Today is a rather special one in the bastard king's life - his birthday. Yes, nine years ago today he pushed his way into the world in a spasm of blood and pain and glory, a helpless wet black bundle fit for nothing but drinking endless ounces of his mother's milk. Life had been so much easier back then, when all he had to worry about was what lesson his father would teach him that day - but, he reminds himself, it was a less enlightened time as he hadn't yet discovered Cynder. That had been a month later, when he was marginally more independent and determined to be the greatest king that ever lived, with his flame-tailed jade war-dragon by his side.

But there will be no celebrations for his special day, no acknowledgement from any but Cynder herself, who presented him with a small flower, the first he had seen since spring began. He cherishes the gift and placed it safely in the Rotunda whilst he patrolled the area, because to all intents and purposes this belongs to the Regime now and any who sought to spy on them only need come here. He spends a large portion of his time searching the undergrowth for eavesdroppers and sending his emerald companion to scan the skies, ensuring their society remains incognito - for now. He continues his path back to the Rotunda itself, hooves crunching on the last remnants of snow as he ascends to the stone floor of the ancient structure, keen to check on the flower his dragon gave him. Suddenly she stiffens, powerful frame scrabbling up his neck to perch on his head with flame-tail held high, agile head darting side to side as she scans for intruders. "Someone here," she tells him.

Sure enough, when he squints he can see the figure of a young colt in the shadows of the Rotunda, and his blood freezes as she sees the twisted horn rising from the forehead. But Cynder's attention is fixed on the roof above, where her keen ears can detect a scrabbling and can smell the familiar scent of dragonkin - like a whisper she moves from her bonded's back and soars onto the roof of the Rotunda to join the other one. She sends Tyradon an image of a young white, rather like Adele's Vera, then a swift snapshot of her approaching the younger dragon and playfully waving her flamed tail in a signal to play. Tyradon himself ignores his dragon's antics and focuses instead on the colt - the fact he's bonded must mean he is a hybrid, despite the horn atop his skull. Repulsion and pity for the dragon rises like bile in his throat, but he smothers it and approaches, massive frame swinging to a halt close to the youngster. "You are lucky to have been blessed with a dragon at such a young age," he rumbles - a gift from Nieque himself.