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When dragons are born it is by tumbling out of the shell onto all fours, a little puff of smoke - because that’s all they are; there’s nothing but ashy sniffles before words and tiny wings that flap feebly.
And they grow in the world, tail snaking out and wings still too small but for flapping wildly. Spyro himself tumbling along as he develops his scamper, a bouncy gallop with his tail waving behind him. Fire doesn’t spark until wings can hold a glide, and then horns and head are hard enough to charge.
Dragonflies attach themselves as soon as they catch sight of those whose soul they’ll guide.
Dragons do not count the years - they live far too long. Time is abstract to them, what with the varying realms with no true seasons. Different kinds live different lengths - and so age is determined by the stage a dragon is at in life. Time in the loosest sense exists; night, day.
So when Spyro can no longer scamper on all fours - his back feels awkwardly arched and his tail is too heavy - he enters a stage of puberty common to dragons; of walking on fours to walking on twos.
Quadrupedal to bipedal.
And it’s not graceful in any way; when he finally gets himself up with Delbin’s encouragement, he is uncertain, unbalanced. His tail feels too heavy although the weight helps balance him. His wings grow bigger and drape, like giant leaves - his chest won’t broaden to support the weight until he’s almost full grown.
Beneath it all joints and tendons and muscles loosen and strengthen and move as he learns walking all over again.
And - it’s awkward and embarrassing; he’s the only dragon his age in the realms, all the others that hatched much younger. He has no peers to fall back on.
At least Sparx doesn’t laugh too much.
But it’s not so bad. Marco the balloonist gives him his old scarf, billowing and red; the lead Peacekeeper gives him a pair of goggles to protect his eyes once he masters flight - true flight, not the magical billow updrafts for practicing gliders; and lastly, Delbin, the closest thing he has to a father, gives him a personally crafted travel pack, which means more than he’ll ever admit since Artisans take great pride in their craft, and Delbin is by no means a seamstress.
There’s support from the older ones, despite their light teasing and knowing glints; after all, they were all young once and changed in their youth.
So, he supposes it’s okay. Even when he one day visits Hunter and Elora, months unknown to him since he last saw them, they are astonished and then smile, running to him for a hug as they see him walking towards them, a paw raised in greeting.