The sounds of the snapping of teeth and ripping of skin could be heard in the distance, in stark contrast with the once serene nursery. Suddenly a pattering of claws came closer and closer as some of the furious serenade in the background seemed to change to pained yelps and cries.

"It's going to be alright, little one..." A calm voice whispered out into the vast emptiness, hiding the fear prevalent throughout the dragon's soul- a bit of a shake to her voice. The pained screams in the distance seemed only to rise louder and louder until suddenly, they stopped.

The female Banescale looked frantically from side to side, the primal fear showing on her face as she looked for some way to escape the claustrophobic cave- there were no exits. She heard the rumble of footsteps approaching nearer and nearer, with each step she felt her chances of survival growing lower and lower. She didn't think she would make it out of this, but she refused to let her child die with her, even if she couldn't save the rest of their nursery- their legacy need live on. They would not die here.

The female Banescale noticed a volcanic vent near the entrance of the cave, making a split second decision to hide away the Banescale brood. "I'm sorry I won't be there for you little one, Please live on.. For all of us." She said and gently placed the egg into the pool of lava, concealing it.

She then moved to the entrance of the cave, a look of determination and fury on her face. She may die there but she'd die fighting. Soon the Gaolers emerged from further in the cave system and she lunged, her claws extending for the head of the group.

...

A serene yet sinister silence filled the room. A Banescale corpse lay at the entrance to the room, beaten and bloodied. Rot had begun to take its course. The eggs of the nursery all lay shattered and broken like that of fragile porcelain. The cave laid covered in a light veil of frost, the mark of the Gaoler's dominance after their bloodied victory against the Banescale encampment. The room was dark, dark and cold. Dark except for the small vent in the corner which illuminated the room in a dull orange, cold except for the dull heat radiating off of the vent which had melted the ice which had contained its dull fire.

The silence had found itself suddenly cut, as the soft sound of a crack could be heard. Soon there was another, and another. One horn, then a foot, soon a soft-scaled muzzle emerging. The frail and weak hatching emerged from the magma of the vent, blinking as he rested his shining orbs upon the scene in front of him. Then once again the looming silence emerged, his comprehension not fully understanding what has happened, but a subconscious anger had already filled the young hatchling's heart. He, who was born with both tooth and claw prepared and ready for fight. Who's horns were already primed for survival had it been needed.

He was born with a fiery combat in his heart, long before he was born- the fire being ingrained in his soul with the howls and roars of combat as his mother had defended her brood to her last breath.

The Banescales would live on.