I started from the bed, covered with sweat. The candle at my night table showed me the truth of it all: the black, speckled egg that looked like a pinecone had begun to crack. The curators had said that this wouldn’t happen for another few months, and when it did, it would change the world. They were gone now, on another island, attending to other hatchlings. I was alone in our forest.

I watched the egg in the shadow as it vibrated slowly, then all at once. Then it was a heap of cracked shells, and within it sat a tiny being: red-eyed, veiny, and winged.

Reaching forward to cradle it, I smiled. My child - the child I had nursed and been raised to nurse since I myself was a child. It met me with anger and fire.

The curators would return to a shouldering heap of ashes, the dragon long gone. The world would change; its black wings would cover the sky.