Two days. Two days since my conversation with Starflight in the hushed, parchment-
scented depths of the library. Two days of carrying the weight of an ancient prophecy, of
the mountain’s insistent pulse, and the unsettling memory of whispers that still pricked at
the edges of my hearing. The thump-thump was a constant companion now, a low,
resonant thrum that had woven itself into the very fabric of my existence at Jade Mountain.
It was no longer just a sensation; it was a premonition, a growing unease that settled deep
in my bones.
Today, we were back in the history cave, the same cavern where the mountain had given its
first, jarring boom. Starflight was lecturing on the intricacies of ancient SkyWing
architecture, his voice a steady drone that was meant to be soothing, but only served to
highlight the growing agitation in the stone beneath my talons. The thump-thump was
accelerating, becoming more erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain a steady beat. It was
no longer a gentle pulse; it was a frantic flutter, a desperate warning.
I sat on the stone bench, my talons pressed flat against the cold surface, trying to decipher
the mountain’s increasingly urgent message. The whispers, too, had returned, not as clear
words, but as a rising tide of indistinct murmurs, a cacophony of ancient voices that
seemed to be screaming just beyond the veil of my perception. My scar tingled, a familiar
prickle that had become synonymous with the mountain’s growing distress.
Around me, the Jade Winglet seemed oblivious. Kinkajou was sketching furiously in a small
notebook, her scales a vibrant green as she tried to capture the intricate details of a
SkyWing fortress Starflight was describing. Qibli was leaning back, balancing precariously
on two legs of his bench, his eyes half-closed, but I knew better than to mistake his relaxed
posture for inattention. He was absorbing every word, every nuance, his mind a steel trap.
Moon was taking meticulous notes, her brow furrowed in concentration, her silver teardrop
scales glowing faintly. Winter, predictably, was slumped, his chin resting on his talons,
looking utterly bored, but his ears were still slightly swiveled towards Starflight. Turtle was,
as usual, a quiet presence, meticulously polishing a smooth, grey stone.
I glanced at Moon. She had mentioned hearing the hum, however faintly. Was she feeling
this escalation? Her expression was calm, focused on Starflight. No, it seemed I was still
alone in this. The thought was a cold knot in my gut. If I was the only one who could truly
feel it, then the responsibility, the burden, was mine alone.
Starflight was detailing the structural weaknesses of a particular SkyWing tower, his talons
tracing an imaginary fault line in the air. "...and it was precisely along this fault line that the
tower eventually collapsed during the Great Quake of consideration." He paused, his sightless eyes seeming to sweep across the room, a faint,
knowing smile on his snout.
As he uttered the word "quake," the mountain screamed.
It wasn’t a hum anymore. It was a violent, guttural roar that erupted from the very depths
of the earth. The thump-thump became a single, continuous, bone-jarring CRACK! that
ripped through the stone. The bench beneath me lurched violently, throwing me forward. A
wave of pure, unadulterated force slammed into my body, knocking the air from my lungs.
The whispers in my head coalesced into a deafening shriek, a chorus of terrified, ancient
voices screaming in unison.
Dust exploded from the ceiling, thick and choking, instantly obscuring everything. The fire-
globes swung wildly, casting insane, dancing shadows that made the cavern seem to
writhe. A deafening cacophony erupted: the roar of shifting stone, the terrified cries of
dragonets, the splintering crash of benches, and the frantic flapping of wings.
My instincts, honed in a childhood of desert skirmishes and sudden, brutal violence, took
over. I flattened myself against the ground, covering my head with my forearms, trying to
make myself as small a target as possible. The floor bucked and heaved beneath me, a
living, angry beast. I could feel the very bedrock groaning, tearing itself apart, the sound a
raw, agonizing rip that vibrated through every scale on my body.
I heard Kinkajou shriek, a high-pitched sound of pure terror. A heavy thud nearby suggested
a falling object, or perhaps a dragon. Qibli’s voice, usually so calm and collected, barked
orders, trying to guide dragonets to safety. Moon’s presence, usually so serene, was now a
frantic pulse of fear and confusion. Winter’s growls were sharp, laced with genuine alarm,
not just disdain.
"Stay down!" Starflight’s voice, surprisingly steady, cut through the chaos. "Everyone, stay
low! Move away from the walls!"
But the walls themselves were moving. A massive crack, like a jagged lightning bolt, snaked
its way across the cavern ceiling, sending a shower of pebbles and dust raining down. One
of the fire-globes tore free from its mossy mooring, plummeting to the ground with a
sickening crunch, plunging a section of the cave into deeper shadow.
The tremor lasted for what felt like an eternity, a grinding, shaking, tearing of the earth that
threatened to swallow us whole. Then, as suddenly as it began, it subsided. The violent
shaking tapered off into a series of diminishing shudders, then a low, continuous rumble,
and finally, back to the familiar, frantic thump-thump beneath my talons. The whispers,
though still present, had retreated to a dull roar, a receding tide of fear.
I slowly pushed myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. The air was thick with dust,
making it hard to breathe, stinging my eyes. The cavern was a scene of utter devastation.
Benches were overturned, scrolls lay scattered and torn, and several sections of the wall had crumbled, revealing raw, jagged rock. Dragonets were huddled together, some
whimpering, some trying to comfort others, their scales dulled with dust and fear.
"Is everyone alright?" Starflight called out, his voice strained. He was on his talons, his head
swiveling, trying to assess the damage with his other senses. "Report in! Jade Winglet?"
"We’re here!" Qibli coughed, waving a talon through the dust. He was helping Kinkajou,
whose scales were a mottled grey-brown, to her feet. She was trembling, her wings pressed
tight against her body. "A little dusty, but mostly intact."
Moon emerged from behind an overturned bench, her scales a deep, anxious blue. She
looked shaken, her eyes wide with a fear I hadn’t seen in them before. "I’m fine," she
whispered, her voice barely audible.
Winter, surprisingly, was already checking on Turtle, who had curled into a tight ball.
"He’s just scared," Winter grumbled, though his tone held a rare note of concern. "Not
hurt."
My gaze swept over the damage. The crack in the ceiling was massive, a gaping wound in
the mountain’s flesh. And along the floor, radiating out from the center of the cavern,
were new fissures, thin lines of destruction that seemed to follow the path of the
mountain’s deepest, most ancient fault lines. The thump-thump was still there, a frantic,
desperate rhythm, but now it was overlaid with a new sound: the faint, almost
imperceptible creak and groan of settling stone.
Just then, the entrance to the history cave was filled by two imposing figures. Clay, his
massive MudWing frame looking even larger in the dust-filled air, and Tsunami, her blue
SeaWing scales gleaming, her expression grim. Behind them, I could make out the worried
faces of other faculty members.
"What happened here?" Tsunami demanded, her voice sharp, cutting through the lingering
fear. "Is everyone accounted for?"
"A tremor, Headmistress Tsunami," Starflight explained, his voice regaining its usual calm.
"A rather significant one. But it appears all dragonets are safe, if a little shaken."
Clay began moving through the cavern, his kind eyes scanning the dragonets, offering
reassuring words. "Just a little mountain hiccup, everyone. Nothing to worry about. Jade
Mountain is old, it settles sometimes. It’s perfectly safe."
Safe? The word tasted like ash in my mouth. I knew it wasn’t safe. I had felt the mountain
tear itself apart. I had heard its screams. This wasn’t a "hiccup." This was a warning. A
prelude. And they were dismissing it, just like they had dismissed my concerns about the
hum.
I pushed myself to my feet, my talons still tingling with the aftershocks. "It wasn’t just
settling," I said, my voice rough, cutting through Clay’s reassurances. All eyes turned to me. "It was a massive tremor. The mountain is unstable. There are new cracks everywhere. The lesson had been a warning. This one was a call to action. And I was going to answer it whether they liked it or not.