The next day, the rain returned.
Soft at first, like the island was whispering. Then stronger, like a song rising in the trees, until the skies once again poured everything they had onto the land below.
But this time, we were ready.
We had dug.
We had shaped.
We had built something that could take the storm—and welcome it.
I stood at the edge of our great lake, wings half open, the rain soaking into my scales. All around me, the world blurred under the falling sky. The air was cool, fresh. The scent of wet stone and green leaves filled my nostrils.
And the water… rose.
It didn't flood. It filled. Just as it should.
The trenches between our three ponds rippled as the rainwater surged through, feeding each one in turn. The smallest pond was quiet and still, like it respected the new order. The drinking pond stayed clean, only touched by the rainwater filtered through stones and roots. And the lake—our great hunting ground—it thrived.
Not muddy. Not murky.
The rain didn't bring dirt this time.
Because we had burned the edges.
Days ago, my mate and I scorched the banks, turning the soft soil to hardened clay and blackened rock. Fire turned the mud to something strong. And now, when the rain came again, it didn't break the shape of the lake—it preserved it. Held it. Kept the water clean and the bottom clear.
Some of the fish—those strange silver-bottom feeders we brought from a highland spring—ate whatever muck the rain stirred loose, cleaning as they fed.
The balance was working.
The cubs splashed at the shore, chasing each other in the shallow trenches, wings flapping, tails whipping water. My mate stood nearby, calm and content, her eyes always on them—even when they thought she wasn't looking.
I stepped into the lake.
Then dove.
The water was cool—not cold—and smooth as silk. Visibility stretched far. I could see every shadow, every fish, every ripple of plant life swaying beneath the surface.
Hundreds of fish now.
Some small, darting in tight clouds.
Some larger, their silvery backs catching glints of light through the rain.
I swam deeper, gliding past clusters of plant-covered rocks, twisting between drifting strands of leafy green that danced with the current. Fish scattered as I passed—instinct telling them to flee even when I wasn't hunting.
I didn't need to eat right now.
This was just for me.
To feel what we had made.
I reached the deepest part, curled my tail, and launched upward in a spiral. Water spun around me. I broke the surface with a crack and a roar, sending a fountain of droplets into the air.
The cubs roared back from the shore, mimicking me, proud and loud.
Even the youngest one tried, though his came out more like a squeak.
I paddled back to the edge and laid my head on the smooth, wet stone. My wings floated beside me. My tail drifted like a lazy serpent behind me.
I didn't need to speak.
Didn't need to think.
This lake, this moment—it was a promise. Of food. Of shelter. Of peace.
But more than that, it was ours.
I closed my eyes, surrounded by life and water and rain, and let the silence take me.
Tomorrow, we would hunt.
Tomorrow, we would defend it all again.
But today…
Today, we simply lived.