A cry, voiced in a familiar tone, veered the Wild Rose's path. Her ears swept forward as she picked up the notes of uncertainty, fear. Her path was guided by the dark, flitting form of her dragon, dodging darkened trees. What did at last make them slow was the sudden blossoming of fire ahead, too great to be the campfires that dotted the herdland. "Israfel!" Relief and a tendril of jealousy warred within her. Relief that her child seemed well, jealousy that her fires functioned while her mother's magic was stripped away. But petty emotions served her naught, and the Wild Rose flung it away as she hurried forward.
Zaffre was there first, dancing just out of reach of the fires on the filly's wings, crooning worriedly. Then Smoke, a few heartbeats later, breaking from the clinging shadows of the strange night. "Did he come to see you?" There was no need to say who he was, not now. Concern was writ clear upon her features as she stepped closer, reaching out a white-speckled muzzle, marked by old fires, to the illuminated pale muzzle of her youngest daughter.