A raw, burning sensation clawed at Cactus’s throat. His scales prickled, the phantom touch of a thousand ancient whispers still echoing in his mind. Sundew’s face, etched with concern, flickered behind his eyelids. He had nearly broken. Nearly spilled it all. The force of the psychic surge, the vivid, horrifying memory, had ripped through his carefully constructed walls. He shuddered, feeling the residual tremor deep in his bones. Breathing became a conscious effort. Each inhale brought the faint, insistent humming back to the forefront of his awareness. It wasn't loud, not like the surge, but a constant, almost hypnotic thrumming beneath the surface of everything. It felt like a subtle pressure against his skull, a gentle, insidious push. He needed air, distance, anything to clear the cobwebs from his thoughts. He had mumbled some excuse to Sundew, something about needing to check on the library’s rare plant collection. She had looked at him, truly looked, her sharp eyes piercing his flimsy facade. He wasn’t sure he’d convinced her. But he couldn’t stay there, couldn't risk another crack in his composure. Movement felt heavy, his limbs sluggish. He forced himself down the corridor, the familiar academy stone cool beneath his talons. The library. A place of quiet. A place where he could think, or at least pretend to. He craved the order of shelves, the scent of old parchment. Maybe it would ground him. Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, a wave of cool, musty air washed over him. Rows upon rows of scrolls and books stretched into the cavernous space. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light filtering through high windows. He scanned the room, his gaze searching for an empty corner, a hidden nook. There. Near the history section, perched on a tall, rickety stool, was Clay. The MudWing Head of School was usually a whirlwind of cheerful chaos, his presence filling a room with booming laughter and easygoing warmth. But today, a strange stillness clung to him. Clay wasn't reading. He was sorting. Scrolls, thick and thin, long and short, were meticulously stacked, then re-stacked. His large talons, usually clumsy with delicate objects, moved with an almost unnatural precision. Each scroll was placed with an exactness Cactus had never associated with the big dragon. Watching him from the shadows, Cactus felt a chill creep up his spine. Clay's head was bent, his brow furrowed in concentration. His usual relaxed posture was gone, replaced by a rigid straightness. His shoulders, typically broad and relaxed, seemed stiff, almost hunched with tension. Cactus eased further into the shadows, his scales blending with the muted stone. He wanted to understand, to rationalize what he was seeing. Clay loved the academy, loved the dragons within it. He was the rock, the unshakeable foundation of Jade Mountain. Yet, something was wrong. Profoundly wrong. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Clay remained silent, utterly absorbed in his task. There was no humming a familiar tune, no low chuckle. His tail, usually thumping a steady rhythm against the floor, lay still, coiled neatly beside the stool. It was a small detail, but it screamed volumes to Cactus. Clay’s tail was always moving, a tell-tale sign of his inner calm, his gentle joy. His eyes, usually bright with warmth and kindness, held a distant, almost vacant quality. They moved over the scrolls, but it felt less like reading and more like scanning, processing information without truly engaging with it. A robot could have performed the task with more personality. Cactus’s gut tightened. This wasn't Clay. Not the Clay he knew. Not the dragon who would instinctively offer a reassuring rumble or a plate of roasted scavenger. This was an automaton, performing a chore with uncharacteristic exactitude. The subtle hum, ever present, seemed to intensify, vibrating in his own eardrums, or perhaps, in Clay’s. Was this the influence? The insidious manipulation the humming exerted? Was it twisting even the most steadfast dragons, bending their wills, shifting their core personalities, just slightly, imperceptibly? If Clay, the epitome of stability, could be affected, who else? Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Cactus’s self-imposed calm. His core wound flared. He was failing. Failing to see the danger. Failing to protect these dragons, this fragile peace, from a threat he couldn't even grasp. The memory of the past loss, the one that haunted his every waking moment, pressed down on him, suffocating. He wouldn’t let it happen again. He couldn’t. He took a cautious step forward, a soft scrape of his talon against the stone. Clay’s head snapped up, his movements still too abrupt, too devoid of his usual fluid grace. His eyes, for a split second, met Cactus’s. There was no recognition, no spark of the usual camaraderie. Just a blank stare, like looking into a clouded sky. Then, a flicker. A brief, unsettling flash of… something. Was it confusion? Resentment? Cactus couldn't tell. Then, just as quickly, the expression vanished. Clay offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, then returned to his scrolls, his talons resuming their unnatural, precise motions. It was as if Cactus wasn't even there. No greeting. No question. Nothing. Cactus felt his scales go cold. Clay, the dragon who greeted everyone like family, had barely acknowledged him. This was beyond odd. It was terrifying. The humming suddenly felt like a claw at his throat, tightening, squeezing. He wanted to shout, to shake Clay, to demand answers. But what would he say? “Are you being controlled by a mysterious hum?” He’d sound mad. He retreated further, his heart hammering against his ribs. The library, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage. Every movement Clay made, every silent, meticulous adjustment of a scroll, sent a fresh wave of dread through Cactus. He watched Clay carefully, observing the patterns, the strange ritual of his work. Clay wasn't just organizing. He was arranging, selecting specific scrolls, placing them in an order that seemed to defy any logical system Cactus could discern. Some scrolls were placed on higher shelves, others tucked into lower cubbies. A few were brought out, studied for a moment, then discarded into a small, growing pile on the floor beside the stool. Clay didn't even glance at the discarded ones, simply let them fall as if they were trash. Cactus knew he needed to investigate. To understand the pattern, to find a clue. He couldn't just stand by and watch this happen. His protectiveness, his inherent need to control the situation, surged to the forefront. He had to know what was happening to Clay, to Jade Mountain, to *everyone*. He waited until Clay finally finished his current section, moving with the same disturbing precision to another shelf. As soon as the MudWing's back was turned, Cactus moved. Quiet as a desert shadow, he slipped past the towering shelves, heading for the small pile of discarded scrolls. His talons trembled slightly as he knelt, sifting through the neglected parchment. Most were innocuous. Old lesson plans. Outdated maps. A few poorly written poems by long-forgotten students. Nothing seemed out of place, nothing hinted at the sinister influence he suspected. His hope dwindled with each passing moment, replaced by a gnawing uncertainty. Perhaps he was just paranoid. Perhaps the psychic surge had simply rattled him more than he realized. Maybe Clay was just having a bad day, or fulfilling a boring task with unusual diligence. But the feeling, the deep-seated dread, refused to dissipate. He was about to give up, to stand and leave, to find another way to understand the pervasive humming, when his talon brushed against something hard, partially hidden beneath a crumpled map. He pushed aside the map, his gaze falling upon the object. A single, discarded scroll lay half-buried under a pile, its ancient title, ‘The Serpent’s Coil,’ glinting ominously in the dim light.

Chapter 37: The Weaver's Web