Upon my entry in the egg-nest, I, for the first time in eternity, felt like a guest.

  This sprawling space filled with comfort and peace, embellished with calming radiant lights, urges me to absorb everything it holds. I never once believed a home could feel like this. Above, the nest’s roof whispers that worries have no place within, which I find it difficult not to agree. Walls of a smooth and comforting dark encircle everything, cradling me as if I were still a newborn. That would certainly make sense, considering that these homes are meant to recall what dragons experience inside the egg that births them. A veil of warmness ascends my body, a sensation that my eyes suddenly regard with closure. Songs of serenity flood my ears. Melodies erupt from the egg-nest itself, a gracious voice trying to accomplish only one purpose: to lull me to rest. To refuse such a request would be appalling.

  I open my drowsy eyes and shake my plunging head. Hibernation is not the reason my great king acquired this haven for me. Even if I attempted such a feat, I would be left disappointed; my Duality has no dwelling in sleep. One such as myself learns quickly that to shut his eyes is a disgrace. When tasks and missions burden you, and your presence is regarded with wretched sights, what small amount of peace you receive is granted by the vastness of sky.

  Pacing toward the middle of this enclosure, I leave the wall through which I entered to reform itself. I lack the wisdom to know what sort of material could do this; only the creators know, for stories claim they were the ones to bestow it upon the dragons. A knock on the enclosure brings me to a halt.

  “Waste not your time in my nest, Error,” Nurielon says, his claws carrying a distinct uneasiness with each new knock. “Finish your task and leave. Before I ask the king to give you another place to test your supposed powers.”

  I bow my head, even though his eyes bear no sight of me. “As you wish, brethren. I shall be quick.”

  “I have a name, Error. Use it.”

  The knocks cease and a fluttering of wings emerge outside. Is naming a dragon brethren such a disastrous sin? I smile faintly, the interaction still seeping through my mind. My place here has a purpose. I don’t have the right to waste it on the sorrow I endure or on such vain talks.

  A platform rests midway. Jutting shells arise to grasp the dragon that should stand within, leaving spots of emptiness amidst them. In order to fit inside, the hibernating position must be taken, a concept which I reward with a frown. How my brethren find such a seat appealing is beyond the reach of my grasp. Perhaps this is one of the many reasons my kin can greatly perform.

  Instead, I lie near it and shut my eyes. Trials and failures reemerge in my mind, causing a storm. The Mark embedded in my back, a peculiarity of a Duality, garners my attention with a tilt of the head. It exists, yet it shows no signs of being alive. It calls my body home, yet it desires not to support it. It resembles a black hole, yet compressed and with hints of dark colors dancing across its surface of shadows. Activating it should be a possibility. Attempting it showed me debility. If other Dualities have been successful in achieving such a feat, I’ve either been lied to or its use is another futility. Doubtful, that kind of reality. My existence had led me to know only Starmakers and Lightstealers. Stories that claim others like me have been born lack credibility. A great thing, then, that I give no importance to them and opt not to be misled.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Straining the essence within me yields no results. Trying multiple times leads my body to exhaustion. I sigh, then I try one more time. The Mark rests unbothered, its attention ungathered. It only hands me vibrations, announcing to my essence that it watches unimpressed. I reach for it, the hope of touching it pushes me to groan in my effort, yet I can’t. My entire body trembles after another series of tries, and the Mark gives no response apart from its continuous rhythm. Why do I even bother to try? Results are furthering my aching.

  I crash on the egg-nests surface. “What do you expect of me, my great king?” I whisper. “How come you pressure me so much, when you know what sort of response I’m capable of giving?”

  Silence is the answer I receive. Sighing, I launch myself off the ground and use the wings for support. Could soaring provide the answer? I ascend and descend in a dance, my body not free of strain, I spin and slither like my kin, and more silence is what I’m left with. I lounge after the Mark, and my diverted attention leads me right into the egg’s wall. I plunge back on the surface. Pain surges through my snout, no amount of rubs easing it. “Great Tribunal… can you give me some guidance?”

  My question is met with even more silence. I lift myself with a series of groans and feel my eyes overcome with burden. The great king, although possessing good intentions, pushes me to experience more failure. Is there some hidden joy that lies within my kin to see me struggle unsuccessfully? This lacks purpose. No matter how many attempts I muster, a Duality remains what a Duality is: an Error. Such is my fate, such is the outcome of my birth. Perhaps returning to the Jila would be a wiser alternative. Why should I flee death? It’s only brief, while my deficiencies last an eternity. Even if the Mark could somehow grant me strength, it won’t suffice for me to be accepted within my brethren as one of theirs. As long as I represent two opposites, yet I yield none of their strengths, I shall be shunned. Demise should’ve been my great king’s suggestion.

  The inscriptions upon my head are another mystery. Letters belonging to an unknown language, a word that expands the mockery I display. Had the Tribunal formed me and thought it amusing to grant me such a design? Or was the egg that bore me planted in the Field of Rebirth with wrath and carelessness? “Tribunal, why? Why do you treat me with so much contempt? Am I so unimportant in your eyes to reward me with so many afflictions?”

  I desire to help, yet I lack the ways to do so. I inquire as to why I’m chained in this body, yet the Tribunal is gone and shows no sign of ever returning. With another sigh, I straighten my back and cover it with my wings. A prayer should shove my words higher.

  “Grand Tribunal,” I whisper. Do our creators respond better to such an honor? “Give your Error what it lacks. Hand me the tools I need to stand against this great calamity. Make me useful to my king and to my entire kin. Grant me what you know eternity never showed me I have.” I lift my head, tears welling and on the verge of ravaging my snout. “Purpose.”

  Briefly afterward, the Horn of Eternity sounds. And the tranquility of the egg-nest vanishes without trace.