A Tearful Discovery

The sky was a canvas of emerald and gold, slashed by the silent flight of the great dragons. Their scales shimmered, their wings spanned mountains. Below, Alistair watched, his heart heavy.

He ran a hand over his chest, then his shoulders. One arm, two arms. A deep, primal ache pulsed. He knew it with a certainty that defied logic: he was meant for three. A third arm, maybe for steering a dragon, maybe just for balance. The loss, a phantom limb, brought a hot, stinging clarity.

Alistair looked at the majestic beasts soaring, then at his two-armed self. A silent, single tear tracked a path down his dust-caked cheek. He cried, not for a lost love or a fallen kingdom, but for the third arm that never was, and the flight he was therefore forbidden.