look like her. Doesn’t sound like the others. Doesn’t smell of fire and wind and ancient stone.
She leans in, nose brushing over the tiny body. He is warm. Fragile. Breathing.
A flicker of doubt coils in her chest—defective, she thinks. And the word burns, foreign and cruel.
Still, her wings shield him. Still, her tongue laps the afterbirth from his skin. Still, her throat rumbles low and soft, instinct wrapping around the little creature like a lullaby.
He squirms, presses into her warmth. Clings to her scales with tiny hands.
And the ache of failure fades.
She doesn't understand. She doesn't need to.
She takes a moment to look upon her new young.
He breathes softly in his sleep, chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. So small. So still. So peaceful.
She leans close, committing every inch of him to memory. His skin—soft and tanned like sun-warmed stone. A crown of downy white hair, pale as fresh snow on mountaintops. His cheeks, flushed with life, puffed and rosy. And nestled where his heart should be—a ruby gem, dimly pulsing with light. Faint red branching lines fan outward from it like delicate veins of crystal.
It mirrors her own. A mark of true kinship. Undeniable.
The little creature stirs, roused by the gentle hum of the waking world. The scent of earth, the whisper of leaves, the distant call of birdsong. Not born beneath moonlight and fire like the others—but under the dawn, kissed by the first warmth of morning, where dew clings to moss and the world stretches awake.
His eyes blink open—dark garnet, deep and glimmering—and fix on hers. Citrine, ancient, unblinking.
Those eyes—so unfamiliar, so human, yet filled with something ancient, something hers. They look into her as if they know her already. As if he’s always known.
And in that moment, the word defective crumbles to dust.
A gift. Not from chance. From Astra himself—the god who weaves fate among stars.
She curls around him, protective, reverent. This odd, radiant creature in her nest is not a mistake.
She names him Stayrus—a name from the old tongue, one her heart offers without thinking. It means he who lingers in the light. A soul not meant for shadows, but for dawn.
She doesn't yet know what the future holds. Doesn't know how the rest of the flight will react to this strange, hornless hatchling.
But she knows this: she will raze mountains, shatter skies, and burn entire forests if it means he will live.
Because no gem, no gold, no relic could compare.
This child—this wonder—is the greatest treasure her hoard has ever known.
idk if they ever went over what Stayrus means so I gave it a meaning lol
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