“Is that what I fucking think it is?!”

She clears her throat unobtrusively. 

It has rather the same tone as a man unsheathing a sword. 

“…Sorry – is that what I fucking think it is, my liege?”

She snorts.

That depends - if you think it is a cabbage, for example, then no. 

He doesn't say that. He is a Duke now. 

"Indeed. This is the egg of the Black Wyvern of Clensing Downe."

“And– what do you intend to do with it?” He stares at the thing apprehensively, though with wide-eyed fascination. His cool brown eyes dart up and down the shape of the egg, noting detail after detail and storing it in compartments in his mind.

"I have no idea. I had rather hoped, Court Wizard, that you would have some suggestion to make."

…Oh. That is, in fact, his job now.

Fuck. What would Taralda say?

“Well,” he swallows palely. “I do believe many wizards would advise you to destroy it.”

Horrified at the thought, she objects passionately. “You cannot!”

“I know,” Ambrose placates her. “I know.”

"The thought has occurred to me. It did when I found the thing. Nits make lice. However-"

He remembers standing there when he found the thing in its oozing bubbling pool, its sire dead by his own hand.

There had been no warmth, no fellow-feeling, no humanity that flickered in that foul monster's breast, of that he had been sure. And here was its spawn - no suckling babe, only a thing of monstrous progeny - and yet-

The thought had occurred to him-

Foolish though perhaps it was-

-That he had ended enough lives, spent enough blood and treasure in war. That having slain the wyrm he would not wish to come to think as it had thought. 

That perhaps... perhaps the world in truth turned on moments like these, little chances to do less evil, little moments of mercy. They had to start somewhere. 

And so he had sheathed his blade.

"It is a child unborn," he finishes. "I have no quarrel with the creature, and will not slay it unless I must."

The corners of his mouth curl faintly upwards. The Duke is a good man; that is good.

What is less good is the fact that they have a black dragon egg, which is clearly halfway through hatching, just hanging about in his employer’s house.

And Ambrose has to do something about it.

“It… hypothetically is possible to raise a chromatic dragon to be good. Emphasis on hypothetically. The last time somebody tried it, as far as I heard, ah…” he lowers his voice. “They ended up being dinner. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, instilling good into something born of evil. If I were more of a religious man, I would cite the whole, ‘Pelor made sure there was light in even the darkest of places,’ etcetera.”

Voltur’s young new Court Wizard evidently likes to ramble.

"Naturally its existence is entirely secret. But... I believe I see your point. Perhaps it ought indeed to be turned over to a monastery or some such. It would be a question of the highest possible trust. Tell me more, wizard, of-"

There is a loud crack, interrupting him. 

Another hairline crack appears, zigzagging across the egg's surface. 

He jumps out of his skin.

Eloise steps closer to the egg in wonder, her lips parting. 

“How much longer do you think it has?” she asks, gingerly wrapping the egg in her cloak. When met with a quizzical stare from Ambrose, she says, “What? Are you not supposed to keep these things warm?”

“Ah. That… depends on the pace it has been cracking at,” he responds, a little paler than before. “Your Grace, I do not recommend leaving this thing at a monastery.” Gods he can’t believe he’s about to say this– “Allow me to take it to Silvermoon. There, we can implement the necessary wards against its, ah… murdery instincts, and there would be a hundred wizards willing to take part in this experiment.”

Tessa’s too busy. Torbjald would make it worse. Taralda would become a tyrant. He is not giving it to Albrecht.

Eh, he’ll come up with someone.

Her face falls, and she interjects sharply. “This egg is a life, not an experiment. No, it needs a warm house.”

He walks inside, humming sweetly to himself as he flicks through a book.

He looks up.

A lovely smile. The book snaps shut in his hand. “Your Grace. Miss Bridgerton, and Lord Deneith!”

His presence in the room is like a weight on the world.

“And what, pray tell, is going on here?”

Ambrose blushes. “Lord Ophel, we were just–“