The gift of his mother is what has always protected Elio. From the magic she passed on to the fierce way she looks at him, Lepis has always been his rock. He thinks that in the end, his mother will always be the most stable rock he may cling to. This family she has built around him, this family she has built in his head—it molds the dangerously loyal and quiet boy he is becoming.

And yet, it lacks the hero of so many of those stories: his father.

Elio cannot say he hates Wolfbane, or that he even has any particular negative feeling—but that wonderment he felt upon their first meeting has certainly slipped away. Now, he sees a distant and frightening man, even if Bane’s behavior is not outwardly aggressive. Being the intuitive creature his emotional projections force him to be, he can see something is not right between his parents. If it was not the juxtaposition of the actions of the legend with the actions of the man, it was the complete lack of seeing his parents love each other. The Wolfbane of his mother’s carefully woven stories was valiant, protective, and affectionate. This one . . . this one’s smile did not meet his eyes. This one—outside of his thoughts, Elio shakes his head in frustration and pain—he cannot bring his heart to swell for him like it did for his absence.

He tries so hard to reconcile the myth with the man, but he is so young, and it takes all of his energy just to not shoot his feelings all over the place.

It is in these moments that he wishes his mother would brush his mind clean with a sweep of her peace. It is in these moments that he wonders why he cannot go back to when the only reason he cried was over a knocked head.

He feels small, so small, like a gasping babe freshly born.

A world spins and spins in his head, passing and passing by, all while he tucks his wings quietly against a tree.

It is interesting, to say the least, to compare Elio’s perspective of his father against his sibling’s. Celina (his favorite sibling—but don’t tell her that) still seems to carry that unconditional love for Bane that her younger brother so envies. He sees that innocence and longs for it.

His mind is black as coal with a new wave of emotion: panic. His thoughts are dark enough to match the black sheep’s wool he wears.

I’m not one of them.

And perhaps that is the crux of Lepis’ stories: Elio now grows differently from his family. They were a family carried together by the basket their parents’ weaved, that strength evident in all of the dunalino’s siblings. He cannot help but to think he is the reed that snapped, and his beloved family will tumble to their painful fates all because Elio is not strong enough to keep his parents together.

Of course, the boy is not quite emotionally intelligent enough to think these things clearly, but the suffering is present in the way his chest clenches.

Lepis’ familiar voice draws the colt from his reverie, a hesitant smile curling one side of his mouth. He peers up at her with almost sleepy eyes, a film that might mask the constant rush of thoughts uprooting the once firm saplings in his mind.

“Hey, Mom,” he replies with a voice just on the cusp of puberty. She smells like home, like Taiga, like his mom. “Nothing, really. Just thinkin’.” His wings ruffle against his sides and and Lepis’ chest when he leans into her embrace. “What have you been doing?” is his final retort as he cranes his neck around to brush his muzzle against hers. A grin paints his face.

Elio could wait for ages—no, eons—for the validation of his father. He could spend years feeling wistful over not searching for Wolfbane the moment he was born, or not trying hard enough to be a better son, or . . . Lepis’ peace reaches him, and his mind quiets. The softest, most relaxed sigh escapes his lips. Elio’s golden fur and crimson ears ruffle against the warm surety of his mother’s chest. He looks the perfect picture of a perfect son.

When she mentions Loess, Elio imagines the cacti that dot the border it shares with Taiga. He can see the gray boulders and hardy greenery. It is a border he does not cross (because at his core he is an obedient boy), but one he toes often. Mother always makes it sound so enticing; it is hard for a growing child to not be curious. The striped yearling prickles with the idea of change, of leaving behind the home a family he does not feel he fully belongs to has claimed as their own.

And yet, the fires of rebellion surge in his veins: he the green soldier with armor that does not fit and a sword too heavy to swing.

“But isn’t this where Dad lives?” He means to remain casual, to speak as if he does not know what is coming; but that crippling insecurity creeps into his voice, and it is clear he is only asking to hear what he already knows out loud. “I don’t think I . . . I don’t know, Mom. Why? Do you want to go?”

A single hoof digs into the pliable soil and prickly pine needles. Elio leans away from Lepis and bites his lip.

“It would be cool to go somewhere new, I guess.” This he concedes with a shrug of his shoulders and a barely visible smile.

Sometimes these things happen.

With that, Elio drops his gaze to his shuffling hooves and shrugs his shoulders. A weak smile turns his mouth upward, and his teeth bite fiercely into his bottom lip. These things do happen, and the golden boy knows just little enough to accept that answer without a serious fight. He swallows his trembling child soldier and blinks away the apprehension.

This confusion is just a part of his life now: emotions he does not understand, an arguing family, the hard line between reality and fantasy.

“I don’t think it’s a very big change,” he murmurs in between two of her sentences. It isn’t, not to him. Changing homes will take its toll, but his siblings are always wandering off, and he cannot live under the illusion that his father belongs here. The truth is that he does not know where Wolfbane belongs, other than in the stories in his head; and now he is not sure he even belongs there.

Lepis’ projections are just tiny fizzles beneath his skin, little unconscious fingers that point him in the direction of Loess (even if only for a moment).

“I would like that, I think,” is his quiet response, followed by yet another half-smile. The short locks of his mane fall into his eyes when he steps away to look at his mom. “I know we’ll always be a family. We take care of each other.” This he adds with a firm and certain nod of his head. Elio’s still-forming chin tucks to the slowly maturing lines of his chest, and now he genuinely grins.

The sun casts a warm glow around his face, shining yellow in the tresses of his crimson mane. He is beautiful in this innocence, untouched by the knowledge of his mother’s tearful escapes and just how much his father has split their lives in half. Lio nudges his mother’s shoulder with his muzzle then asks, “What are my cousins’ names? And when do we have to go?”

The redwood leaves and fresh green pine needles sway comfortably above the mother-son duo. Springtime is fresh and pungent in Taiga, Elio’s favorite season (and not just because this is when he was born). The winged boy has spent a little over a year beneath his family’s shadowed canopy, and the green and freshly bloomed flowers continue to bring him joy. The warm arms of the season soften this blow, though he does linger on how he will miss clumsily galloping through where the trees are tightly packed.

“Castile!” he gasps in wonderment the moment his name is mentioned. Though naive, he is well aware of the dragon king. An excited smile twists his lips.

As Lepis continues, Elio hangs on every word, growing more excited with each syllable. There is a Reia and other family his mother cannot name, but the thought of a new family thrums excitedly in his chest.

While his immediate family means everything to the red and gold yearling, the thought of blank-slate relations offers him a guilty sense of relief. His most poignant memories are with Lepis, with Celina a close second—that disconnect of their father’s presence divides Elio more starkly from his much older siblings.

“Summer it is, then.” Another firm nod and a brilliant smile follow suit. Elio pauses, flicking his ears backward as the chatter of birds briefly distracts him, then turns back to his mom with a curious stare. “Is Celina coming with us? And is, uh—” he stumbles here, the title “dad” feeling clumsy in his mouth, “dad ever going to visit?”