“Lord Ophel!” An awkward laugh, and a curtsy. “What a– surprise to see you here.” She steps between Ophel and the egg, trying in vain to conceal it from view. The elf raises an eyebrow at her.

Suddenly, the strange scent in the air makes sense. She’d thought she recognised it.

What is he doing here?

Oh this is incredibly not good-

He'd just sort of assumed the elf wouldn't just barge in, stupid, he's been in high society too long it's going to make him soft and get him killed-

"You intrude. You would be well advised, Lord Ophel, to turn and leave and not speak of this."

It rather undercuts the Duke's point when it flares its too-short-stubby wings and lashes out with its teeth and shatters the warm-dark-hard-shell-egg into a thousand pieces.

It stumbles forwards uncertainly and collapses into Mother. 

She smells wrong. 

But not so bad. 

A line of thin dribble eats a hole through Eloise's dress.

She is frozen, until she feels the sting of acidic saliva and remembers to hold it at arm’s length.

Eyes large, she looks at it. The little creature.

She… has never been good with pets. She supposes this isn’t a pet. 

It is rather cute.

Panicking, he extends his right hand towards the creature. His strange signet ring begins to shine unnaturally.

A concealed sword is drawn in an instant.

Eloise draws the baby dragon into her chest, shielding it with her body. “No, wait, it hasn’t done anything yet!”

…

He casts an Abjuration upon Eloise’s skin, shielding her from the worst of the creature’s defences.

And he stays alert.

“What is going on here?” His words all but boom across the grand space.

It hisses at Ophel, its eyes narrowing to terrible slits.

"It's a fucking tea party, elf." He remembers too late that he's holding a noble gathering for his betrothed and his new Court Wizard. Oops. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "This is- this was the egg of the Black Wyvern."

He glares at Voltur with all the cool fire of that dragon’s breath.

She is too occupied with calming the little creature to give Voltur a disapproving look.

“Um– Lord Ophel, you should probably put that sword away, fast. And make yourself seem as friendly as possible.” He whispers, finding his words. 

Happily, Ophel does have a head on his shoulders. He sheaths the silver blade and turns his head away, decidedly not making eye contact with the thing. He has heard that dragons are a lot like cats.

“And what are we doing, exactly, with the spawn of the Black Wyvern?” His voice softens into a melody.

“Um. Seeing if we can raise it, I suppose?”

Ambrose reaches out a tentative hand towards the dragon-child. 

“What?”

It cautiously pokes out its head to sniff. 

And freezes. 

It cocks its head and stares hard at the blood-venom-marked-boy and his old-fire-forged-ring. It smells Spells. 

"Its sire is dead, and it may grow to wield great power. It must be educated most carefully."

Trying not to be absolutely terrified just in case it can smell fear, he carefully pets the baby dragon’s head.

She laughs. “I think it likes you, Ambrose.”

“I see.”

He pauses, and begins to slowly approach.

”How may I help?”

It glares sulkily at Ambrose. 

But it allows its head to be petted. 

Its scales are dark and matte-smooth, only a little trace of the jewelled gloss it will have in adulthood. They're slightly soft, like polished pine, not yet harder than iron.