A young boy was sitting down in front of a grave, his knees at shoulder height and his arms wrapped around them. The boy had an unkept look to him, his hair was messy and broken, his shirt had a hole on the back, and his pants so oversized they could fit him for years. His stare was an empty one, or maybe a lost one.
The graveyard was completely empty, aside of the boy's presence. The sky was completely clouded, giving a gray ambience to everything as small droplets of water began pouring down from above.
"I wish you were still here, dad" The young boy muttered.
The grave had a half-empty glass at its side, with two white flowers inside it, their stems indicated they had been plucked by hand from a bush, the name of the grave had already faded, only the birth and decease dates remained.
[ 1982 - 2020 ]
Rain began to set in, a steady pattering that darkened the earth, yet the boy remained inmobile.
"I've gotten so strong, I could run from the end of the graveyard to the other in ten minutes, a-and I've also learned how to defend against Drifters! ... I learned so I didn't have to go through the same destiny as you. So I didn't have to relive that day, but in your perspective..."
He trailed off, looking down at the muddy ground. A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.
"I better take cover, see ya', dad..." The boy stood up, he was just as tall as his father's tombstone.
As he walked through the small forest between his hut and the graveyard, a faint blue glow caught his eye. Nestled between the roots of an ancient oak was an egg, one that pulsed with a soft, internal light. He hurried toward it, his heart thudding against his ribs. The pattern on its shell was a mosaic of interlocking, hexagonal scales, it was unmistakeably one he'd previously seen in his books.
"These scales..." he breathed.
Dragons were part of the Drifters species, beings that emerge from the randomly appearing drifts around the world. It was global law to destroy any and all Drifter life on sight.
But the boy couldn't get himself to do any harm to the egg, there was a living being inside, it wasn't its fault to be born in a world that hates it. He carefully gathered the warm, pulsating egg into his arms and carried it back to his nearby hut, a tiny, wooden structure with just enough space for a floor mattress and his meager possessions.
He rummaged through the clutter on the floor. Stained napkins, preserved animal parts, and a small stack of books. "I swear I have the book somewhere..."
His fingers closed on a thick, hardcover volume. The cover was made of cracked leather, the title long since worn away. He skimmed through the pages, the paper brittle under his touch, until he found the entry he was looking for.
[ Draconic beings, Section II: Reproduction ]
[ A typical Dragon egg is 1.2 meters in height. Its surface is a breathtaking mosaic of these Scute-Scales. The base color is a deep, volcanic obsidian, but each scale is edged in a vibrant, pulsating crimson, as if lines of molten magma flow just beneath the surface. The pattern forms a complex, spiraling fractal that begins at the egg's apex and swirls downwards. When ambient energy levels are high, this fractal pattern glows with a soft, internal light, and the egg is warm to the touch. The texture is smooth like polished basalt, and the scales are impervious to conventional tools or weaponry. ]
He looked from the book to the egg beside him on the mattress. Its scales were a deep, cosmic blue, edged in shimmering silver, and the fractal spiral glowed with a gentle, steady light.
"So... This is a dragon egg." the boy whispered, a flicker of something other than loneliness in his eyes for the first time.
The boy's ordinary routine now orbited the pulsating egg.
He lined his best shirt, the one with only two holes, into a worn-out drawer, creating a nest for the egg. It glowed softly in the dim hut, a silent companion for the lonely boy.
Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, all blurred together.
He'd return from scavenging, not with just food for himself. Armfuls of strange, glowing moss he'd painstakingly collected from the deeper woods, piling it around the egg's base. The book mentioned draconics thrived on Drift energy.
He would sometimes talk to it. At first, it was just muttering, like talking to one's self. "It was cold today." Or, "A tree branch almost fell on me." But soon, the words came easier. He'd tell it about his dad, even if the egg couldn't reply, it was the only resemblance of connection he could feel.
Some nights, when the wind howled, he'd curl around the drawer, one small hand resting on the warm, scaly shell, as if to protect it.
The egg's blue aura grew brighter, the silver fractal patterns pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm that almost matched his heartbeat.
One evening, as he recounted a memory of his mother's smile, a clear, sharp crack split the air.
The boy froze, his story cut-off short. His wide eyes were locked on the hairline fracture now shaking its way accross the shell. The wait was over.