He ended up channeling some of the anima into each of them. He felt refreshed, like a thirsty man after taking a long drink, but hardly any different than that. It was going to be a long process to restore the both himself and the whelpling, he realized.
He also found he wasn’t dreading that. Despite its stench, Maldraxxus was as good of a home as any: the creatures inhabiting it only seemed to care that Seryth could carry his own weight in combat, which he could. They cared not what he had once done or who he had been.
Seryth was not sure if it had been just days or even years; the sickly yellow-green light of Maldraxxus never changed, and he never seemed to grow hungry or tired, past the usual exertion of battle. He fought until he tired, gathered his reward of anima, and fed it back into himself and the dragon under his care before venturing forth again.
Though the whelping never grew, and Seryth wasn’t certain how long dragons took to mature anyway, it looked stronger and more… willful, in a sense, after each siphoning. Seryth felt it in himself, too: a kind of strength of spirit and a confidence past what his battle skills naturally lent to him.
It was a long time before he found the courage to leave Maldraxxus, however.