Soft, pale blue eyes gazed with joy upon a single quivering egg. Though she had been forced to mate with a male not of her own choosing, the small life within shell was not to be blamed for that and she harbored no ill-will against it, especially on this day. Today was the day when her first child would come to meet her and Soul-of-Rivers was genuinely happy, even though, somewhere in her heart, the Aquenn female knew that her time with this cub would be fleeting.

She had seen it all before; the forced breeding, the carefully watched care of the egg, the meeting day, and then the time when mother would be wrenched from cub. Her heart cried out in agony at the keens of her sisters, those who had no other choice but to leave their young in the care of these human beasts, whether it was out of fear or out of weakness. It was a life of sorrow, a life that set a fire of anger burning within her kind, loving heart. It was a wretched world she had been born into and she was a creature who had been forced to do things so terrible that every day seemed like a sin. She had been given a glimmer of hope; however, a gift in the form of knowledge, heritage, and a name.

Out of chance, Soul-of-Rivers, known by the humans as Roavil and slave of Mylen, had chanced upon her father on the remains of a battlefield. His rider had been off counting wounded. Surprised and pleased, he had used their time together to regale stories of what he called the Old Ways. He told her of the liberated times, when her kin were free creatures. He told her of the four gods and goddesses, of how the Aquenn came to be and of the beauty of meeting days, and also of how Aquenn cubs chose new names when they felt themselves grown to adulthood.

But the most important thing he had told her, the thing she cherished more than anything, was the name she had been given on her own meeting day, by a mother she had never known.

“My little Sparrow,” he had purred with such love, the Aquenn language giving a musical lilt to the soft words, “how you have grown.”

He had then been called back to his master and left without looking back, as if his life was complete now that he had passed on his knowledge. Soul had never even asked of his name and she never saw him again.

Coming back into the present, she stretched her broad, battle-scarred wings before settling them against her back again. The egg’s quivering had grown more insistent and a small crack began to form. The hours that the small infant took to emerge from the egg seemed like moments to the new mother, her heart pounding within her chest.

With a final heave, the infant fell free of its prison and Soul could see that it was a he; she had a son. Squealing, the tiny, still-blind male writhed, instinctively searching for the warmth that signified his mother and food. The black-furred female gently used her short, curved beak to nestle the cub against her stomach. The sensation of her tiny son’s first suckle was a little strange, but she found the feeling comforting.

“You will be called Finch, little one,” she whispered, bending her head down to nuzzle him with the curved end of her beak. As she relaxed and pulled her head up to settle into sleep, the female Aquenn suddenly found herself rigid with anger, her fur standing on end. Across the enclosed room, starting with greedy pride at her and her newborn son was her despised master. She hissed, eyes flashing dangerously as she curled her body around Finch to form a protective cocoon. She suddenly found herself thinking that she would rather die than let him lay a hand upon this innocent soul.