The dragon in the vision became smaller, as if a camera drew back to create a panoramic view. Rania saw the hills of Scotland, touched with the purple of heather, their rugged peaks wreathed in clouds. Above them flew a pair of dragons, sparring with each other playfully, spinning and diving, then locking claws to feign battle. One was the amber and gold one that had surveyed her, with magnificent feathers streaming from his tail and wingtips, while the other was amethyst and silver, a hundred shades of purple touched with starlight. His feathers were long and grey. Rania had never seen Pyr with such feathers before this and thought they were beautiful. They were as wild as the countryside beneath them and the sight of them in flight made her smile.
She liked that they had each other, equal companions. Cousins, not siblings, but they hadn’t grown up alone and isolated from their kind. Her heart ached for something she’d never possessed.
“They were named for the Anemoi, the divinities of the winds in Greek mythology. Notus was named for the south wind, the hot, wet and changeable scirocco wind from Africa, the wind that brought storms, unsettled weather and change. Boreus was named for the north wind, a powerful cold force that brought both winter weather and fertility. Two other cousins were named Zephyr and Euros for the other Anemoi, the west wind and the east wind.”
The two dragons were joined by another pair, all of them so slender that they seemed to have only just come of age. There were four older dragons with them, one breathing fire as the others watched. Rania realized it was a lesson as the four young Pyr followed his example with various levels of success. The second older dragon breathed smoke and again the young ones mimicked him. Rania watched as the fathers tutored their young.
She’d essentially been an only child, the sole mortal child in Fae. She’d always wanted this kind of camaraderie with a group of her own kind.
If she surrendered to the firestorm with Hadrian, would the Pyr gather to raise their son, even after Hadrian’s death? It was a surprisingly reassuring idea.
“The names were a decision of four Pyr in homage to their legacy as the descendants of the Dragon Legion Pyr, Thaddeus, and his mate, Aura, who had been a nymph before their firestorm. Aura and Tha had two pairs of twins and it was their grandsons who made this pact.”
The vision flickered, huts disappearing and vegetation changing with the seasons. Rania understood that time was passing. When the scene came into focus, the two dragons were together and they were larger. They looked more muscular and some of their scales had darkened. They were older, clearly. Rania wondered what had happened to the cousins and fathers, but perhaps that wasn’t part of Alasdair’s tale.
“When my father’s firestorm sparked, it was Notus who defended his back while my father convinced his destined mate to accept him.”
Rania smiled at the vision of a pretty young woman walking through the grass, laughing as she swung a pail of milk. The reason for her amusement followed behind her, a handsome man whose attention was fixed upon her. He was obviously using all of his charm in an attempt to persuade her of something, but she laughed at him. The light of the firestorm sparked between them, making them both oblivious to everything except each other. He caught her hand and she spun to face him with delight. She would have dropped the milk, but he caught it from her grasp and set it down, then kissed her sweetly. The way she leaned against him proved that she wasn’t so resistant to his appeal after all and Rania could understand that. The attention of a dragon shifter in the presence of a firestorm made it almost impossible to refuse at least a kiss.
Rania listened, noting the steady hammering from the studio as Hadrian worked.
The firestorm’s light flared to brilliance and even in a vision, it made Rania’s heart skip. She scanned the scene, seeking clues as to the time and date, but couldn’t be sure. The hut was roofed with thatch and could have been from any era. The maiden’s dress was simple and modest, her hair long and auburn. Her feet were bare and the clouds bore down low, heavy with rain. A mist was falling and she recognized that it was still Scotland from