Azmira is my daughter.
She hatched with too much energy for the Storm Spire to hold. From her first breath, she did not rest. She climbed before she could walk properly. She ran before she understood where the edges were.

She is small, but the sky listens to her.
Her magic appears as sparks and wind, uncontrolled and sudden. It is not dangerous—only loud. She startles the guards. She startles the winds. Sometimes she startles me.

She treats the Storm Spire as if it belongs to her already. She slides across the stone, climbs the walls, tangles herself in banners, and laughs when she falls. She has no patience for stillness.
This is not a flaw.

After so much loss, stillness can feel like death. Azmira refuses it.
I watch her closely. I correct her when she must be corrected. But I do not stop her from running. The sky must learn her shape, not the other way around.

Azymondias carries the weight of what is expected.
Azmira carries what continues without asking permission.