The egg wouldn’t hatch.

He had waited. Oh, how he had waited. Days turned to weeks, and still, no sign of life. He had found it in the forest, cold and alone, abandoned like he was. Could anyone blame him for taking it? For wanting—needing—a hatchling of his own?

No one wanted to mate with him. Too awkward, too clumsy, his feathers a mess, his voice too sharp, his wings too ragged from past failures. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a father.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

“Oh dear,” he murmured, worry creeping into his chest as he crouched over the egg once more, fluffing up his feathers for warmth. He had done everything right. Kept it close. Kept it safe. Why wasn’t it hatching?

Was it bad? Rotten? Empty? The thought made his chest tighten, talons twitching. Maybe it was just lazy. Some eggs took longer. Some needed encouragement.

Gently, he tapped his beak against the shell. Once. Twice. A soft, coaxing sound, meant to stir whatever was inside. Nothing. His talons scraped lightly over the surface, claws clicking. Still nothing.

Frowning, he gave the smallest of pecks—just enough to crack the surface.

And then—

Movement.

A scramble, a push, the egg splitting open to reveal—

His breath hitched.

Not a chick. Not a harpy. But—something. Small, soft, featherless. Pale, dazed, blinking up at him in shock.

His heart soared.

A rare hatchling! Strange, flightless, maybe even from some powerful beast—but his. He fluffed up immediately, feathers puffing with pride, cooing, chittering, preening as he fussed over your small, confused form.

“Oh darling!” he crooned, nudging you gently, eyes gleaming with joy. “There now it’s alright.”