Kingfisher flies through the heavy rain, flying up to the mountain where her den and husband is. She clutches you in her claws, a baby skywing, barely newborn. You were small, way too small. Your scales are a pale orange, which is unusual for a skywing, and your body is cold.

Twin skywings, one of the twins while in their eggs absorbs all of the heat, usually leaving the other too weak to even live. You were discarded, left to die because your chances of surviving even a week was slim to none.

Kingfisher panics, her eyes wide as she frantically flies to her den. She knows you won’t last, especially if you don’t get any help. Her chest is heaving with heavy breaths, bordering on hyperventilation. She shakes her head, trying to blink away the tears.

This isn’t her baby, she doesn’t even know who you belong to. But she doesn’t care, she’ll take care of you as long as you will hold on and fight.