It is the evening of the ninth and for all that Era is keeping a close eye on her amaro chick her mind dwells on other things. She turns twenty-seven on the morrow — give or take a year or so, perhaps. Her physical age is something she has never been quite sure of beyond 'young adult', best judged by the size of her horns in relation to her skull. But do years she has not lived truly count toward her age?

Era has seen only six summers. Though now, thanks to the deities of this world, she can only recall four of them. Era did not exist until that moment she first awoke, lost and confused in the heart of the Sagolii. Era was born six summers ago — not twenty-seven.

How then does one judge age? Is it years lived and experienced, or is it the age of the body one inhabits?

She watches Hythlo hop about, eagerly exploring the small world they're both trapped within, and wonders. She wonders right up until her chick lets out a note of fear, and before she has time even to process what may have been the cause she's already latched onto him with a tether made of aether, bright and gold and pulling him quickly into the safety of her arms. Era's heart pounds furiously in her chest, tail raised in lingering panic as the ground stabilizes beneath her feet. Hythlodaeus' feathers have all stood on end and he tries to burrow himself against her breast, letting out noises that she can only describe as frightened whines. Era nearly cries herself, wishing she could do more for her little egg than offer hummed notes of comfort and stroke his soft plumage as she bounces him gently in her arms.

She opens the door to the first shop she sees with lights aglow, more focused on soothing Hythlodaeus than where it is they've ended up.

"Hush now, little egg," Era croons softly, nuzzling the side of his head. "They will never harm you while I yet live."