In the depths of a cave that predated civilization itself, where darkness pooled like liquid shadow and the air thrummed with ancient power, a massive form lay coiled around a single egg. The creature was enormous—scales like midnight obsidian catching what little light filtered through the cave mouth, each one the size of a warrior's shield. Her body radiated heat that turned the cave into a furnace, keeping the precious cargo beneath her warm and safe.

How long has it been? the dragon-mother thought, her consciousness drifting between sleeping and waking, between mortal awareness and something far vaster. Days? Weeks? Time moves strangely when you've lived as long as I have. When you've seen stars born and die, what's a few weeks guarding an egg?

But even as the thought formed, she knew the answer. Every moment mattered when it came to her children. Every second of this vigil was precious, irreplaceable, sacred.

The egg shifted beneath her, pulsing with life that echoed her own heartbeat. She could feel the consciousness within growing stronger, more aware, pressing against the boundaries of its shell with increasing urgency. Soon. Very soon.

A footfall at the cave entrance made her lift her massive head, eyes that glowed like molten gold fixing on the silhouette approaching through the darkness. But there was no alarm in her posture, no defensive tension. She knew this presence as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat.

My son, she thought, and felt something in her ancient heart soften. My firstborn. My wanderer.

The figure stepped into the dim light, and the dragon's form rippled like heat shimmer, reality bending around her as scales gave way to skin, claws to fingers, serpentine length to human grace. In the space of a breath, the massive dragon had become a beautiful woman—tall and regal, with eyes that still held that molten gold glow and hair like spilled ink cascading down her back.

The man smiled, and in that expression was equal parts joy and apprehension. He was young by mortal standards—perhaps in his mid-twenties—but carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd walked between worlds. His features bore an unmistakable resemblance to the woman before him: the same sharp cheekbones, the same intensity in his gaze, the same suggestion of something more than human lurking beneath the surface.

"Greetings, my beloved," he said, his voice carrying warmth that couldn't quite mask an underlying nervousness. He approached slowly, reverently, and placed his hand against her face—a gesture of affection and respect combined.

She leaned into the touch, savoring the contact. How I've missed him, she thought. Even when centuries pass like moments, his absence creates a void nothing else can fill.

"You were gone a long time, son," she said aloud, and heard the reproach in her own voice despite her best efforts to suppress it.

Chan—for that was his name, the name she'd given him when he'd hatched from his own egg centuries ago—sighed deeply, and the sound carried the weight of genuine remorse. "I know, and I'm sorry." He lowered his head, unable to meet her eyes. "Will you forgive me, Mom?"

Always, she thought immediately. I would always forgive you anything. You're my child, my first miracle, proof that even ancient beings like me can create something new and precious.

But she didn't say that. Instead, she glanced toward the egg—which had begun rocking more vigorously, as if the occupant inside sensed the presence of family and was eager to join them.

"Yes, maybe," she said with deliberate ambiguity, "but your brother won't."

Chan followed her gaze to the trembling egg, and his expression shifted to something between wonder and anxiety. "He'll hatch soon," his mother continued, her voice softening with maternal anticipation.

Or she, the dragon-mother thought. I don't know yet. The life force within is still forming, still deciding what shape it will take. That's the nature of our kind—we're not bound by the limitations of fixed biology. We become what we need to be.

Chan sighed again, running a hand through his dark hair—a nervous gesture he'd picked up from the mortals he'd been living among. "I can go hunting again if that helps you. Bring back food, supplies, whatever you need."

He wants to leave, she realized with a pang. Not because he doesn't care, but because he's afraid. Afraid of meeting his sibling after being absent so long. Afraid of being judged for his choices.

She shook her head firmly. "No, stay here until your little brother hatches." The command in her voice was gentle but absolute—the voice of a mother who would not be disobeyed in matters concerning her children's welfare.

She shifted back into her dragon form with the same casual ease others might change clothes, reality rippling around her as human woman became primordial beast. The transformation was neither violent nor dramatic—it simply was, as natural as breathing. She settled over the egg once more, her massive body coiling protectively around it, and began grooming her claws with her tongue—each one sharp enough to slice through starship hull plating.

"You can sleep here with me," she said, her voice taking on deeper harmonics in her true form. She tapped the ground beside her with her tail, the gesture oddly playful despite her fearsome appearance.

Stay, she thought at him, pushing just a hint of maternal insistence through the bond they shared. Don't run from this. Don't run from family.

Chan hesitated for only a moment before approaching. He'd been raised by this dragon-mother, had spent his earliest years curled against her scales, had learned the universe's deepest secrets while nestled in the warmth of her presence. Moving to her side now felt like coming home.

He settled against her back, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, hearing the steady thunder of her heartbeat. Despite his size—tall by human standards—he felt small against her bulk, protected, safe.

"Do you think he'll hatch soon, Mom?" he asked, his voice carrying a child's eagerness despite his adult form.

"Soon," his mother rumbled, the word vibrating through her chest and into his back.

Very soon, she added silently, feeling the life force within the egg reaching critical intensity. Tonight, perhaps. Or tomorrow. But soon. And then we'll be complete—mother and two children. A family, by any definition that matters.

She felt Chan relax against her, his breathing evening out as exhaustion from his long journey finally caught up with him. She kept vigil as he slept, watching the egg with eyes that had witnessed the birth of galaxies, waiting with the patience that only immortality could teach.

Hours passed in that timeless way of caves and darkness. The world outside might have been spinning through day and night, but here, in this pocket of ancient power, time moved to its own rhythm.

Chan woke slowly, consciousness returning in layers. The first thing he noticed was that his mother had moved—no longer wrapped around the egg but sitting upright, her attention fixed on something in her arms. The second thing he noticed was the soft, questioning sound that definitely hadn't been there before.

He blinked his eyes open, pushing himself up on one elbow, and his breath caught.

His mother had returned to her human form and was cradling a small figure against her chest. At first glance, the child appeared almost human—tiny, delicate, perfect. But then Chan noticed the scales that dusted the infant's skin like jewels, the way the firelight reflected in eyes that were already far too aware for a newborn, the suggestion of something vast and ancient compressed into an impossibly small package.

My sibling, Chan thought, and felt his heart expand with an emotion he couldn't quite name. My family is growing.

He smiled, genuine joy washing away the anxiety that had plagued him. "What will his name be?" he asked softly, not wanting to startle the newborn.

His mother looked up, and in her eyes shone such fierce love and protective pride that Chan felt humbled by its intensity. "Nyra Hwang," she said, her voice carrying ceremonial weight, as if the name itself held power. "It's a girl."

A sister, Chan thought, the word resonating through him. I have a sister.

"Nyra Hwang," he repeated, testing the name, feeling how it fit. "I like that."

His mother smiled and carefully transferred the baby to his arms. Chan accepted the precious burden with extreme care, acutely aware of how fragile this new life seemed despite the power he could already sense coiled within her tiny frame.

She's so small, he marveled. Was I this small once? This vulnerable? This... new?

The baby—Nyra—gazed up at him with eyes that seemed to look through him rather than at him, as if she could see not just his face but his essence, his history, every choice he'd ever made. It was unnerving and wonderful in equal measure.

"Hey there, sweetie," Chan said softly, his voice taking on a gentleness he hadn't known he possessed. "My name is Chan. I'm your big brother."

Your protector, he added silently. Your teacher, your friend, your family. Everything I should have been if I hadn't run away for so long.

Nyra made a small sound—not quite a cry, more like a question—and one tiny hand reached up toward his face. Without thinking, Chan lowered his head, letting those miniature fingers brush against his cheek. Her touch was warm, almost hot, and for a moment he felt something pass between them—recognition, acceptance, bond.

"We're going to have so much fun, you and me," he promised, and meant it with every fiber of his being. "I promise."

I won't leave again, he swore silently, holding his sister close while his mother watched with ancient, knowing eyes. Not for a long time. Not until you're ready. Not until you understand what you are and what you're capable of.

I'll teach you everything Mom taught me. I'll show you how to walk among mortals without revealing what you truly are. I'll help you discover your power and how to control it. I'll be the brother I should have been from the beginning.

Nyra's eyes drifted closed, exhausted from the effort of hatching, of being born, of entering a universe that was vast and strange and full of wonders she couldn't yet comprehend. But even in sleep, she seemed peaceful, content, safe in her brother's arms.

Their mother settled beside them, one hand resting on Chan's shoulder, the other gently stroking Nyra's scaled cheek. "She's special," she murmured, her voice distant, as if seeing possibilities that stretched far into the future. "More than even I anticipated. Her power..."

She trailed off, but Chan heard what went unsaid. His sister would be extraordinary, even by their standards. He could already feel it—the potential coiled within her small form, the destiny waiting to unfold.

"I'll protect her," Chan promised. "Whatever comes, whatever she becomes—I'll be there."

His mother smiled, sad and knowing and proud all at once. "I know you will, my son. But the time will come when she won't need protection. When she'll be the one doing the protecting." Her eyes grew distant. "She'll shake galaxies, this one. She'll wear crowns and break them. She'll be loved and feared in equal measure."

Supreme Chancellor, something whispered through Chan's mind—prophecy or premonition, he couldn't tell. Dragon in human skin. God playing at mortality. The one who chooses restraint over destruction, wisdom over power.

But that was for the future. For now, Nyra was simply his baby sister, small and vulnerable and perfect, sleeping peacefully in his arms while their mother kept watch and the cave held them safe from the world outside.

"Welcome to the family, little one," Chan whispered. "Welcome to forever."

And in the depths of the ancient cave, surrounded by darkness and warmth and love, a new chapter began—not just for Nyra, but for a galaxy that didn't yet know what force of nature had just entered their universe.

Sleep now, Chan thought, rocking his sister gently. Sleep and grow strong. The universe can wait a little longer to meet you.

But not too much longer.

Never too much longer.