DARKSTALKER

The earliest recollections of the young dragonet were the faint, disembodied whispers that permeated the dense darkness surrounding him.

"Are you positive it's the right moment? This very night?"

"Yes, absolutely. NightWing mothers are innately aware of such matters. And look, it's the most luminous night, precisely as the prophecy foretold. Three full moons... it's been over a hundred years since the last thricemoonborn hatchling!"

"If you come anywhere near my ear with those teeth, I'll enchant them to crumble to dust," the second voice warned, a hint of a threat coating the words.

"Arctic," the first voice responded with a playful edge, "I was merely jesting."

"As was I," the second voice, now identifiable as male, conceded begrudgingly.

The dragonet, not yet fully cognizant of language, was nonetheless acute to the tumultuous emotions emanating from the two voices. One was a maelstrom of fear and fierce protectiveness, which he instinctively associated with a maternal presence. The other was a stark contrast, brimming with resentment and a frosty anger, its edges slightly blurred.

The sudden sound of scratching pierced the quietude, and the dragonet felt a gentle shift in his enclosed world. A sliver of light, faint and ethereal, appeared before him, beckoning him forth with silent insistence.

"Why are you disturbing their eggs?" the male voice demanded, his tone brimming with discontent. "We bury ours in the snow."

"Our tradition dictates they must emerge into moonlight," the motherly voice countered calmly. "NightWings have adhered to this practice for centuries."

A sudden, sharp noise caused a brief commotion, then a feeling of cautious movement.

"Don't touch them!" the male voice bellowed.

A dizzying sensation overtook the dragonet, as if he were being transported through a tumultuous whirlwind, only to find himself nestled in a warm, stable embrace.

"Why are they two distinct colors?" the male voice questioned, his curiosity laced with a hint of accusation. "Could it be due to our lineage? Perhaps that one's more IceWing?"

"Most NightWing eggs are black," the motherly voice explained patiently. "But under a full moon's embrace, they transform to silver. I'm unsure why this one remains black."

The dragonet sensed a profound connection with the black-scaled dragon that was his mother. He reached out mentally to the other dragonet, the one whose heartbeat was as tranquil and rhythmic as the steady pulse of the night. However, she remained unresponsive, enveloped in a serene silence that seemed oblivious to his urgent need to escape.

The male voice spoke again, his words echoing with dissatisfaction. "We're too high up here. If they fall, it's your responsibility."

"They won't," the mother retorted firmly. "NightWings are capable of handling their young without the need for such concerns. Besides, your mother would have slaughtered them the moment she laid eyes on them."

"Don't say her name," the male growled, his anger palpable. "You know I'm not to blame for what she did!"

The mother's hiss was as sharp as the edge of a blade. "Ember was my dearest friend. I will mourn her in any way I see fit!"

The male dragon, known as Father, bore the weight of his mother's heinous actions, a burden that left a foul taste in Darkstalker's nascent consciousness. Yet, beneath the layers of anger and bitterness, there was a flicker of warmth directed toward the mother, a feeble ember of love that kept the young dragonet from dismissing him entirely.

Darkstalker's determination grew stronger, and he chipped away at his egg with fervent clawing. The eggshell began to give way, yielding to his relentless efforts.

"Look," the mother whispered, "his time has come."

The dragonet's heart swelled with hope as he reached out to his sibling once more. If he could just communicate the urgency, perhaps she would follow him into the world. But she remained still, unyielding to his silent pleas.

The mother and father's argument faded into the background as Darkstalker focused solely on the task at hand.

"There's a tempest approaching," the male said. "Won't your moon-worshipping rituals be affected?"

"The moons are more reliable than your skepticism," she retorted. "He'll be out before the storm reaches us. Besides, this isn't just a belief; it's our way of life."

With renewed vigor, Darkstalker continued to fight against the confines of his egg. The walls around him began to crack and crumble, offering glimpses of the outside world.

Finally, with a triumphant series of CRACK-CRACK-CRACK, he broke free.

Three radiant orbs of silver light greeted him, the moons above, and their power seemed to infuse him. He was drawn to the light, feeling as though he could harness its energy and make it his own.

The dragonet found himself in a stone nest, lined with fur as black as the night itself, with another egg resting quietly beside him. The nest was situated atop a towering promontory, the landscape sprawling before him a tapestry of caverns and ravines, illuminated by the warm glow of distant fires and the twinkling stars.

The two dragons standing guard over him were starkly different. One was as dark as the void from which he'd just emerged, the other as pale as the moons above. Darkstalker knew immediately which was his mother. Her love enveloped him, a fierce and protective emotion that resonated deep within his soul.

The father, a dragon of ice, bore a name that matched his demeanor—Arctic. Darkstalker could see the tumultuous past that lay between them, a web of pain, anger, and despair. Yet, somewhere in that tempestuous heart, there was a spark of affection for his mother. It was enough to give him pause.

"Darkstalker?" Arctic snorted with derision. "What kind of name is that for a dragonet?"

The mother defended her choice with passion. "It's a name that signifies his destiny. He will be the one to banish the shadows and bring forth the light!"

"It sounds like he'll be sneaking around like a common thief," Arctic shot back.

"This is not your decision to make," the mother said through gritted teeth. "You have no right to impose your icy customs upon us."

"If that egg hatches," Arctic said, his voice tight with unspoken rage, "I'll name it, as is my right. But it must be something suitable for an IceWing, something that reflects its heritage."

The dragonet felt a pang of regret for his sister, who was trapped in the egg, unable to experience the moons' power. He pondered the consequences of his inaction but ultimately concluded that it was for the best. This night belonged to him, and the power of the thrice-moonborn was his alone to claim.

"As long as it fits within NightWing society," the mother conceded, her eyes never leaving Darkstalker.

With a nod, Arctic agreed. His eyes, sharp and cold as the glaciers of his homeland, studied Darkstalker, searching for any semblance of himself in the hatchling's features. Finding none, his displeasure grew.

Darkstalker felt a strange sensation in his claws, an unexplained tingle of power. He understood, in a primitive way, that he could influence the egg beside him, could bring forth his sister. Yet, he chose to hold back, allowing the night to be solely about him.

The futures that could have been, where they ruled together or fought fiercely, where one of them perished at the other's hand, all faded away as he curled his talons into a fist. This night, and all its potential, was his.

The mother's voice called out to him, her talons open in invitation. "Welcome, my Darkstalker," she said warmly.

He stepped into her embrace without hesitation, already knowing that she would be his rock in the tumultuous world that awaited them.

The father's gaze remained on him, a silent promise of future contention, yet the dragonet felt a strange sense of superiority. With the moons' power, he was untouchable.

This is your world now, he thought to his sister, the words unspoken yet laden with meaning. But tonight, the full moons are mine.