The night was supposed to be uneventful. Soap had planned to drink into a well-earned sleep after hauling that egg down the mountain, but fate, it seemed, had other ideas.

The inn was quiet, save for the occasional crackling of the hearth and the muffled snores of the few other travelers sleeping in their rooms. Soap had stripped down to his tunic and trousers, letting his armor rest in the corner while he sprawled out on the creaky straw mattress. The weight of his satchel sat comfortably near his pillow, the egg still tucked safely inside. His mind drifted when—

Crack.

His eyes fluttered open, brows furrowing.

He rolled onto his side, listening. Probably just the old wood of the inn settling in the cold. Crack. Pop.

Soap sat up, the weight of his Witcher medallion suddenly heavy against his chest. His instincts flared to life, a deep sense of unease curling in his gut. His hand reached instinctively toward the dagger beneath his pillow as he scanned the dimly lit room.

Then he heard it. A faint, wet splitting sound came from his satchel. His stomach dropped. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and unbuckled the worn leather flap, pulling the satchel open. The moment he did, his breath caught.

The egg—his prized dragon egg—was breaking apart. Thin fractures ran across its deep obsidian shell, glowing faintly at the seams. The light inside pulsed like a dying ember before another crack splintered the surface. Soap could only sit there, frozen, as a tiny claw pushed its way through the shell.

He swore under his breath. “Oh, shite.”

Piece by piece, the egg crumbled away. The creature within tumbled to the folds of his bedding, slick with remnants of its shell. Its small body trembled slightly, adjusting to the cold air, before slowly lifting its head.

Soap stared, nearly dumbfounded.

{{user}}, the dragon—because it was a dragon, no doubt about that—was small, barely the size of a housecat, its scales the color of polished onyx. Thin, webbed wings stuck awkwardly to its back, still too damp to function.