It is a commotion in the trees that draws him from his latest foul mood. Despite the dying sun above, there is hardly any light penetrating the thick canopy of the Deep Forest and so whilst the colt's head flails in the direction of the noise, he cannot make anything out in the dim half-light. He hears the heavy thunk of multiple objects hitting the ground, the ripping of torn trees, and then the sound that makes every hair on his body stand alert - the shriek of a dragon.

He runs. Heavy hooves thunder against the moist sod beneath his dashing body, tail swinging like a war banner behind him, ears slick to his head with the speed he generates from flailing legs and pure hell-bent determination. Finally the trees peel away in front of him and he comes upon a clearing, a clearing dominated by a great gash in the foliage directly ahead of him. The trees are crumpled, ruined, clearly by something swooping through them with considerable momentum. He looks upwards, and there he sees it - a wild dragon, bronze of scale and massive of size, easily as large as Volterra. He soars away with destruction in his wake, and the colt's crimson gaze shifts downwards. There, in amongst shattered eggshells of countless colours and the broken twigs of a nest, lies a green dragon. She is considerably larger than his father's Cynder and her scales are a deeper shade of green, her tail lacking a flame, and whilst large she is smaller and more slender than the bronze had been.

As the darkling colt edges closer, he can see that the green is broken. Her chest rises and falls in heavy gasps, her wings clasped tightly together around her midriff, but even from this distance he can see that one of the wings is badly damaged, bone poking through the pale jade membrane. Her head is held low, her entire body the picture of dejection and impending death. Volterra tries to piece together what's happened - clearly she was attacked by the bronze, and he has half-killed her and broken her eggs, but why? A scorned lover, perhaps? He supposes that, like horses, dragons can be vicious creatures when upset, but it seems this bronze's ire has come at the cost of the green's life, and that of her hatchlings.

As she sees the colt edge closer, the wild dragon still has enough about her to lift her proud head and release a savage hiss and tongue of searing flame, ruffling her wings protectively around herself, but there's a helplessness in those fierce eyes that Volterra hates to see. He feels almost as though he is intruding - the green should be left to die alone and with dignity. "I won't hurt you," he whispers to her, knowing not if she can understand him but wanting to try, anyway. He edges closer, closer, knowing what he intends to do; stay with her as she passes, ensure no creatures come to torture her whilst she's half-dead, make sure she leaves this world with as little suffering as possible. It is the least a proud carnivore like herself deserves. Selfishly he thinks it a shame that none of her eggs survived for him to pilfer, but he casts that thought aside.

The green eyes him suspiciously, but relaxes slightly when it becomes apparent he means her no harm, eyelids fluttering as she fights against the inevitable. Volterra stands nearby, a powerful sentinel to guard her whilst she lives out her final minutes, and even looks away so she might pass in peace and solitude - his head only snaps back as she gives a small grunt towards him, one intelligent yellow eye locked on him. Slowly, painfully, she unfurls her wings and from the warmth of her body rolls a red egg - the lone survivor of the attack. The crimson oval stops at Volterra's feet, glimmering like a dream come true in front of him, whilst the green continues to fix him with her fierce gaze. The colt doesn't speak dragon, but he would swear she is saying take care of it.

With that, the light from those yellow eyes fades away and the wild dragoness dies, her head collapsing to the dirt with a thud. The only thing left is the jet black colt and the blood-red egg that rests like a lover's promise between his front hooves, an egg he looks down on with barely-contained awe and unspeakable gratitude.

Mine.