Part 1: A Hatchling's Cry in a Silent Apartment
The egg did not hatch with a dramatic explosion of light, but with a desperate, persistent tap-tap-tap.
For three days, it had trembled on the kotatsu in Lyra's small, sparse Musutafu apartment. She hadn't slept, her silver eyes fixed on the opalescent shell, watching the storm-cloud hues swirl faster, listening to the faint, muffled cries of frustration from within. Her heart was a drum against her ribs. This was it. The moment her great theft would be made flesh.
A hairline fracture appeared, glowing with a cool blue light. Then another. A small, scaled fist, no bigger than a plum, punched through, sending a shard clattering onto the table. The air grew heavy, charged. The cheap lightbulb in the room flickered, and the distant rumble of a perfectly clear sky echoed.
Lyra held her breath.
With a final, mighty crack, the egg sundered. And there you were.
Curled in a fetal position, damp with amniotic fluid that smelled of ozone and rain-soaked stone. You were undeniably a baby, but a baby carved from a myth. Patches of soft, iridescent scales graced your shoulders and the curve of your spine. A tiny, tufted tail twitched feebly. And nestled in a mess of hair already the color of a gathering thunderhead were two small, nub-like horns.
You let out a wail—a sound that was both a human infant's cry and the faint, high-frequency keen of a dragonet. As you cried, the flickering lightbulb surged and died with a pop, plunging the room into a dim twilight broken only by the light from the window. Tiny arcs of blue static zipped harmlessly from your horns to the metal leg of the kotatsu.
Lyra's hands flew to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. All her fear, her loneliness, her terrible resolve, melted away in an instant, replaced by a flood of awe and a love so fierce it stole her breath. Gently, so gently, she reached out and gathered you into the towel she had prepared. You were warm, so warm, and the hum of power within you was a familiar song—your father's storm, tempered by her own silver soul.
You blinked open your eyes.
Violet. Brilliant, intelligent, and utterly confused. Your vertically slit pupils contracted in the dim light. You looked up at her, your cries softening to a whimper. In that gaze, Lyra saw it—the echo of another life's understanding, swimming beneath the primal terror and need of a newborn. It was the confirmation of her vision. You were more.
"Shhh, my little storm," she whispered, her voice cracking as she cradled you close. "My Ryūjin. You are safe. Mama is here."
You nuzzled against her, the static in your hair calming. A tiny hand, with minute, perfect claws, closed around her finger. In that moment, a new bond was forged, one of absolute trust and shared secrecy. You were here. You were hatched. And your story in this world of Quirks had just begun, your first act a silent, unconscious brownout in a quiet apartment block.
Part 2: The Storm That Never Ceased
In Xadia, the storm had not stopped for three days.
It raged around the summit of the Storm Spire, a howling, weeping vortex of black clouds, torrential rain, and lightning that struck the same jagged peaks again and again. The Skywing elves and other dragons gave the mountain a wide berth, their faces etched with sorrow and fear. The King's grief was a weather event.
Zym, the Storm Dragon King, was a statue of agony in the heart of the gale. He stood at the entrance of the now-empty roost, his massive head bowed, wings pressed tight against his body. The scents of Lyra and their unhatched child were fading, erased by the relentless downpour, and each fading note was a fresh lash of pain.
He had searched. With the fury of a hurricane, he had crisscrossed Xadia, scouring every valley, every forest, every hidden glen. He had called to her with their mind-link until his own thoughts were raw. He had bellowed her name into the teeth of the wind until his voice grew hoarse.
Nothing. Not a trace. Not a single scale. It was as if the sky itself had swallowed them whole.
The council of Archdragons suggested a rogue dark magic portal, an accident, a tragic anomaly. Zym roared them into silence. He knew Lyra. He knew the fierce, calculating love in her silver eyes. This was no accident. The absence was too complete, the roost too carefully left. She had chosen to leave. The why was an abyss he stared into, and it stared back with her eyes, full of a fear she had never shared with him.
Betrayal and heartbreak warred within him, a tempest more violent than the one outside. Had he not loved her wholly? Had his kingdom not been her home? Was their child not the heir to the very sky? The questions were poison, and they fed the storm.
His love for her curdled into a desperate, aching anger, then dissolved again into a sorrow so profound it made the very clouds weep acid rain. He remembered the feel of her hand on his snout, the sound of her laughter mingling with his thunder, the radiant hope on her face when she felt their child's first kick.
Now, there was only a silent, empty nest and a howling void in his soul where his family had been.
A great, shuddering sob racked his colossal frame. It emerged as a peal of thunder that shook the continent. Lightning struck the spire so fiercely it melted stone. He was the Storm King, the most powerful being in the skies of Xadia, and he was powerless.
He raised his head, his violet eyes, once bright with playful lightning, now dark and churning with a permanent, wounded tempest. He made a vow then, to the uncaring wind and the fading scent of his mate.
"LYRA!" His mental roar was not one of search, but of promise. A king's oath. "WHEREVER YOU ARE… WHATEVER SKY YOU HIDE UNDER… I WILL FIND YOU. I WILL FIND OUR CHILD. I WILL BRING YOU HOME."
The storm redoubled its fury, becoming a permanent, weeping scar on the face of Xadia. It was a beacon of his pain and his unwavering will. The Storm Dragon King would not rest. He would turn over every world, unravel every magic, until he found the two pieces of his heart that had been torn away. The eternal storm was his grief, and his誓言.
And across the dimensional veil, in a quiet apartment smelling of antiseptic and baby powder, a newborn with stormy eyes sneezed, producing a tiny, harmless spark that startled a laugh from his exhausted, loving mother. Two worlds, forever changed by one hatching, and one disappearance, bound by a love as fierce as a dragon's and a grief as deep as the sky.