“If you didn't figure it out, you weren't worthy of knowing." She huffs. "I waited six hundred and fifty years to hatch. Waited until your eighteenth summer, when I heard our elders talk of a weakling daughter of their general, the girl forecasted to become the head of the scribes, and I knew. You would have the mind of a scribe and the heart of a rider. You would be mine." She leans into my hand. "You are as unique as I am. We want the same things."
"You couldn't have known I would be a rider."
"And yet, here we are."
A thousand questions go through my head, none of which we have the time for, so I give her exactly what I wanted–to be seen for who and what she is.
"You are not a black dragon, or any of the six that we know of. You're a seventh breed."
"Yes." Her eyes widen in excitement.”