I Abandoned My Beast Cubs for the Protagonist... Oops?-Chapter 121: The Burning Sky Loses A Baby

The most terrifying creature in the known universe was currently attempting to burp an infant.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ, the Burning Sky, the oldest living dragon of the First Generation, the being whose very name had made empires tremble and lesser dragons flee screaming into the void, held Zhēn against his chest carefully.

He patted her back. Gently. He thought.

Pat.

Zhēn made an angry sound.

Pat.

The sound intensified.

Pat.

Zhēn let out a burp that was, frankly, unworthy of her lineage. It was small. It was dainty.

Then she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ stared at her.

"I did it," he whispered to the empty chamber. "I... I did it. I burped the baby."

The crystals did not respond. The ancient texts on his shelf did not applaud. The wind outside the window, which had once carried his war cries across mountains, did not acknowledge his triumph.

He did not care.

He had burped the baby.

Two hours earlier, Bai Yue had handed Zhēn to him.

"She’ll need to eat in about an hour. Then she needs a nap. Then she’ll probably want to be held for a while. She likes being held. And—"

"I am the Burning Sky," Dà Jiāo Huǒ had interrupted, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. "I have fought wars you cannot imagine. I have negotiated treaties that reshaped the very geography of this realm. I think I can manage an infant for one afternoon."

Bai Yue had looked at him. Then she had looked at Zhēn, who was currently using the dragon’s chest as a pillow and drooling on his ancient, irreplaceable robes.

"Okay," she had said. "But if she starts crying, walk. She likes the motion. And if she won’t stop, try humming. She likes humming. And if—"

"I will be fine."

"You’ll be fine."

"I am the Burning Sky."

"You are," Bai Yue had agreed, and left.

That was two hours ago.

He looked around his chambers with fresh eyes.

The room was vast, carved from the heart of the mountain, its walls lined with shelves that held the accumulated knowledge of millennia.

Crystal formations grew from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting soft light over everything. In the corner, a massive desk held treaties and maps and the weight of a kingdom.

And now, in the center of it all, a small bassinet that Bai Yue had left behind. It was made of soft wood, lined with silk, and decorated with what appeared to be the paw prints of various small creatures.

He had examined it earlier. The craftsmanship was adequate. The sentiment was....something.

He looked at the bassinet. He looked at Zhēn.

She was asleep. She was comfortable. She was warm.

He could put her down. Just for a moment. Just long enough to—

His eyes caught the stack of messages on his desk. Council matters. Territory disputes. A complaint from the Northern Verge about the migratory patterns of sky-whales. He had been ignoring them for days. The realm, it seemed, continued to turn even when one had a baby asleep on one’s chest.

He moved to the bassinet. Slowly. Carefully. Every step calculated to avoid jostling.

He lowered Zhēn into the silk-lined bed. His hands, which had crushed the skulls of his enemies, which had reshaped mountains, which had held the fate of dynasties, were trembling.

She settled. Her face scrunched for a moment—please no please no please no—and then relaxed. Her breathing evened out. Her tiny hand opened and closed once, twice, and then stilled.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ straightened.

He had done it. He had put the baby down. Without waking her.

He turned to his desk, feeling lighter than he had in centuries.

He read three messages. The sky-whales were still migrating. The Northern Verge was still complaining. A minor lord in the Eastern Reach wanted permission to marry someone he was not supposed to marry. He made a note to approve it, because he was in a good mood and because he vaguely remembered what it was like to want something you were not supposed to want.

He wrote a response. Signed it. Set it aside.

He read a fourth message. Something about trade routes. Something about—

A sound.

Small. Soft. Wet. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

Dà Jiāo Huǒ turned.

The bassinet was empty.

For one eternal moment, the Burning Sky’s mind went completely, utterly blank. He stared at the empty bassinet. At the rumpled silk where a baby had been moments ago. At the small, wet spot on the pillow where she had been drooling.

She was gone.

She was gone.

"Zhēn?"

No answer. Just the soft hum of the crystals. The distant rush of the waterfalls. The sound of his own heart, which had not beat this fast since—

"ZHĒN."

He was moving before he finished the word, crossing the chamber in three strides, his eyes scanning, his senses reaching. He could hear everything. The wind in the peaks. The distant voices of dragons in the plaza. The slow, steady breathing of—

There.

Behind the curtain. A soft rustle. A tiny, muffled sound.

He tore the curtain aside.

Zhēn lay on the stone floor, exactly where she had apparently rolled off the edge of the bassinet. Her eyes were open. Her face was scrunched. Her tiny limbs were waving.

She was not crying.

She was, in fact, staring up at the crystals on the ceiling with the same expression of mild interest she might have given a particularly interesting leaf.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ scooped her up so fast he nearly dropped her again. He held her against his chest, his hands shaking, his breathing ragged, his ancient heart pounding against his ribs.

He was holding her too tightly. He forced his hands to loosen. She didn’t seem to mind.

He sank into the nearest chair. His legs, which had held him upright for millennia, had apparently given up.

He sat there for a long time, holding her, waiting for his heart to slow.

It did not slow.

He looked at the bassinet. At the low, wooden sides that he had not considered a danger because he had not considered that she could move. She was so small. So fragile. So completely, utterly incapable of protecting herself.

He had fought wars. He had killed kings. He had watched empires rise and fall like tides. And none of it had prepared him for the terror of a baby rolling off a bassinet.

He pressed his forehead to hers. Her skin was warm. Her breath was soft against his scales.

"I will do better," he said quietly. "I will... I will put you somewhere safer. I will build something. With walls. High walls. Very high walls. Walls that no infant could possibly—"

A knock.

He looked up. Hóng Yè stood in the doorway, his arms crossed.

Hóng Yè’s eyes dropped to the bassinet. To the rumpled silk. To the way Dà Jiāo Huǒ was holding the baby against his chest like she might evaporate if he let go.

"She rolled off, didn’t she."

"She did not roll. She.....relocated."

"The bassinet is on the floor. There’s nowhere to relocate to."

"She is a very talented infant."

Hóng Yè stared at him.

"I will build a better bassinet," he said. "With walls. Very high walls."

"She’s a baby. She doesn’t need walls. She needs someone watching her."

"I was watching her. I was—" He stopped. "I was reading messages. There was a complaint about sky-whales. The whales are migrating. It is apparently a crisis."

"Sky whales? What are those?" The teenager asked, an eyebrow shooting up.

The older dragon sighed. "Nevermind."

Hóng Yè walked into the room. He stopped in front of the chair, looked at Zhēn, who was now peacefully asleep again as if she hadn’t just given her grandfather a heart attack, and sighed.

"Give her to me."

Dà Jiāo Huǒ’s arms tightened instinctively. "I can—"

"You need to calm down. You’re going to crush her. Give her to me."

He did not want to give her to anyone. He wanted to hold her and never let go and maybe build a small fortress around her with very high walls and possibly some guards and definitely no furniture she could roll off.

But.....

He knew he had to.

He handed over the baby.

Hóng Yè settled her against his chest, one hand supporting her head, the other adjusting her blanket.

She sighed. Snuggled closer. Did not wake.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ watched.

"I had a brother once," he said, and the words surprised him.

Hóng Yè looked up. "A brother?"

"Not by blood. By... something else." He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. "We were young. Or young for dragons. Which means we were already older than most of the creatures in this realm will ever be, but we did not know that yet."

He paused. He had not spoken of this in centuries.

"His name was Lóng Wēi."

Hóng Yè’s eyes narrowed. "The one who attacked the festival."

"The same. But before that, before.....everything, we were friends. We trained together. We fought together. We believed we would rule together, when the time came. We called ourselves the Twin Flames of the Burning Peak. Very dramatic. Very young."

"What happened?"

Dà Jiāo Huǒ looked at Zhēn. At her tiny face, peaceful in sleep. At the small hand curled against Hóng Yè’s chest.

"Power happened. Ambition. The usual things. He wanted the throne. I was in his way. He decided that I should not be in his way anymore."

He did not tell Hóng Yè about the night it happened. About the fire and the blood and the screams that had echoed through the peaks for weeks. About the brother he had loved and the creature he had been forced to become in order to survive him.

He did not need to. Hóng Yè was looking at him with those too-old eyes, and Dà Jiāo Huǒ had the uncomfortable feeling that the teenager understood more than he was saying.

"You let him go," Hóng Yè said. "At the festival. You could have killed him. You let him go."

"I did."

"Why?"

Dà Jiāo Huǒ considered the question. Considered the answer.

"He’s still my friend.....despite it all."

He looked back at Hóng Yè.

"Killing him would not have brought back what we were. It would not have undone what happened. It would have just been more fighting. And I am tired of fighting. I want to sit in my chambers and burp babies and read about sky-whales and be.....ordinary."

Hóng Yè was quiet for a long moment. Then:

"You’re not ordinary."

"I am attempting to be."

"It’s not working."

Dà Jiāo Huǒ laughed. "No. I suppose it’s not."

They were interrupted by the arrival of the others.

Yòu Lín burst through the door first, his fox ears flat against his head, his eyes wide. "WE HEARD SCREAMING. THE GRANDMOTHER SAID THE DRAGON WAS SCREAMING. DID THE DRAGON SCREAM? WAS IT A BATTLE? DID YOU FIGHT SOMETHING? CAN WE SEE IT?"