Sleeping Dragon sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc

 
The stormchaser was not a princess.  
 
It had not been evident how drastically different she and Freyja would have been when they were born. At first, the thunder child had been quite fond of the slate-coated sister. There had been a comradery that was difficult to beat, but somehow the world had pulled them apart. Thyri did not imagine she would ever feel the same way about Freyja as she had when they were whelps. She had come to accept the changes in the world, though, and she embraced them for what they were. The entitled nature of her silver sister had left a vile taste in the back of her throat, for Thyri knew that she was stronger and more fierce, but she would not demonstrate that until the time was right.  
 
The feral child moved like a serpent around the geysers; her head was held low and her ears were drawn forward. When the scent of Heda crossed her, she drew her crown upward and peered with pale eyes into the rising steam. The shadow was certain to be near.