Some days had passed.

Bug had learned, indeed, where to (and where not to), err, poop. And Dread had brought her food, and sheltered her; and the next day he lifted her in his claws, and swept down with great thumps of his wings and--from high in the air--he showed her Monoceros.

She was thrilled, exhilarated, terrified, fur puffed out and claws clinging to her father's feet. But once she was put down she was dancing across the rock, her own little wings batting uselessly at the air, mewing for another go.

When she needed to drink, he brought her to water. When she was hungry, he brought her food. And he taught her, as best he could at least, about things like magic and hunting, and the shininess of stones. He was very sure that she knew 'thank you.'

Now he was curling up in his den, as night fell; and Bug crawled up to him, purring. One draconic eye opened, and a wing shifted upward just a fraction--an invitation; and the kitten crawled beneath, snuggling against the warm black scales.

"What do you say?" her father prompted at last, his words thick with near-sleep.

"Thank you," she squeaked, and purred a little louder.