He remembers their first conversation like it happened yesterday, in the same vivid hues that his naiive young eyes observed when they first landed on her. A smirk tilts the corners of his lips as he remembers what he thought she was - a god. Although, he reasons, that initial guess was not too wide of the mark. She does seem to have an almost godly talent to ignite desire in the pits of his body, and she is part dragon, which means she is as close to the heavens as any mortal horse can ever get.

He remembers how she'd called him small, how his boyish arrogance had taken offense to that. The darkest, filthiest corners of his mind wonder if she still thinks him so small now, when he towers over her like a hulking monolith of black brawn and hard, masculine lines, when the thick crest of his neck and the musk of his sweat speaks of a stallion and not a green young colt. He also recalls the tale she told of her sire, Vikram, a great beast of a man who was half bronze dragon, half stallion. It suddenly makes sense why he would choose to bed Amaris' dam; only a woman bonded to a queen would be good enough for a bronze king. At this, his red gives another indignant coo, for he sees himself as the king of dragons regardless of his common-coloured scales. Volterra ignores his protestations, continuing to dwell on that first meeting. "You did," he says, as she reminds him that she told him the story of her father. He remembers it well - the years cannot make him forget the awe that gripped him at her tale. He, the boy who idolised dragons, told the story of a man who embodied dragons, who grew from their loins and hatched from their eggs. He also recalls how she'd remarked upon her mother being a queen, but hadn't elaborated further. So, when Amaris begins to speak again, Volterra listens with the same rapt attention that his younger, more innocent self did almost two years ago.

He wonders if it's the dulcet tones of her voice or the actual content of her stories that makes him listen so attentively - either way, she immediately has him gripped, ensnared. She speaks of the DragonHeart, and Volterra knows that only those of great renown are granted a second name, like his own mother's World Eater title. When she mentions the Qian, the beast tenses; where does he know that word from? Then he remembers - Rikyn had accused him of being a whelp of the Qian during their meeting, to which Volterra had reacted with confused incredulity. Would explain your affinity for things one had to build to hide stolen children behind. His brow furrows, jaw setting into a line as he tries to piece those fragments of information together.

It soon becomes clear, as the dragonmare explains that it was Mirage who chased the unicorns of the north from the Edge. Little wonder Rikyn had been less than complimentary about them, then. "Ah, yes. I once met a unicorn of the Basin who mentioned the Qian. He called them a 'people of dragons', but speculated that they no longer existed." Which, unless some hidden members remain in the shadows, is likely the case, now Mirage is dead. He still wonders about what Rikyn meant by the stealing of children, however. But now really isn't the time to ask, so he remains silent and continues to listen.

The hesistation in the dragonmare's voice when she speaks of wraiths and her mother's disappearance bids him to shuffle closer to her, seeking to rest his heavy head upon her withers and hold her close to him. Personal space has never been a thing for him; he revels in physical contact, especially with a woman as divine and otherworldly as the golden-scaled one before him. "At least you had chance to say goodbye," he murmurs, thinking of his own mother. She had announced her intent to leave, and then she was gone. No chance for her devoted son to bid her farewell, no chance for a loving embrace.

But, he reasons, with a dark look in his eye - when had he and his mother ever had a relationship to be described as loving?

He looks back to Amaris. "Would you not consider rebuilding the Qian?"