Aunlon's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

The trail egg pulses a second time. Aunlon feels it through the pouch fabric before they see the glow. Their hand freezes mid-reach. Kipril notices, goes still. "What does that mean?" Kipril asks, voice careful. Aunlon's throat tightens. They pull the egg out, and yes—the rhythm has changed. "I calculated six weeks," Aunlon says, all four eyes fixed on the armored shell. "Maybe seven if the temperature stayed stable." The egg pulses again, brighter this time. Kipril's face goes pale. So does Aunlon's. "How long do we have?" Kipril whispers. Aunlon's mind races through the research, the charts, the temperature curves they memorized during all those late nights planning for solo incubation. They shake their head. "I don't know. Days, maybe. Or less." Kipril moves first. They grab the thermal core they brought earlier—the one meant as a bonding gift, still sitting by the nest entrance—and carry it inside. "What do we need?" Kipril asks, already scanning the half-finished nest. Aunlon wants to say they have a plan, that they've prepared for this, but the truth catches in their throat. They researched solo incubation, yes. But not this. Not hatching with someone else, not coordinating, not trusting another person to know what needs doing. "Grasses," Aunlon finally manages. "Fresh ones. The green kind from near the water." Kipril nods and turns to leave, but Aunlon catches their arm. "Wait." They press the smooth stone with glowing veins into Kipril's palm—the calming stone they've kept near the nest for weeks. "Take this. You'll need it more than me." Kipril returns before the next pulse, arms full of nest grasses, breathing hard. They work in silence, weaving the stalks into the gaps Aunlon points out. The trail egg sits between them on the nest floor, counting down time neither of them can measure. Aunlon watches Kipril's hands move—quick, careful, capable—and something shifts. They've been so focused on finding someone to tell things to when the eggs hatch that they never imagined this: someone who would run for grasses without asking why, who would take their fear seriously enough to move. "You're doing it wrong," Aunlon says, but their voice is soft. Kipril looks up, worried, and Aunlon reaches over to adjust the weave. Their hand brushes Kipril's. "Like this. Tighter." The trail egg pulses a fourth time, and Aunlon stops counting. They sit back on their three legs and look at what they've built in the last hour: a nest that's not perfect, not complete, but real. Kipril is still weaving, focused, and Aunlon realizes they're not afraid anymore. Not of the early hatching, not of doing this wrong. They're afraid of something else entirely—of how much they want this person to stay. "Kipril," they say. Kipril looks up. "Thank you." It's not enough, but it's what Aunlon has. Kipril's expression softens. They reach for Aunlon's hand and hold it. The eggs inside Aunlon's pouch stay perfectly still, and the trail egg glows steady between them, and Aunlon understands: they're not preparing alone anymore. They already started.