Born in a cauldron of Fyre,
Skin, scalding and wet from primal birth.
The tongs glow red with Rage as I break apart the remnants of the shell, so it can hatch in full view.

I see it clearly now-
Scales glisten with albumin and liquid light. The room grows darker and I feel a sudden chill, as if the infernal being were absorbing energy from the surrounding hearth. Growing steadily brighter I make out a silvery form, an unmistakable beak, made of metal no man could think to craft.

Shrill wails emerge from this terrifying spore. Echoes of pain, of mistakes from past lives described in agonizing detail, in inscrutable language. It’s eyes beady and blacker than the night, seethe, at what I could not tell you.
What I do know however (and I could not tell you how I came to this conviction) is that Tiberius was destined to become a King among Kings. Resurrection was his birth right.

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