Chapter 41: The Flame Passes On

It was early morning when I saw them—small, wobbly figures by the edge of the big pond, wings too small to fly, tails twitching in excitement as they chased after fish in the shallows. At first, I thought they were some of my own cubs.

But something was off.

I counted again.

One... two... three... four... five.

All mine were still in the den, curled up in the warm embrace of their mother and siblings, dozing peacefully after a late night of hunting lessons.

So who were these tiny dragons by the pond?

I narrowed my eyes, stepping closer, trying to catch their scent. It was familiar… and not. The fish darted around their feet, the young dragons squeaked and slipped in the water, falling over one another. It wasn't until I heard a familiar wingbeat behind me that I understood.

I turned—and saw him.

My eldest son.

His wingspan now nearly equal to mine. Muscular, proud, his scales a shade darker than they'd been the year before. He landed beside the pond, watching the little ones with a quiet intensity I knew too well.

He wasn't just watching them… he was guarding them.

I blinked.

He met my eyes. There was a pause, a heartbeat, then he gave me a slow, silent nod.

That's when it hit me.

He's started a family.

My chest swelled with something deep—something ancient. Not just pride. Not just love.

Continuance.

He was the first.

The first of my children to take the fire I'd built and pass it on. To build his own circle of life. His own family. His own reason to protect.

I walked toward him, slow and steady. The little ones stopped playing and stared at me, wide-eyed. One of them even bared tiny fangs and tried to growl—a sound that came out more like a sneeze.

I couldn't help but huff a laugh through my nostrils.

I sat beside my son, looking over the pond that we once built together, back when he was just a hatchling sitting on my back, too small to even fly.

"You did well," I said, my voice deep, low, only meant for him.

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "They're strong. Not just in body… they listen. They learn."

"Like their father," I replied.

He dipped his head once, quietly.

I looked around the pond, at the older cubs flying overhead, the younger ones splashing, the few dragons from other lines who had settled nearby with us. All living in this community we had carved out of a wild, cruel world.

I remembered the beginning.

That first drink of water. The bugs. The constant hunger. The fear.

Now look at us.

"You have a den for them?" I asked.

"Almost finished," he said. "By the cliff near the western edge."

"Need help?"

"No," he said. "I want to do it myself."

I grinned and stood, brushing my wings out. "Just make sure the roof doesn't collapse in the rain."

"It won't," he replied quickly. "I reinforced it with river stone."

I laughed—a full belly laugh this time. "Smart."

He smiled too, just a flicker.

I left him then, letting him return to his cubs. But I didn't go far. I perched on a high rock near the pond, watching from above as the next generation of dragons leapt through the water, clawed at lily pads, and chased shadows with laughter in their eyes.

My mate joined me soon after, her body pressed against mine, warm and steady.

"You saw them?" she asked.

"I did," I murmured. "He's ready."

"He's more than ready," she said. "He's becoming what you are."

I looked out over the clearing, the ponds, the homes, the cubs.

What I am?

I didn't know what that was, not really.

But I knew what I wanted to be.

And seeing my son with his family, living strong, made me believe something I hadn't dared think when this strange journey began:

This island might one day be ours.

Not to rule.

But to live in peace.

To raise our kind.

To protect what we built.

Together.