Morning sunlight slanted through the forest canopy, catching on drifting pollen and smoke trails from where one of the hatchlings had definitely set something on fire again.
Yara stood over the half-singed basket, hair a frizzy halo, shirt rumpled from being tugged by little claws. Her fingers still smelled faintly of soot, but she barely noticed.
Val watched her from across the clearing with that annoyingly calm expression he used whenever his children committed arson.
His arms were full—three hatchlings wriggled in a bundle against his chest—and his hair was tied back loosely, a few strands escaping like they wanted to misbehave too.
Except Val kept watching Yara like she was something he wanted to devour.
He wasn't subtle about it, either.
"Do you see their faces?" Yara said flatly. "They don't even look guilty."
Val's eyes drifted from the scorch marks to her mouth. "They get it from you."
"Excuse me?" She glared.
