The journey to Starflight’s history cave was less chaotic than the stampede to the Prey Center, but no less crowded. The tunnels were a labyrinth of polished stone, each turn revealing another stream of dragonets, all heading in the same general direction. The air grew warmer as we descended, thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint, metallic tang of minerals embedded deep within the mountain. I kept my talons pressed firmly against the ground, the thump-thump a steady, insistent rhythm beneath my feet, a constant reminder of the mountain’s hidden pulse. Moon walked beside me, her silence a comfortable counterpoint to Kinkajou’s excited chatter, which was now focused on the various cave paintings we passed. "Oh, look! Is that a SkyWing fighting a scavenger? Or is it a scavenger fighting a SkyWing? It’s so hard to tell with these ancient drawings, isn’t it?" she chirped, her scales a curious mix of orange and purple as she tried to decipher the faded images. Qibli was a few paces ahead, already engaged in a lively debate with a Gold Winglet SkyWing about the strategic implications of the Scorpion Den’s defenses. He caught my eye and winked, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all. Winter, predictably, was trailing behind, his wings slightly hunched, his expression a familiar mask of disdain. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, preferably somewhere colder and devoid of other dragons. Turtle, as usual, was a quiet shadow, his bioluminescent scales barely visible in the dim light, his gaze fixed on the ground. As we approached the history cave, the scent of old scrolls intensified, mingling with the faint, sweet smell of volcanic ash. The entrance was wide and imposing, flanked by two massive, unlit torches. Inside, the cavern was vast, its ceiling soaring into darkness, punctuated by glowing moss and strategically placed fire-globes that cast long, dancing shadows across the walls. Rows of stone benches, worn smooth by generations of dragonets, faced a raised platform where a small, unassuming NightWing was already perched. Starflight. The famous librarian, the former dragonet of destiny, the dragon who had saved the world with his brain rather than his brawn. He was smaller than I’d imagined, his scales a deep, matte black, and his eyes, though sightless, seemed to possess an inner light that was almost unnerving. He held a scroll in his talons, his snout tilted slightly, as if listening to the echoes of history itself. The cavern was already half-full, a kaleidoscope of scales and wings. I found an empty spot on a bench near the back, positioning myself so I had a clear view of Starflight, but also a discreet escape route if the need arose. Moon settled beside me, her presence a quiet comfort. Qibli took the spot on my other side, his tail flicking idly. Kinkajou, after a brief moment of indecision, squeezed in next to Moon, her scales a bright, expectant yellow. Winter, after a moment of glaring at the general populace, grudgingly took a seat on the far end of our bench, as far from me as possible. Turtle, ever the phantom, materialized silently at the very end. "Welcome, dragonets," Starflight’s voice was soft, almost a murmur, yet it carried effortlessly across the cavern. "Welcome to your first history lesson at Jade Mountain Academy. Today, we begin at the beginning. Or, rather, at the end of an era. The end of the Great War, and the dawn of a new age of peace." He paused, his sightless eyes seeming to sweep across the room, as if he could see each and every one of us. I shifted on the hard stone bench, trying to get comfortable. The thump-thump beneath my talons was still there, a low, persistent bass note in the symphony of the mountain. But now, as Starflight began to speak, it seemed to intensify, growing louder, more insistent. It was no longer just a rhythm; it was a presence, a subtle pressure against my scales, a faint tremor in the air that only I seemed to perceive. Starflight launched into a detailed account of the war, his voice weaving a tapestry of battles, alliances, and betrayals. He spoke of the three SandWing sisters, Burn, Blister, and Blaze, their ambitions tearing the desert apart. He described the desperate pleas of the dragonets of destiny, their impossible quest to find the true queen. He painted vivid pictures of the scorched earth, the endless skirmishes, the countless lives lost. I listened, or tried to. But the words seemed to wash over me, unable to penetrate the growing distraction of the mountain’s pulse. The thump-thump was no longer faint. It was a dull ache in my talons, a vibration that traveled up my legs, through my spine, and settled deep in my skull. It felt like a drumbeat, slow and heavy, resonating with something ancient and powerful. I glanced around, subtly, trying to see if anyone else noticed. Kinkajou was rapt, her scales shifting between fascinated green and thoughtful blue. Qibli was taking notes on a small slate, his brow furrowed in concentration. Moon was listening intently, her silver teardrop scales glowing faintly, her expression serene. Winter was still scowling, but he was listening, too, his ears occasionally twitching at a particularly dramatic detail. No one else seemed to feel it. No one else seemed to notice the way the very stone beneath us was humming, vibrating with a life of its own. Was I going mad? Was this some strange side effect of the altitude? Or was it something else entirely? I pressed my talons harder against the bench, trying to anchor myself, to understand. The vibration wasn’t random. It had a pattern. Thump-thump. Pause. Thump-thump. Longer pause. Thump-thump-thump. It was almost like a code, a message being tapped out from the heart of the mountain. But what kind of message? And why could only I feel it? Starflight was now discussing the aftermath of the war, the fragile peace, the challenges of uniting tribes that had been enemies for generations. "...and so, the establishment of Jade Mountain Academy was a bold, unprecedented step," he explained, his voice gaining a touch of pride. "A place where dragonets from all tribes could learn to coexist, to understand each other, to build a future free from the prejudices of the past." As he spoke of the academy, the thump-thump intensified further. It was no longer just a vibration; it was a low, resonant hum that seemed to fill the air, a deep, almost mournful sound that only I could perceive. It felt like the mountain itself was reacting to Starflight’s words, a silent, ancient commentary on the fragile peace he described. My head began to ache, a dull throb behind my eyes. The scar over my left eye felt like it was tingling, almost burning. I tried to focus on Starflight, to force myself to pay attention, but the internal noise was overwhelming. It was like trying to listen to a whisper in the middle of a sandstorm. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to clear my head, to push the sensation away. When I opened them, Moon was looking at me, her dark eyes filled with concern. She leaned closer, her voice a barely audible whisper. "Are you alright, Cactus? You look... pale. And your scales are bristling." Her snout wrinkled slightly. "Are you feeling the humming again?" I nodded, a single, jerky movement. "It’s... louder," I admitted, my voice hoarse. "Much louder. It’s everywhere." Qibli, who had clearly overheard, leaned in too, his expression serious. "Everywhere? Like, in the air? Or still just through the ground?" His eyes darted around the cavern, as if trying to catch the elusive sound himself. "Both," I said, gritting my teeth. "It’s like the whole mountain is vibrating. Like it’s... alive." Winter, who had been pointedly ignoring us, suddenly shifted, his head snapping towards me. "What are you two whispering about? Is this another one of your ridiculous conspiracy theories?" He looked genuinely annoyed, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes – curiosity, perhaps, or a grudging concern. "It’s not a conspiracy theory, Winter," Moon said, her voice firm. "Cactus is feeling something. Something real." Starflight, oblivious to our hushed conversation, continued his lecture. "...and so, the lessons of history teach us that peace is not a given. It is a constant effort, a delicate balance that must be maintained through understanding and cooperation. It is why you are all here. To learn from the past, and to build a better future." As he uttered the word "future," the thump-thump reached a crescendo. It wasn’t just a hum anymore. It was a deep, resonant boom, a single, powerful pulse that shook the very foundations of the cave. The fire-globes flickered, casting erratic shadows. A fine dust rained down from the ceiling. A few dragonets gasped, others cried out in surprise. Even Starflight paused, his head tilting, his sightless eyes wide. Then, as quickly as it came, it faded. The boom receded into a low thrum, then a faint vibration, and finally, back to the familiar, insistent thump-thump beneath my talons. The dust settled. The fire-globes steadied. The other dragonets exchanged nervous glances, attributing it to a minor tremor, a natural settling of the mountain. "Just the mountain settling, everyone," Starflight said, his voice calm, though I detected a slight tremor in his tone. "Nothing to worry about. As I was saying..." But I knew better. It wasn’t just the mountain settling. It was a warning. A message. And it was getting stronger. The sheer power of that single boom had rattled me to my core, not just physically, but deep inside, stirring a primal fear I hadn’t felt since... since the war. Since the day I lost everything. I looked at Moon. Her eyes were wide, fixed on me, a silent question in their depths. She had felt it too, or at least, she had perceived my reaction to it. Qibli was staring at the spot where the dust had fallen, his mind clearly racing, connecting dots I hadn’t even considered. Even Winter looked less disdainful, a hint of unease clouding his usually frosty expression. The class continued, but I heard none of it. My mind was consumed by the rhythm, the pulse, the heartbeat of the mountain. It was a living thing, and it was trying to tell me something. Something important. Something urgent. And I had a terrifying feeling that if I didn’t listen, if I didn’t understand, then the future Starflight spoke of might not be so peaceful after all. As the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the lesson, I was the first one off the bench. My talons still throbbed, and the phantom echo of that boom resonated in my bones. I had to find out what it was. I had to. The mountain was speaking, and I was the only one who could hear its desperate plea. My first lesson at Jade Mountain Academy had taught me one thing: the real education was going to happen outside the classroom, deep within the stone, where the mountain held its breath and waited. And I was going to be ready for it.

The First Lesson