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The red sprites of this world had always stood out to them in a way most of this alien world's other comparably-sized inhabitants had not—and this one, the only red sprite now awake, was no exception. He was the sole creature that wasn’t completely bizarre. His wings, his body, his legs, even his face, were all so near-to-normal, normal-adjacent.
His nearness to correctness, when they were so used to beasts that hardly resembled proper living creatures at all, only made his differences more pronounced, more uncomfortable—from the sharp tapering point of what should have been his snout to the strange way his wings seemed to curve without fingers. Even the way wind gushed beneath his wings, a burst of air that blew aside everything before him, seemed like a parody of the vortexes that they themselves stirred up, stretching from one horizon to the other.
So near-to-normal—but not quite. And the not quite made him seen even more alien than the creatures they had nothing in common with.
Even his war cry was hauntingly familiar—like an echo of cries they themselves might have made, long ago, in another alien atmosphere under another alien star. Before they had learned to sing.
As the red sprite burst through the storm, black with volcanic rock and edged red with dripping lava, cawing his war cry with hatred and defiance—like he thought he stood a chance against them!—they thought, condescendingly, how cute.
They wondered whether, with time, the red sprite could learn to sing like them too.
His talons and his beak were sharp. Sharp enough to dig between their scales, but not enough to rip through them—not enough to make them bleed. Their claws and teeth were sharper and stronger, and the red sprite cried in pain and dodged their attacks when they forced him to, but he never fled. He didn't try to escape. What spirit, this red sprite had. What fury, what determination, what wrath. Did his wrath burn him up from the inside, the way theirs did? Did he live to burn down worlds, too?
The rain sizzled on the smoking ends of his wings; his flame fluttered and flared. He grew darker the longer they fought, the glowing cracks in his wings losing their light. They knew that the red sprite nested in a volcano; could he not sustain his fire long without it? Even so, when they moved in for the kill—sank Second and Third's fangs into his wings him to pin them wide open, hovered First's face so close to his, their chest so near to his chest—he was still so warm.
So warm.
How many millennia had it been since they were warm? Not hot, not burning—but warm?
Gazing down at the red sprite's eyes, First were tempted to press their faces against him, to curl into the warmth together. Instead, he screamed forth their lightning, electrocuted the red sprite, and dropped him into the sea.
As he sank, with the churning water boiling around his dying flames—his bold resistance rendered futile—they thought, pityingly, how cute.
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With nemesis re-dueled and dispatched, with wounds licked and Third repaired, with siren song sang and all the beasts of this world capable of hearing it now mindlessly dancing to their tune—they claimed the red sprite's nest as their own, claimed the red sprite's nest as their throne. They expected they could comfortably settle down while they waited for the world to burn down around them.
They did not expect to see the red sprite flying stiffly out of the ocean.
How? They had felt the air over the ocean change with that strange flash of light. The atmosphere itself had become alien to this world. It had killed all the nearby creatures, they were sure—they were nearly sure it had even killed their foul nemesis, the little king. It should have killed the red sprite as well, who was nowhere near as strong as the little king.
But it hadn't. How?
They were lightning; they breathed lightning when they sang, their scales flashed golden with electricity. The true "red sprite" for which they'd nicknamed this species was a distorted illusion of lightning, a red electric flash high in the sky above thunderstorms. They had named the red sprite's species after that phenomenon mockingly—he was an echo of themselves, a foreign phenomenon that superficially resembled them. Maybe the name was truer than they'd thought? Maybe the way that red sprites came from the same storms as lightning, he had come from the same source as them?
No. It was impossible. They didn't even remember what their home atmosphere smelled like, only barely remembered the color of their star; they remembered even the moon they'd been dragged to afterward far more clearly. Nothing else could have come to this world from there.
However, even considering the possibility shook them. They looked at the red sprite with new eyes as he landed before them.
And anyway, how had he survived the blast? When the greatest creature of this world could not and only they, not of this world, could?
They flexed their wings, readying themselves for another fight—they were, after all, sitting on the red sprite's nest. (It was so hot—they could feel it trying to melt their claws—but, they realized, although it felt hot, it didn't feel warm. Not like him.) However, as he drew near, he beat his wings to stop short of them. Stones and dust scattered along the sides of the volcano, but the wind didn't even stir in the caldera. He landed, spread his wings, and dipped his head low before them.
He wasn't here to fight. He was answering their siren song. Not as one being controlled by it. No, the command they'd given was to destroy, to mindlessly flatten the world in anger and fear—not to come bow to them. He was deferring to them not because he was compelled to, but because he was choosing to. He chose to follow them.
Why? Because they'd beaten him? Because they'd beaten the little king? Because—was it possible—he wanted to see them turn the world to ashes?
As the red sprite prostrated himself before their throne, head tilted sideways so he could look up at them—his eyes were the same bright gold as their scales—they thought, softly, how cute.