When the sky turns to fire and the trees snap beneath the weight of a wild dragon, Volterra is granted a certain sense of deja vu.

It was here in the Deep Forest that he found the dying wild green and was given her one remaining red egg. It was here that he was deemed strong enough for the wild to bless him with her final offspring, and it was here that he first witnessed the raw, primal power of the untamed dragons. Their brutality, too - he often wonders what drove the bronze to so cruelly attack the red's mother, to slaughter her and condemn all but one child to death.

Now, that same red stands sentinel upon the stallion's rippling shoulders, ears fanned wide to pick up every earth-rending crack of splintering wood. The blackened monolith breaks into a heavy trot which shakes the ground with the force of each massive hoof, charging towards the great clearing in the trees. There she stands - the largest dragon he has ever seen. A gold, and a fucking huge one. A clutch of eggs nestle beneath her colossal limbs, her clawed feet - each one almost as large as Volterra - braced to either side of them as she guards them beneath her bulk. A mother, defending her children.

Defending them from the thirty-strong pack of wolves that drive towards the eggs and then retreat with perfect, military-trained precision. Hunger glows in their eyes, and even as the behemoth watches, he sees one dart through the trap of the gold's limbs and snatch a mud-coloured egg. Blunt claws and razor teeth rip through the hard shell of the egg and blood spurts from inside as the wolf devours the unborn dragon. A howl of anguish rips from the gold's mouth, almost as if she can feel the death of her child, and with one swift flick of her head she bites the predator clean in two. Her jaws glow and she belches flame, sending ten of the wolves up in smoke with agonised screams. But Volterra can see the horrific wounds on her face, legs and body, and notices how exhaustion bids her massive limbs to wobble. She must have been fighting for hours, the way only a mother could possibly fight. Each blast of flame tires her further, and the wolves - driven by starvation - are relentless.

He can see the rage etched into the hard lines of her proud face, but he can also see that she knows a lost cause when she sees one. With a final bellow and a swing of her tail which snaps half a dozen trees in two, she flares her gigantic wings and gathers as many eggs as she can carry up into her arms, hugging them tightly to her. It takes a few steps for her to get enough lift beneath her wings to haul her bulk from the ground, and she crushes a dozen more wolves beneath her feet as she does so. But, bleeding and agonised, she rises like an angel from the ground and up into the heavens with what she can salvage of her brood, leaving the wolves to feast on the rest.

Or not.

Logic tells Volterra to turn and leave, because his colossal frame will look as tasty as hell to these starving wolves. But he can still see some eggs in the nest that the joyous pack haven't yet devoured, and unless his eyes deceive him, one is gold. Greed flutters through his gut and, without thinking, he charges into the fray. Symbol of his family they may be, but the beasts are between him and a prize. Fifteen wolves still remain and half of them turn their attentions from their egg-feast towards the fresh meat rampaging towards them, accompanied by the screaming red dragon who unleashes a blast of frost into their midst. An earth spike erupts from the ground and spears one wolf clean through with an ungodly howl, whilst Vérzés' breath turns two to statues that are easily shattered by Volterra's thrashing hooves.

The battle is short, but bloody. Two wolves manage to pin the hellion's hindquarters beneath their weight, and their claws and teeth rip bloody furrows into his taut flesh. Another goes for his throat, and only a few well-placed kicks and bites save the giant from being dragged down into the heaving pack of fur. Soon, only eight wolves remain, and they quickly weigh up their options - food, or certain death? They retreat to the shadows with howls of disgust, leaving the stallion and the red dragon dripping with blood and aching everywhere, but burning with sweet success.

And there, glowing gently in the moonlight, is the golden egg. Its brethren lay shattered, but it remains full and pulsing gently, alive. It is larger than Vérzés' was, and paler veins of molten gold trace the darker metallic hue of the shell. Hunger alights in the behemoth's eyes as he moves closer, closer to the sacred prize, the queen. Red wings flare as Vérzés - blood pouring from a gash in his jaw - lands close to the egg, sniffing it, confirming what it is. Volterra expects the red to hungrily drag the egg towards his bonded, claim it as their own, but that is not the case. Instead, the large blood-dragon stands in front of the egg, shaking his proud head. "Vol-ter not need gold. Vol-ter have red, strong red, and strong body. Gold just...get in way." Is it just his imagination, or is there a note of pleading in his dragon's voice? Something bordering on desperation?

Could it be that the red is loathe to share?

We are strong without, but we will be stronger with. Think, Vérzés! You and a queen, destroying in unison. Raw power, twice. The mere colour of her scales will command respect. The red gives a wounded hiss and Volterra half-regrets the words as they leave his mouth - Vérzés commands respect, too, despite the 'inferior' colour of his scales. Red he may be, but he is as fearsome as any royal. He knows that Volterra has always yearned for the upper echelon of dragonkind, but the ruby beast has no care for scale colour-hierarchy or the so-called superiority of female dragons.

And yet...and yet. Volterra is shallow, and greedy, and the lure of a gold is too great to deny. This is what he has always wanted, and the opportunity is too great to pass up. Erecting a wall between his consciousness and his dragon's concerns, he touches his torn, bloodied nose to the golden egg and claims it as his.

Vérzés gives a small howl of lament as he throws himself into the air and soars away into a nearby tree, and his mental distress is so strong it presses against the wall Volterra has erected between their minds. But the young warlord doesn't care, because beneath his flared nostrils rests a powerful new life.

And it belongs to him.