Morning crept into the tent-cabin in thin silver shafts, the kind of pale light that belongs only to the tail of winter. The forest outside was still buried in a hush of snow; even the sparrows seemed to hold their breath.
I stirred when a small weight shifted against my arm. The hatchling, already a little drier, a little brighter, blinked up at me. Her eyes had lost the filmy haze of newborns, now clear and sharp like drops of emerald set in black stone.
"Good morning," I murmured, my voice catching on a rasp of sleep. She chirped, a soft, piping note, almost questioning. Then she clambered clumsily onto my chest, claws clicking lightly against my worn tunic. The cold tip of her snout pressed against my chin, and she gave a high, squeaky trill that sounded suspiciously like delight. I couldn't help it; laughter spilled out of me, startling in the stillness. "Well, aren't you quite the bold one already."
She wobbled, tail flicking for balance, and pecked at the leather strap of my satchel that I use as a pillow; curious and hungry. I reached for the small pot of broth from last night, now cooled to a golden gel. With a finger I scooped a little onto a flat stone and held it toward her.
The hatchling sniffed, blinked, then darted her tongue across it. Another chirp, this time unmistakably pleased, followed by an enthusiastic lapping. Warmth bloomed in my chest as she devoured every drop. When she finished, she clambered back into the crook of my arm and yawned so wide her tiny teeth flashed white as frost.
"You need a name," I whispered. The thought had been humming in the back of my mind all night. A name to root her to this world, to the forest, and to myself.
Outside, a thin wind teased the chimes I had strung from birch bark years ago. Their music was low and sweet, like water running under ice. The sound stirred a memory of last night, how, just before she hatched, I had seen the faint shimmer of blue across her back, a single streak shaped like a flame. Even now the marking glimmered faintly in the morning light, like frost catching a hidden fire.
"Blue Fire," I said aloud, tasting the words. The hatchling blinked, head tilting as though the syllables belonged to her already. Another soft trill, an answer. I smiled, "Blue Fire it is." The dawn light spilled over her back, catching the blue flame-mark until it burned like a tiny living spark to my human eyes. And for the first time since I had built this cabin-tent, the silence of the forest no longer felt like loneliness. It felt like the beginning of something worth staying for.
...
Blue Fire woke me before the sun rose. One moment I was dreaming of quiet snowfields; the next, a sharp tug at my sleeve roused me. She had her teeth hooked into the edge of my tunic and was pulling with all her might, tail thrashing for balance.
"All right, all right," I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, "you have decided it's time to explore, haven't you?" Her answering trill was bright and insistent.
I pulled on my boots and wrapped a wool cloak around my shoulders. The door flap creaked open to a pale morning sky streaked with the first peach light of day. Frost clung to the pine needles like powdered glass. Blue Fire bounded ahead, if you could call her lurching hops a bound, her little claws sinking into the crusted snow. She left a trail of uneven prints that glittered in the new light.
The world smelled of pine resin and distant smoke from a hunter's fire. Blue Fire paused to nose a clump of snow-heavy moss, then sneezed so violently she tumbled backward into a drift. I laughed and scooped her up. She squirmed, then nestled against my chest, emitting a pleased rumble that vibrated through my ribs.
"You'll have to learn the forest, little flame," I whispered, "and I'll have to learn how to keep up with you." Her amber eyes met mine, wide and trusting. In their reflection I saw not just the hush of winter woods, but a promise, of days to come, of trails to follow, of a life neither of us had expected but were already building, side by side.