The infirmary reeked of crushed lily pollen and desperation. Sunlight filtered through the woven leaf canopy, dappling Ena's purple scales as she slept, her chest rising in steady, sap-drugged rhythm. IceMoon hovered near the entrance, her claws itching to freeze something—anything—to drown out the cloying scent of hope.

"The silk-moths say she'll fly again," Mangrove murmured. He hadn't taken his eyes off Ena since they'd arrived, his talons curled around the edge of her vine cot like he could anchor her to the living through sheer force. "They're calling her a hero."

Hero. IceMoon bit back a snort. Heroes were fools with pretty funeral pyres. Ena had charged Blister's forces alone to buy them time. Brave? Yes. Reckless? Absolutely. Just like him.

"Don't," Mangrove said suddenly, his voice frayed. "Whatever you're thinking—stop."

IceMoon stiffened. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to." He finally turned, his amber eyes hollowed out by sleepless nights and unshed tears. "You think I don't know that look? 'Why bother saving her? She'll just throw herself into the next fire.'"

The accuracy stung. IceMoon's frost breath misted the air between them. "She's your mate. You'd want her saved no matter how many fires she jumps into."

"And you'd let her burn," Mangrove shot back, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. "Because that's what IceWings do, right? Cut losses. Stay practical."

The unspoken words hung like rotvine between them: Like you did with him.

IceMoon's tail lashed, scattering a pile of medicinal bark. "I'm not IceWing enough for that, apparently."

Mangrove flinched. "That's not what I—"

"Save it." She turned to leave, but his next words froze her mid-step.

"Thank you."

She glanced back. Mangrove stood now, trembling but upright, his gaze locked on hers. "For saving her. For... for not being practical."

IceMoon's scales prickled. Gratitude was worse than blame—it left no room for armor. "Don't," she growled. "I just carried her. The healers did the rest."

"You fought that NightWing," Mangrove pressed. "You kept him distracted."

That NightWing. The memory surged unbidden: silver scales glinting like blade-edges, a voice slick with mockery. "You think your little rainforest can save her?"

"He let us go," IceMoon muttered. "We didn't win. He allowed it."

Mangrove stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Why?"

The question slithered into her marrow. Why? Because the NightWing wanted something. Because his "queen" was watching. Because hybrids were interesting—

A rustle at the window.

IceMoon spun, her spines flaring. Beyond the hanging orchids, the jungle swayed, still and green. No shadows. No silver.

"IceMoon?" Mangrove frowned.

"Nothing," she lied, forcing her shoulders down. "Just the wind."

But as Mangrove turned back to Ena, murmuring promises too fragile to name, IceMoon kept her eyes on the trees.

He's here, she thought, frost creeping up her claws. Watching. Waiting.

And worse—she couldn't tell if the dread in her gut was fear...

Or anticipation.

SCENEBREAK

After leaving Mangrove in the infirmary, IceMoon stalked into the rainforest, her claws gouging the soft earth as she climbed onto a moss-slick branch. She'd barely settled when a flicker of movement snagged her gaze—not the lazy sway of vines, but a sharp, deliberate flash of emerald-green scales.

Not a RainWing.

Her breath hitched. NightWing.

IceMoon's frost-laced scales prickled as her mind instinctively reached out, brushing against another presence—unfamiliar, yet hauntingly recognizable. The connection jolted like a snapped wire. Across the clearing, two vivid green eyes blazed through the foliage, locking onto hers.

A dragonet. Her tail coiled tight. My age.

The NightWing's gaze burned into her, unflinching, before vanishing with a rustle of ferns. IceMoon lurched forward, talons scraping bark as she strained to sense the presence again—nothing. Only the drip of dew and the distant screech of macaws.

Was it... him?

But no. This dragonet's scales had glinted a poisonous green, not silver. And those eyes—sharp as shattered glass—held none of that smug, star-chased arrogance.

Then who?

She swallowed, her throat tight. The rainforest suddenly felt too vast, too watchful, as if every leaf hid a pair of eyes.

The rustle of wings snapped her head upward. A shadow peeled away from the canopy—a slender NightWing, smaller than the hulking silver-scaled brute who'd cornered them near Burn's stronghold. IceMoon's mind brushed against the dragon's fleeting thoughts: fragmented, wary, undeniably female.

Not a threat. Not today.

She let the stranger vanish into the emerald gloom, her talons unclenching. The rainforest held its breath, as if testing her resolve, before the chorus of frogs and hummingbirds resumed.

IceMoon turned toward the stream, its burble a quiet rebellion against the jungle's humidity. She sank her tail into the water, frost spiderwebbing across the surface. The cold bit deeper than usual, gnawing past scales into marrow.

Why let her go?

Hybrids didn't show mercy. NightWings didn't deserve it. Yet this one's thoughts had felt... fractured. Familiar, like shards of a mirror she'd glimpsed in her own dreams.

A droplet splashed her snout. Above, storm clouds brewed—unnatural, swift, too much like the ones that shadowed Blister's armies. IceMoon stood, water sluicing off her tail, and glared at the sky.

Run, little NightWing. Before the storm finds us both.

SCENEBREAK

Glory landed beside her with a RainWing's fluid grace, sunlight rippling across her scales as she settled. "Brooding's more of a NightWing hobby," she said, tilting her head. "So why are you here practicing it?"

IceMoon didn't look up. Her claws traced the frost patterns she'd left on the stream's surface. "That NightWing we saw. Deathbringer. If his thoughts were right..."

"Wait." Glory's frill flared crimson. "Thoughts? Since when can you read minds?"

The words hung like smoke between them. IceMoon ruffled her wings, the ice-blue membranes clashing with the inky black spines along her back—a hybrid's paradox, written in scales. "Since encountering him, I think it... woke something. Some ancient NightWing power buried within me."

Glory went still, her gaze sharpening. "Mind reading. Like Starflight."

"Not like him." IceMoon hissed, frost curling from her nostrils. "His was trained. Mine feels like—like catching embers before they burn out. Fragments. Impulses." She flexed her talons, remembering Deathbringer's flickering intentions: Blister's orders... protect Glory... regrets?

Glory leaned closer, her voice deceptively light. "And what did you 'catch' from our dear Deathbringer?"

IceMoon met her stare. "He's here for you. Not to kill. To watch."

"How reassuring." Glory's laugh was brittle. "A NightWing spy with a conscience. How original."

"He's not the only one." IceMoon's gaze drifted to the canopy where the green-scaled stranger had vanished. "There are others. NightWings who don't want the war. Who... fear what's coming."

Glory followed her gaze, silent for three heartbeats. "Fear you, you mean."

IceMoon flinched.

"Good," Glory said, rising. "Let them fear the dragon who walks between tribes. You might be the only thing they don't see coming."

Glory nudged her shoulder, her scales rippling a rueful lavender. "Look," she said, softer than IceMoon expected. "I get it. Deathbringer's all brooding glances and 'mysterious NightWing charm'—" her voice dripped sarcasm—"but Starflight? He'd set his scrolls on fire for you. What you're feeling for Deathbringer? It's a crush. A dangerous one."

IceMoon's frost-laced wings stiffened. "It's not like that. I just—"

"You read his mind." Glory's tail flicked, a queen's impatience cutting through the sympathy. "You know what he is. What he's done."

Assassin. Spy. Liar. The words hissed through IceMoon's mind, sharp as Deathbringer's own guilt-stained memories. She dug her talons into the moss. "I didn't choose this. These... feelings."

Glory snorted. "Nobody chooses their firescales, either. Doesn't mean you play with them." She rose, sunlight glinting off her emerald earrings—a RainWing queen's armor. "Starflight sees you. Not your tribe. Not your powers. Just... you."

The words hung like thawing icicles. IceMoon opened her jaws to argue, but Glory was already gliding away, leaving only the ghost of her parting jab: "And for moons' sake, stop freezing the stream. The frogs are complaining."

Alone again, IceMoon stared at the water. A thin layer of ice had spread from her talons, fracturing the reflection of her face—half NightWing shadow, half IceWing frost. Starflight loves me. She'd felt it in his mind, yes: steady, unwavering, like the heat of a forge. But Deathbringer's thoughts had been wildfire—chaotic, all-consuming, alive.

A branch cracked overhead. Her head snapped up, hope flaring stupidly in her chest—but it was only a sloth, blinking sleepily.

Pathetic. She smashed the ice with her tail, scattering diamond shards.