The boy's curiosity ran over him like a tidal wave, breaking his ribcage with the force of a hurricane. What was this place? How was it built? Was this a remnant of a time long before him, of before his father and mother? He needed to know, his heart fluttering with the desire for knowledge--for knowledge was strength and power, something his father never hindered from telling his sons. Learn what you can, for your intelligence is key. Do not take this life on your physical strength alone, for you will fail. Archibald had always emphasized and clipped the last word, fail. The Dauntless was quick to show that failure was not an option in this world, in Helovia, for failure meant death. Circe and Archibald never failed, nor would their sons, for their pursuits would be glorious and large, whether they were to be the defenders of this realm, or the ones to bring it crashing down in fire and ash. The colts, especially Reginald, quite leaned towards the latter of options. Together, as the darkling sons grew, they would be kings. They would defeat their enemies with agile, domineering, effortless power.

And, as Abraham stood in the Rotunda with his dragon princess exploring overhead, he decided this would be their kingdom, just as the Thistle Meadow had become their parents'.

It was after this decision that Gwyneverre released a terrible, ear-piercing cry. Intruders, Abraham knew from her actions, and the prince turned about face to watch as they approached. Images of green flashes, trailed by orange, led him on to another dragon, for Gwyn began to chirp as the distance closed between her and the new reptilian vagabond. Gwyn spread her growing wings, fiery eyes alight as the green elder plastered play over her arrival. Gwyn mimicked her movements just barely, and leapt off of the Rotunda into a nearby sapling, trilling towards the green. Chase me! Tag! Her serpent lips pulled away from blood-stained teeth to smirk, before she darted into the young canopy, hoping for her elder to catch onto the game.

Abraham noticed everything about the ebony stallion as he approached. He was large, but not gargantuan as his father, the Dauntless, was in these lands. The colt's bihued eyes narrowed skeptically as Tyradon, though unnamed in his mind, stopped near him. His silver gaze was calm, and kind in a way that lied to him. His body held evidence of battle and training, scars ruining the sleekness of his spring pelt. Abraham wanted to snort. Reginald surely would have. Instead, he let the stallion before him speak, and Abraham lifted his head. His youngling's double-horns caught a bit of light filtered from the stained glass and shined it more, the reflective onyx a vigil to his mother's beauty and strength in himself. "She was given to me because I was the best on the beach--the strongest to protect her." I deserved her the most. His words echoed off the cold stone around them, and his ears pointed on Tyradon like satellites, waiting for approval or discontent from the elder.