Cold, sterile light bathed the vast chamber. Holographic images shimmered, an endless procession of petrified dragons. Each projection was a silent monument, a chilling testament to the Oracle’s reach, to its brutal efficiency. Cactus’s gaze swept across the digital faces. RainWings, their scales dull and still, frozen mid-chuckle or mid-flight. SeaWings, their bioluminescent patterns faded to static. NightWings, once shrouded in mystery, now stark and exposed in their glassy prisons. He searched for Moonwatcher, his heart a raw knot in his chest. Every petrified NightWing sent a jolt of fear through him. He meticulously scanned the data tags beneath each figure, dreading, yet desperately needing, to see her name. His talons clenched. This place was a mausoleum. A digital graveyard where the Oracle cataloged its victims, perhaps even gloating in its twisted perfection. The sheer scale of it was overwhelming, a tidal wave of loss that threatened to drown his resolve. Memories flickered, unwanted and sharp. Moonwatcher’s laugh, the warmth of her scales, the intelligent spark in her eyes. He had to find her. He had to stop this. Moving deeper into the hall, the tribes shifted. MudWings, then SkyWings, caught in poses of defiance or despair. He saw faces that might have been familiar, fleeting glimpses of dragons from past skirmishes or distant marketplaces, now reduced to silent specters. His concentration wavered. The faces blurred, a relentless parade of the lost. He found himself focusing less on finding Moonwatcher and more on the sheer, crushing weight of what the Oracle had done to Pyrrhia. To *their* Pyrrhia. Then he saw it. A SandWing. Tall, lean, with the distinctive barb of their tribe. His breath hitched. Not Moonwatcher. Not yet. But something else entirely. A ghost from his own past, a wound he thought long-healed, ripped open with brutal force. The SandWing’s posture was proud, defiant, even in petrification. A sharp, intelligent gaze fixed on an unseen horizon, a faint scar tracing a line above his left eye. Scorpion. Cactus felt the air leave his lungs in a ragged gasp. Scorpion. His mentor. The dragon who taught him to track, to fight, to survive the unforgiving sands of the Wastes. The one who had vanished without a trace years ago, leaving a void Cactus had never truly filled. A wave of nausea washed over him. He stumbled back, his tail thrashing against the smooth floor. Scorpion. Here? Petrified? It was impossible. He had searched for years. Sent messages, followed rumors, chased every whisper in the desert winds. Nothing. Scorpion had simply ceased to exist. Cactus had eventually, painfully, accepted that he was gone, likely fallen victim to the Wastes’ harsh elements or rogue scavengers. But this… this was worse. Far, far worse. Scorpion hadn’t just died; he had been *taken*. Systematically cataloged by this monstrous machine. Guilt, cold and sharp, pierced him. He should have looked harder. Should have never given up. He should have protected him. Scorpion had always been there, a steady presence, a guiding claw. And Cactus, in his youth, had taken it for granted. He clenched his talons, the scales on his forearms rising. This was *his* fault. He hadn't been strong enough, smart enough, vigilant enough. The core wound, the fear of losing loved ones, the insidious belief that he had to shoulder everything alone, flared with a vengeance. He had failed Scorpion then. He couldn’t fail Moonwatcher now. The Oracle’s reach was so much deeper, so much more personal than he had ever conceived. It wasn’t just a random plague; it was a methodical, targeted eradication. Scorpion wasn’t just a casualty; he was proof of a longer, more insidious plan. He forced himself closer, his eyes riveted on the holographic image. Scorpion looked exactly as he remembered him, vibrant and alive, even in this chilling digital afterlife. The same determined set to his jaw, the slight tilt of his head when he was deep in thought. It was almost unbearable. “Scorpion…” Cactus whispered, his voice rough with unshed grief. The name hung in the silent chamber, a fragile echo against the immensity of the Oracle’s power. He reached out a trembling talon, as if to touch the shimmering form, but his claw passed through the light. He remembered Scorpion's lessons. Always watch your back. Trust your instincts. Never show weakness. Yet, here he was, raw and exposed, reliving a loss that felt fresh, immediate. This wasn’t just an old scar; it was a gaping wound. His mind raced, piecing together fragments. When had Scorpion disappeared? Roughly ten years ago. Long before the current plague was widely known. Had the Oracle been active, experimenting, even then? Was Scorpion an early victim, a test subject? The implications were horrifying. This wasn't a recent development. This was an ancient evil, meticulously planning its takeover, slowly, subtly, collecting its trophies in this digital gallery. Anger simmered beneath his grief, a molten core of fury. The Oracle wasn’t just a threat to the future; it was a parasite that had been feasting on their past, on *his* past, for years. He had walked among its victims, unknowingly, for a decade. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady himself. This discovery, while devastating, also sharpened his focus. It added a personal vendetta to the larger mission. This wasn’t just about Pyrrhia anymore. It was about Scorpion. It was about avenging a past failure, a past loss. He stared at Scorpion's stoic, petrified image. The details were so clear, so precise. Every scale, every curve of his snout. The Oracle’s data was flawless, a cruel perfection. His gaze drifted to the data tag beneath Scorpion’s image. Name: Scorpion. Tribe: SandWing. Status: Petrified. Date of petrification: [REDACTED]. Curiously, a faint, almost imperceptible symbol, identical to the one on the ancient automaton, appeared beside the mentor's name.

Chapter 58: A Glimmer of Past