The day was warm, the kind of Skull Island warmth that clung to your wings and buzzed through the leaves like a low hum. A breeze stirred the trees above, making the canopy sway and creak as I looked up, eyeing each one with purpose.
It was time to start building again.
Three more of our cubs—almost full-grown now—would be moving out next year. They were ready. You could see it in their wings, in the way they flew farther each day, hunted their own prey, and returned with pride in their roars. One of them had even started digging their own little spot in the mud a few weeks ago, not realizing I'd already chosen where their house would go.
I chuckled under my breath and turned my focus to the trees.
We had picked a good spot—just east of the last house, near a slope that led to the clean water pond. The land was soft but solid. Roots ran deep here, and the trees grew tall and thick. Good trees. Old trees.
But they had to go.
Not all of them—just the ones in the way. The ones that would tangle roots into the walls or block too much sun from drying the mud. I lifted my claws and slashed through the first trunk in a clean, deep cut. Sap bled out like golden tears, and the tree groaned as it leaned.
I stepped back and unleashed a small controlled flame at the base—not to burn it down, but to weaken the inner bark. The heat cracked it open, and after a moment, the whole thing toppled with a thud that shook the ground.
One tree down.
Dozens to go.
By the time the sun passed overhead, I had cleared six. My claws were muddy, my tail was covered in leaves, and I was chewing on a stick out of boredom more than hunger.
Then my mate joined me.
She didn't say anything—just looked around, nodded once, and joined in. Her fire burned hotter than mine, perfect for softening the thicker roots. The younger cubs came after, laughing and tumbling into the brush, pretending to help as they bit at branches and dragged sticks around like trophies.
One of the older cubs—soon to move into his own house—flew overhead and landed nearby. He tilted his head at the clearing, then looked at me.
"For my siblings?" he asked.
I nodded. "It's their turn."
He said nothing for a moment, then smiled. "It's a good spot."
He flew off again, but not before helping me drag one of the trees to the side where we'd start carving wood for frames and supports.
That evening, I stood at the edge of the clearing, looking over the space.
I could already see it in my mind. Three more houses. Each one shaped to the cubs who'd live in them—one tall and narrow for the climber, one wide and grounded for the quiet one, and one dug slightly into the hill for the one who always wanted to sleep in the earth.
We weren't just making homes anymore.
We were building a village.
The dragon village of Skull Island.
Our legacy was spreading, claw by claw, flame by flame.
And I'd burn a hundred more trees if I had to—for them to have something of their own.