Chapter 122: The Cubs and the Burning Sky

Ruì Xuě appeared behind him, more cautious, his purple eyes scanning the room. “Papa said we shouldn’t run. Papa said we shouldn’t—” He stopped. Looked at Hóng Yè holding the baby. Looked at Dà Jiāo Huǒ sitting in his chair looking like he had been through a war. “Is Zhēn okay?”

“Zhēn is fine,” Hóng Yè said. “The dragon is having a crisis.”

“I am not having a crisis,” Dà Jiāo Huǒ said.

“You screamed loud enough to wake the entire peak.”

“I did not scream. I… called. Loudly. For assistance.”

Yòu Lín was already climbing onto the chair beside him, his small paws leaving prints on the ancient silk. “Are you okay? You look weird. Your scales are doing a thing. They’re all flat. Is that bad? Does that mean you’re sad? When I’m sad my ears go flat. When Papa is sad his tails go flat. When Uncle Sparkles is sad he eats pastries. Do you want pastries? I can get pastries. There are pastries in the kitchen. I know where the kitchen is. I can—”

“Yòu Lín,” Hóng Yè said.

“I’m helping.”

“You’re overwhelming him.”

“I’m SUPPORTING him. There’s a difference.”

Ruì Xuě had made his way to Hóng Yè’s side, peering up at his sister. “She’s sleeping. Why is she sleeping? She’s always sleeping. Does she sleep more than other babies? Is that normal? Uncle Yàn Shū said normal babies sleep a lot. But he also said I was normal and I didn’t sleep at all. So maybe she’s not normal. Maybe she’s—”

“Ruì Xuě,” Hóng Yè said.

“I’m also helping.”

“You’re also overwhelming.”

Dà Jiāo Huǒ let out a sigh.

“Pastries,” he said. “Yes. I would like pastries.”

Yòu Lín’s face split into a grin. “I KNEW IT. I’ll get the BEST pastries. The ones with the cream. And the berries. And the—”

“Yòu Lín.”

“I’M GOING.”

He was gone before anyone could stop him, his small form disappearing through the door in a blur of orange fur and enthusiasm.

Ruì Xuě looked after him, then back at Dà Jiāo Huǒ. “He’s going to bring too many. He always brings too many. Last time he brought seventeen. There were only four of us. He ate twelve.”

“Twelve,” Dà Jiāo Huǒ repeated.

“He was very sick after. Mama was not happy. Papa said it was a lesson. Yòu Lín said it was worth it.”

Dà Jiāo Huǒ looked at Hóng Yè. Hóng Yè looked back.

“Your family,” Dà Jiāo Huǒ said, “is very loud.”

“They are.”

“Exhausting.”

“Yes.”

“Chaotic.”

“Constantly.”

Dà Jiāo Huǒ looked at Zhēn, still sleeping peacefully in her brother’s arms. “I would like to be part of it.”

Hóng Yè did not look surprised. He did not look shocked.

“You already are,” he said. “She chose you.”

He looked down at his sister.

“She’s very small. And she sleeps too much. And she doesn’t do anything interesting yet. But she chose you. So you’re family now.”

“I would like,” the burning sky said carefully, “to build her something. A new bassinet. With walls. Very high walls. Walls that no infant could possibly—”

“She’s going to climb out eventually,” Hóng Yè said.

“Climb?”

“Babies climb. They put their feet on things and then they go up. It’s what they do.”

Dà Jiāo Huǒ stared at him. “She cannot even roll consistently.”

“She’ll learn. She has good teachers.” Hóng Yè glanced at his brother, who was now attempting to read a scroll upside down. “Maybe not the best teachers. But she’ll learn.”

Dà Jiāo Huǒ looked at the bassinet. At its low sides. At the place where his granddaughter had rolled off.

“Very high walls,” he said. “And a roof. Possibly some guards.”

“You can’t put a roof on a bassinet.”

“I am the Burning Sky. I can do whatever I want.”

Hóng Yè’s mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. “Good luck with that.”

The pastries arrived. Yòu Lín had indeed brought too many. There were seventeen of them, arranged on a silver platter that he had somehow commandeered from the kitchens, and he was already eating his third by the time he reached the chair.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ took one. It was small and round and filled with cream and berries, and it tasted like something he had not tasted in a very long time.

He took another.

Ruì Xuě was telling him about the time Yòu Lín had tried to fly. Yòu Lín was interrupting to correct the details. Hóng Yè was pretending to be annoyed but had not let go of Zhēn once.

And Dà Jiāo Huǒ sat in his chair, eating pastries, listening to the chaos, and felt a strange feeling settle in his chest.

He was the Burning Sky. The oldest living dragon of the First Generation. The terror of the peaks.

And he was going to build his granddaughter a bassinet with very, very high walls.

Let her climb, he thought. I will be there to catch her.

~

Later, in the kitchens:

Wēn Jìng was putting away the last of the pastries when Gū Gū found her.

“The dragon is eating sweets with the cubs,” Gū Gū announced, leaning on her stick. “The ancient, terrifying dragon who made half the court faint just by looking at them. He is eating pastries with a fox cub who talks too much and a snow leopard cub who asks too many questions.”

“I know,” Wēn Jìng said. “I sent the pastries.”

Gū Gū stared at her. “You sent pastries to the Burning Sky.”

“He needed them.”

“He needed—” Gū Gū sputtered. “He’s the Burning Sky. He’s older than most mountains. He doesn’t need pastries.”

“He needed something soft,” Wēn Jìng said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Something sweet.”

They stood together in the quiet kitchen, listening to the distant sounds of the peak. Somewhere above them, a baby was sleeping. Somewhere below, a dragon was learning to be ordinary.

“I’m going to visit the library,” Wēn Jìng said. “There’s a dragon there who’s been writing poetry about a snow leopard. I want to read it.”

Gū Gū’s stick hit the floor. “What?”

“Hán Bīng’s dragon. He’s been writing observations. For centuries. They’re very romantic, apparently. I want to see.”

“Hán Bīng does not have a dragon. Hán Bīng is—”

“In love? Possibly. I’ll let you know.” Wēn Jìng was already moving toward the door. “You should come. The poetry might be terrible. That’s usually more entertaining.”

Gū Gū’s eyes widened.

“I’m not coming because I’m interested,” she said finally. “I’m coming because someone needs to supervise.”

“Of course.”

“And because if the poetry is bad, I want to be there when she finds out.”

“Obviously.”

They left the kitchen together, the old fox and the scholar, heading toward the library where a very old dragon was waiting for a very patient snow leopard.

Behind them, the peaks hummed with the soft light of falling stars.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep