Chapter Text
“Guinevere,” your mother says. “Come here. Don’t you want to see the egg hatch?”
You’re standing in the entrance of your family’s stone hollow, deep in the pits of the canyonlands, peering up at the night sky. “But Mum,” you say, “I’m trying to see the eclipse.”
“Gwen,” your father says, so you sigh and hop away from the mouth of the cave, back where your mother and father are standing by the nest of downy feathers. You nestle yourself next to your mother, who is so close to the egg she nearly smothers it. Your father stands at a distance, his face obscured by his mask. He looks only at your mother.
The egg trembles. The world falls silent. Outside, the eclipsed moon glows red.
A crack appears. You hear your mother’s breath catch in her throat. From within the egg, your sibling lets out a feeble cry.
“This one will look like me,” your mother says to your father, nudging him with her wing. He hums, noncommittal, and your mother laughs.
The shell breaks, and your brother’s slimy face emerges.
Your mother coos. Your father is silent as always. The hatchling peeps and struggles to push away the remaining eggshell.
You tilt your head, peering down at the chick. He’s featherless and covered in goo, his bulging eyes squeezed tight. It’s hard to believe that you ever resembled this thing. You turn to your mother. “I wasn’t like that, was I, Mum?”
“All hatchlings are like this, darling,” your mother says.
“No,” your father says. “You were much stronger.”
Your mother fusses over the hatchling, now fully emerged from the shell. It’s winter, and nights in the canyonlands are cold; she holds him close, keeping him warm with her downy feathers.
Your mother names him Nyroc, after herself, after the moon. She’s talking now, for perhaps the millionth time, about how owls hatched under the eclipse are blessed with a powerful enchantment, how they are destined for greatness. You’ve already heard this too many times to count in the few weeks you’ve been alive, so you hop over to your father, who watches your mother in silence.
“Nyroc,” your mother hums. “So special, so pure.”
Truth be told, you don’t quite understand what all the fuss is about. Anyone can be born on eclipse, but there’s only one Sacred Orb. Anyone can be powerful, but you will be the new High Tyto, the new Glaux Most Pure; your mother told you so herself. Who cares about an eclipse?
You ruffle your feathers — you’re still all downy, with none of your flight feathers yet. Not long ago, it was you in the nest being coddled and cooed over. As you watch your new brother, pale and squirming, something unpleasant curls within your gizzard.
“Da?” you say.
He looks down at you, his dark eyes glinting behind his mask.
“I’m special too, aren’t I?”
Gently, he bumps your head with his wing. You blink.
“Of course you are,” he says. “You’re my kid.”