I’ve always loved the stars.

It’s one of the reasons being born under-the-mountain never sat well with me. My siblings had eyes for gold and gems; they rolled and played amidst towers of coinage and hunted each other through labyrinths of treasure piled high, while I crept out and clambered my way to the high peaks, to gaze upon the night in wonder.

When the mountain turned to flame, I took to wing and never looked back. Not that mere magma could threaten my kin, but the rising ash obscured my view of the sky.

I built my eyrie upon the cliffs, and traded the last of the gems my mother had thrust into my claws to a family of human craftsmen.

I made them rich for generations, and they built me a marvellous contraption of lenses and polished brass to bring me ever closer to the heavens.

Every star in the sky, I hold dear. Each wisp of distant galaxy, each glimmering, twinkling celestial night-light, I call a friend.

One day, I will fly fast enough and high enough to breach even heaven’s periphery; I will soar, weightless and free amongst the marvels of the universe, and never again return to the world I knew.

Until then, I will admire their dance from afar.