He spiralled skyward, and took a breath. He was so high up now, and despite his loneliness, he exulted in his mastery over flight.

Mastery being a very, very relative term, as the newly-fledged dragon could barely keep himself in the air. The breath was meant to fuel his magic, but though he felt his gut heating, it quickly faded as he struggled to even keep himself in the air.

He turned, batting his wings, and soared downward on the updraft with very little effort--fairly unbothered by the failure of his flame. He'd not even managed it yet, not really; he blew heat from his gullet and little else. He would learn what it meant to be a true dragon--but not yet.

He banked, soaring along the beach where loose rock met water.

He'd sweep down. He would rest in his niche; he would sleep. Tomorrow, he would hunt, and he would fly.

Life--though lonely--was good.