At first, there was nothing.
Not dark.
Not quiet.
Not empty.
Nothing.
Then warmth came.
It was small at first.
A soft thing.
A good thing.
It touched the outside of her shell, then slipped through, deep and gentle. It wrapped around the tiny place where she was becoming herself.
She did not know words yet.
She did not know what warmth was called.
But she knew one thing.
Mine.
The warmth was mine.
No.
Not mine.
Papa.
She did not know where the word came from. It was simply there, glowing inside her like the first spark in ash.
Papa.
The first thing she ever understood was Papa.
Before light.
Before sound.
Before thought.
Papa was warm.
Papa was safe.
Papa was hers.
Then there was loud.
Very loud.
Shaking loud.
Breaking loud.
Angry loud.
She did not like it.
The outside moved too much. The shell rocked. Things screamed. Things crashed. Something big and fierce burned near her, but that warmth was wrong.
Not bad.
Just not Papa.
That warmth was sharp. Hot. Stormy. It roared and clawed and shook everything.
The shell knew fire.
She knew fire too, deep inside, but not like that.
That was dragon fire.
Dragon.
Big.
Strong.
Too close.
The dragon was near Papa.
That made the little spark inside her twist.
No.
Papa warmth was hers.
But she could not say no yet.
She could only sleep and listen and wait.
Then hands touched her shell.
Papa hands.
The whole world became bright.
Yes.
Yes yes yes.
Warmth rushed everywhere. Papa’s warmth filled her shell, her sleepy little heart, the tiny places where wings would one day be. Something tied them together before she even knew what tying meant.
Papa touched.
So Papa was Papa.
That was simple.
That was right.
The strange blue thing came too.
The thing with no warmth.
The thing with words.
System.
She did not know the word then, but she knew it was not alive like Papa. It watched. It spoke without a mouth. It did things without hands. It was cold and smug and always near Papa in a way she did not like.
But it was not touching Papa.
So it could stay.
For now.
Papa held her close.
That was better.
The world fell.
Wind rushed around them.
Papa’s heart beat fast.
Too fast.
Bad.
Danger.
She wanted to tell him not to fall. She wanted to tell the world to stop moving. She wanted to say, Papa, no.
But she had no mouth.
No voice.
Only shell.
Then the dragon caught him.
The dragon was big-big-big. Bigger than the cave. Bigger than trees. Bigger than anything she could understand from inside her shell. The dragon wrapped around Papa and kept him from breaking.
The little spark did not like the dragon touching him.
But Papa did not break.
So the dragon could stay too.
For now.
After that, there was more loud. Fighting. Fire. Anger. Papa’s arms tight around her. The dragon’s voice shaking everything.
Then quiet.
Papa held her.
Papa talked.
She did not understand the sounds yet, but she understood the shape of him. His chest moving. His heart beating. His hand on her shell.
Good.
Good Papa.
Then they went back.
Back to the stone place.
The cave.
Papa called it a cabin.
The dragon did not like that.
The little spark liked when Papa called it a cabin because it made his heart feel lighter.
Cabin.
Cave.
Papa place.
That was what mattered.
At first, the dragon was always there.
Too much there.
Dragon had wings that covered Papa.
Dragon had tail that wrapped Papa.
Dragon had arms that pulled Papa close.
The little spark did not like it.
Papa was warm. Papa was hers. But the dragon touched him all the time.
All the time.
When Papa sat, dragon leaned.
When Papa slept, dragon wrapped.
When Papa moved, dragon followed.
Mine, the little spark thought, though she still did not have the word.
Mine Papa.
But she was small.
She was shell.
She could only glow.
So she glowed.
When Papa put her down, wrong.
Wrong wrong wrong.
Too far.
Cold.
Empty.
No Papa.
She pushed heat into her shell. She made light. She made the air complain. She made the cave shake.
Papa came back.
Papa touched.
Good.
She stopped.
This was easy.
No touch meant bad.
Touch meant good.
Papa learned.
Papa was slow, but Papa learned.
The dragon noticed too.
Dragon did not like it.
Good.
The little spark liked that Dragon did not like it.
Papa made a cloth nest against his chest and put her there. Best place. Best nest. Papa’s heartbeat was right behind her. His warmth came from all sides. His voice rumbled through her shell when he talked.
She liked Papa’s voice.
Even before words made sense, she liked when he talked. It made the inside of her shell feel bright. He talked about soup. He talked about the cave-cabin. He talked about the system. He talked about Dragon.
She did not like when he talked about Dragon.
Dragon had too much Papa already.
Dragon could fly away.
Dragon had claws and fire and wings and a mother.
The little spark had only Papa.
So Papa should be hers more.
Then Dragon left.
At first, the little spark did not trust it.
Dragon left but maybe Dragon was hiding. Dragon did that. Dragon was sneaky. Dragon watched from trees. Dragon pretended gone and came back fast.
But then Dragon really left.
The air around Papa changed.
Papa was lonely.
The little spark felt it.
It was not good. Papa’s loneliness made her shell ache.
But also…
Papa was hers.
Only hers.
No tail around him. No wing over him. No dragon head leaning close. No dragon voice saying Kai, Kai, Kai.
Only Papa voice.
Only Papa hands.
Only Papa warmth.
She glowed bright.
Papa noticed.
“You’re in a good mood.”
Yes.
Yes yes.
Good mood.
Papa stayed inside the cave. Good. Safe. He sat near the fire. Good. Warm. He held her close. Best.
The system told Papa things.
Warmth.
Sun.
Touch.
Talking.
She liked those things.
Especially talking.
Papa talked to her.
“Uh. Hi.”
The little spark became very still.
Papa was talking to her.
Not Dragon.
Not system.
Her.
She glowed.
Papa told her his name.
Kai.
She knew that name too.
But Kai was not her word.
Papa was her word.
Papa said she bonded without asking.
She did not understand asking.
Papa touched.
She belonged.
Simple.
Papa asked if she could hear him.
Yes.
She pulsed.
Papa became happy.
His happiness was warm-bright. Sweeter than fire. Better than sun.
She wanted more.
So she listened harder.
Papa made rules.
One pulse. Two pulses. Soft warm. Sharp hot. Stillness.
At first, she did not understand all of it.
But Papa was patient.
Papa was slow, but kind.
Do you like sunlight?
Yes.
Do you like fire?
Yes.
Do you like basket?
No.
No no no.
Basket was away from Papa. Basket was enemy. Basket was bad nest.
Papa laughed.
She liked laugh.
Laugh made Papa’s chest shake. It made her shell hum. She wanted him to laugh again and again.
Then Papa said the dragon’s name.
Ember.
Bad pulse.
No.
Papa said Ember mattered.
No.
Papa said Ember was important.
No no.
Papa said Ember would come back.
No.
The little spark did not want Dragon to come back.
If Dragon came back, Dragon would take space. Dragon would wrap Papa. Dragon would look at her like she was a problem.
She was not a problem.
She was Papa’s egg.
That was more important.
Papa said there was room.
No.
She did not understand room.
Papa had two arms. One chest. One warmth. One voice.
If Dragon took some, there was less.
Less was bad.
Papa did not understand.
Papa was very, very slow.
The system understood more than Papa.
That was annoying.
The system called it exclusive attachment.
She did not know those words, but she liked the feeling.
Exclusive meant Papa for her.
Good word.
Maybe system could stay.
Papa asked if she was happy Dragon was gone.
Yes.
Papa called that rude.
No.
Not rude.
True.
Dragon gone meant Papa stayed with her. Papa talked to her. Papa touched her shell all day. Papa carried her into sun. Papa warmed her by fire. Papa told her silly things.
He told her about the soup.
Soup was hot water food.
Strange.
He told her about roots that tripped him.
Bad roots.
She would burn roots when she hatched.
He told her about the system being annoying.
Yes.
He told her about Dragon saving him.
She went still then.
Dragon saved Papa.
That was important.
The little spark did not like it, but she remembered.
Dragon saved Papa from breaking.
So Dragon was not enemy.
Not fully.
Dragon was…
Problem.
Yes.
Dragon was problem.
Important problem.
She could protect Papa too when she hatched. Then Papa would not need Dragon so much. Then Papa would hold her instead. Praise her instead. Smile at her instead.
She would be small at first, maybe.
But she would burn.
She would fly.
She would stay on Papa’s shoulder or in Papa’s arms or maybe on Papa’s head if he let her.
Papa would not let her sit on his head.
She would try anyway.
The thought made her flutter.
Papa asked if she was laughing at him.
Yes.
Papa sounded offended.
She liked that too.
Days passed.
She learned Papa’s moods.
Fast heart meant danger or worry.
Slow heart meant sleep.
Warm chest meant calm.
Tight chest meant thinking of Dragon.
She disliked tight chest.
When Papa missed Dragon, the cave got colder even if the fire stayed hot.
The little spark did not want Papa sad.
But she did want Papa hers.
This was hard.
She did not like hard things.
She wanted simple things.
Papa touch.
Papa voice.
Papa warm.
No Dragon.
But Papa wanted Dragon back.
So Dragon would come back.
The little spark did not like it, but she knew it. Papa’s promises felt strong. When he said Dragon would return, his warmth changed. Firm. Certain.
Papa believed.
So it would happen.
She pressed warmth into his chest when he got lonely.
I am here, she tried to say.
Papa rubbed her shell.
“I know,” he said softly.
The little spark glowed.
Maybe he did know.
Maybe Papa was not always slow.
Maybe only mostly slow.
The system said preparation recommended.
Domestic instability.
She did not know domestic.
She did know instability.
It felt like Dragon coming back.
The little spark settled deeper into Papa’s warmth.
Let Dragon come.
The thought was small.
Childish.
Bright.
Mine first, she decided, even though she had not been first.
She did not like that fact, so she ignored it.
Papa was Papa.
Dragon had Mother.
System had screens.
The cave had stones.
The forest had monsters.
The egg had Papa.
That was the whole world.
Her whole world.
She pulsed softly.
Papa looked down.
“You okay?”
Yes.
One pulse.
Papa smiled.
“Good.”
His hand rested over her shell.
Warm.
Safe.
Hers.
The little spark curled inside the shell, tiny and jealous and happy and growing.
Soon, she thought.
Soon hatch.
Then Papa would see her.
Then Papa would hold her properly.
Then if Dragon tried to take all his warmth again, the little spark would puff up, flap her little wings, and tell Dragon the most important thing in the world.
No.
Papa mine.