Soldier.

Defined as - First into the fray. Defenders of the Throat.

Often the last to withdraw. Those words symbolized the life he led. Dragons golden son, had been born into a world of combat training, and defense exercises. His parents had carried the torch, and now a burning branch had been passed on, to rest between his jaws. Honor came with titled position, but as all things, great sacrifice followed. One sacrifice that was presently felt, was the lack of time. He spent many a night away, on shifts that trailed into the wee hours of the morning. His sleep would fall during his adopted son’s day. Some shifts, he took on day patrol, and hung around the Throat so Cera would be closer to him.

Lately, it seemed his time was being robbed more and more. The idea of battle was being whispered through the sandy desert. Word spread like wild fire. It echoed from rocks, and set even the steadiest pulse to race with either excitement or dread. ‘Soon,’ the voice would whisper. He would be a lying to say that nerves hadn’t sent his feathers to shiver once or twice in the last few hours. Midas had just learned of his calling to enter the battle only yesterday from the herd general, Azzuen. Today was a new morning; he had just finished a nightly round after training hard the following afternoon. His body was sore and tired, though the mind was spinning with inner concerns.

One concern was on a creamy colored colt. He hadn’t seen his little prodigy in last twenty four hours. They usually slept near each other under a giant magnolia tree, and since it was still fairly early—he headed that way. Weighted, steps seemed more sluggish and weary from his usually brisk gait, head held itself neutral with ears forward enough to catch a soft sound that was meant for only him,"Midas?" Cranium leaned up a notch with steps quickening as if spurred, Cera called to him.

A deepened whinny ignited from his chest in response, It said, “I’m here, I’m coming.”

Wings tightened against his sides, he picked up speed to a trot. Moments passed with just him moving across the sand, it didn’t take long to find his son lingering among the boarders of their oasis. The spindle of legs still seemed awkward for the large shape of a foals feathered body. Easing up on the throttle Midas slowed to a walk, a smile already lacing the corners of his face, “Cera,” he uttered happily, “I was hoping to see you off for the day,” stopping just in front of the child, he lowered head to nuzzle to the topmost part of a smallish head where mane and ears meet.