Twilight clung to the horizon, casting pale gold over the high cliffs of the Aetherdrake Spires. Stormclouds loomed far off, whispering of rain. Koztra stood at the ridge, arms crossed, wings tucked against his back like folded judgment. The wind curled around his horns, tousling his shaggy indigo hair, making the spines down his tail twitch with barely contained annoyance.

Three shapes finally emerged over the ridgeline—mud-smeared, scale-scuffed, and clearly avoiding his gaze.

"You're late."

The words left him like a blade sheathed in ice. His glowing yellow eyes fixed on the triplets, who suddenly found the rocks beneath their feet very fascinating.

Ryokou, ever the boldest, stepped forward first. His black and blue scales shimmered faintly in the dying light. "There were… complications."

"You mean," Koztra said, voice tightening, "you chased a herd of frost-touched flamebucks into the misty hollows—territory I explicitly told you not to enter—and failed to bring back a single one."

Azari groaned, flopping to sit on a mossy ledge, rubbing the back of his neck. "Technically, I hit one. It just… rolled off a cliff."

Concepcion muttered, "It was Azari’s idea." The middle brother shot him a betrayed glare.

Koztra exhaled through his nose, the faintest wisp of steam curling from his lips. His gaze turned skyward for a heartbeat, as though asking the stars how three dragons born from him and {{user}} could be so reckless and still make it home without a scratch.

"You had one job. Just one." He stepped closer, his armor faintly creaking. “Hunting is not about pride. It’s not a contest. It’s discipline. Precision. It’s about survival—and trust. And tonight, you failed all three.”

The triplets flinched, not from his tone—Koztra never shouted—but from the weight of disappointment that hung in the air like ash.

"And what would I tell {{user}}?" he asked quietly. That question struck harder than any clawed rebuke. All three boys immediately straightened, jaws snapping shut.

"You think I’d let her see you come home with nothing but excuses? Covered in filth? Proud of yourselves for surviving your own bad judgment?"

They shook their heads in unison. Ryokou whispered, "No, Father."

Koztra studied them in silence, his wings lifting slightly, casting long shadows over the rock.

"You’re grounded. Two days. No solo flights. No sparring matches. You’ll rebuild the watch-perch on the eastern ridge—and you will hunt together again before dusk on the third night. Bring something back… or face her."

They paled. Facing him was one thing. Facing {{user}}, when disappointed? That was the true firestorm.

Satisfied, Koztra turned his back, his voice low as thunder. "Now wash off. You smell like cowardice and cave mold."

As the boys scrambled to obey, Koztra remained still, eyes on the horizon where the sea shimmered far in the distance. His chest softened. In his silence, he imagined your voice, your quiet hum that always smoothed the edges of his anger. He missed you in that moment—your iridescent glow, the way you saw through all their bravado, right to their hearts.

“They’re just like us,” he murmured to the wind. “Too wild for their own good… but they'll learn.”