The morning after the whispers was a blur of muted colors and distant sounds. I’d barely
slept, the echoes of the mountain’s strange song still reverberating in the cavern of my
skull. The thump-thump was back to its usual, insistent rhythm, a low pulse beneath my
talons, but the memory of the voices, the ancient, sorrowful murmurs, clung to me like the
damp mountain air. I felt raw, exposed, as if the mountain had peeled back a layer of my
carefully constructed defenses.
Kinkajou was already a whirlwind of cheerful chaos, her scales a bright, optimistic yellow as
she chattered about breakfast. Qibli was polishing his claws, a thoughtful frown etched
between his eyes, no doubt still pondering the "humming" we’d discussed. Moon was by
the pool, her dark eyes fixed on the water, a stillness about her that suggested she was
listening to something far beyond the visible world. Even Winter, for once, seemed less
inclined to snarl, merely grunting as he stretched his stiff wings.
I ate in silence, the taste of roasted boar like ash in my mouth. The food was abundant, but
my appetite was gone, replaced by a gnawing urgency. I needed answers. The whispers had
been too real, too unsettling, to dismiss as mere fatigue or imagination. If the mountain was
speaking, I had to understand what it was saying. And there was only one dragon in the
academy who might have even a fraction of an idea where to begin looking.
Starflight. The blind NightWing librarian. He knew more about scrolls and ancient lore than
any dragon I’d ever heard of. If anyone could help me sift through the mountain’s
secrets, it was him.
The journey to the library was a solitary one. I deliberately lagged behind the others,
needing the quiet to gather my thoughts, to steel myself for what I was about to ask. The
tunnels were still bustling with dragonets heading to their various classes, but I moved with
a purpose, my gaze fixed on the ground, feeling the familiar thump-thump guiding me
deeper into the mountain’s heart. It was stronger here, a deep, resonant vibration that felt
like the very bones of the world were shifting beneath my feet.
The library was a stark contrast to the boisterous energy of the rest of the academy. It was a
cavern of hushed reverence, a vast, sprawling space carved deep into the mountain. The air
was cool and dry, thick with the intoxicating scent of old parchment, dust, and the faint,
sweet aroma of ancient ink. Rows upon rows of shelves, carved directly from the stone,
stretched into the darkness, laden with scrolls of every size, color, and material imaginable.
Some were tightly rolled and bound with leather, others lay open on stone lecterns, their
faded script waiting to be deciphered. Globes of soft, glowing moss illuminated the
pathways, casting a warm, amber light that made the shadows dance.
It was a place of immense power, not the raw, destructive power of a SkyWing’s fire or an
IceWing’s frostbreath, but the quiet, enduring power of knowledge. It was overwhelming, humbling, and for a SandWing who had spent his life in a world of harsh, immediate
realities, utterly alien.
Starflight was perched on a low stone stool near the center of the cavern, his snout buried
in a massive, leather-bound tome. His sightless eyes were closed, but his talons moved with
practiced ease, tracing the raised script on the pages. He looked utterly at peace, a dragon
perfectly at home amidst the silent wisdom of centuries.
I approached cautiously, my talons making barely a whisper on the stone floor. The thump-
thump here was a constant, low drone, a background hum that seemed to resonate with
the very silence of the library. It was less intrusive than the night before, but no less present.
"Starflight?" I rumbled, my voice feeling unnaturally loud in the hushed space.
He started, his head snapping up, his sightless eyes blinking. A faint flush of embarrassment
spread across his black scales. "Oh! Cactus. I didn’t hear you approach. My apologies. I
was He pushed himself off the stool, his movements surprisingly agile for a dragon who spent
most of his time reading. "Come," he said, gesturing with a talon towards a darker, more
secluded section of the library. "If the mountain is speaking, we should listen. We will start
with the geological surveys. Then the ancient tribal histories. And then Scorching. Most of it is nonsense, of course. But there is one passage