Starflight lay coiled on stone that bit into his scales like teeth. Where is she? The question looped in his mind, sharp and desperate, cutting through the fog of pain. His throat burned as if he'd swallowed molten rock, and the darkness behind his eyelids felt alive—pulsing, breathing, like the walls of the NightWing caverns. But this wasn't home. Home didn't smell of sulfur and blood.

Am I dead?
No. Dead dragons didn't feel their ribs grinding with every breath. Dead dragons didn't hear voices.

"—think there's something wrong with him."

The words slithered into his awareness, distant and distorted. A dragon's voice, unfamiliar, laced with a sneer. SkyWing? His mind clawed backward through memories: Queen Scarlet's arena, the jeering crowds, the scent of charred flesh. But no—this voice was colder. NightWing.

Icemoon. Her name surged like a lifeline. He tried to speak it, but his tongue lay heavy as stone. Had she escaped? Or had Morrowseer's claws found her too? Please let her be safe. Let her be anywhere but here.

A talon prodded his side. Starflight recoiled, hissing involuntarily, and the motion sent fire lancing through his wings. Broken? He couldn't tell. Couldn't see.

"Pathetic," the voice muttered. "Morrowseer swore this one had spine. Looks like the hybrid's shadow melted whatever was left."

Hybrid. The word struck like a barb. Icemoon. They knew about her. They knew.

Memories collided—some his, some borrowed from nightmares. Icemoon's frost-laced laughter as she sparred with Deathbringer in the rainforest. The way her claws had trembled when she confessed her fear of the Obsidian Mirror. "It's like it wants me to break," she'd whispered. "To choose between my blood and... you."

Choose me, he'd wanted to beg. Stay. But he'd said nothing, because good dragons didn't chain those they loved.

Another prod, sharper. "Get up, prophet."

Prophet. The title curdled in his gut. NightWings had once revered him for the lie of his foresight. Now they spat it like poison.

"The Queen wants you functional," the dragon growled. "But if you'd rather rot..."

Queen. Not Scarlet. Burn? No—Burn was ash. This queen's voice was in his head, serpent-smooth and freezing. "The Frostbound shall rise."

The Obsidian Mirror's vision. Icemoon's scream as dragons turned to ice.

No. Not real. A dream. A—

"Leave him."

A new voice. Female. Familiar.

Claws clicked closer, and Starflight's nostrils flared—rainforest orchids and iron. Glory. But no, Glory's scent was mangoes and mischief. This was darker. Older.

"You're stronger than this, Starflight." The voice dripped mockery now. "Or did the hybrid's claws gut your courage along with your heart?"

Morrowseer.

Panic spiked. Starflight thrashed, his tail slamming rock. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and for a moment, the darkness shifted. Shapes emerged: a cavern veined with glowing ice, a dragon with stars freckling her wings—Icemoon?—and Morrowseer's hulking silhouette, his claws clamped around her throat.

"Such a fragile thing," the NightWing rumbled. "Pity her blood won't survive the ritual."

No. Starflight's roar came out a rasp. "Let. Her. Go."

Laughter. Then a talon seized his jaw, forcing his head up. "Ah. There's the fire." Morrowseer's breath reeked of rot. "Use it. Tell me where the Mirror is, or watch her shatter."

Liar. Trick. Illusion. But Starflight's resolve wavered. What if it was real? What if she was here, suffering, because he'd been too weak to protect her?

"I... don't know," he choked.

The talon tightened. "Wrong answer."

A scream tore through the cavern—not his. Hers.

"Stop!" Starflight lunged blindly, fangs bared. He collided with stone, scales tearing, but didn't care. Icemoon. Icemoon. Icemoon.

Silence.

Then, a whisper against his ear, soft as snowfall: "You'll kill her yourself, you know. Your love is the crack that will split her in two."

When the darkness swallowed him again, he prayed it would be forever.

SCENEBREAK 

Starflight blinked, his milky eyes straining against the gloom. Shapes loomed over him—dragonets, their silhouettes sharp and angular against the flickering torchlight of the cavern. The air reeked of damp stone and burnt herbs, a far cry from the rainforest's floral sweetness. Icemoon's scent. Gone.

"Who are you?" he rasped, his voice sandpaper-raw.

A snout thrust into his face, close enough for him to smell the tang of iron on the dragonet's breath. "Huh. I thought he might attack us," said a voice dripping with disappointment. "That's what I would do."

"He doesn't look very dangerous," another dragonet scoffed. Starflight tilted his head, catching the glint of silver scales—Fierceteeth, Mightyclaws had called her. Her tail thumped the ground like a war drum. "They should've picked someone bigger. Scarier. Fiercer."

"Like me," said the first voice, a male with a growl that didn't quite hide his youth.

"Tiny RainWing brains, all of you," interjected a third dragonet, talons clicking impatiently. "He was still in his egg when the Talons of Peace stole him. They didn't know if he'd be male, female, or a squid. Obviously, they'd have chosen a girl."

"Like me," Fierceteeth snapped.

Starflight flinched as claws jabbed his ribs, then pried open his jaws. Fierceteeth's face swam into blurry focus—amber eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a sneer. She prodded his fangs, her touch clinical. "Weak," she declared. "I'd have sent him back, too."

"You're just bitter the prophecy didn't want a bully," said Mightyclaws, shouldering her aside. His tone was light, but Starflight heard the edge beneath. The smaller dragonet patted Starflight's head, talons lingering a beat too long. "Prophecies don't work like that, sis. Right, Starflight?"

Sis. The word lodged in Starflight's chest like a thorn. Siblings. He'd never imagined—never asked—if Morrowseer's lies had buried more than just his future.

"W-where's Icemoon?" he croaked.

Mightyclaws snorted. "The hybrid? Queen Glory banished her. Said she's 'too volatile' for the rainforest." He leaned in, scales shimmering with false sympathy. "Don't worry. Our new queen doesn't want her either."

New queen. The words slithered into Starflight's mind. Glory? No—Glory would never...

"Volatile," Fierceteeth mocked, pacing a tight circle around him. "That's NightWing for 'unhinged.' Bet she's halfway to the Ice Kingdom by now. Bet she's begging Morrowseer to take her back."

Starflight's frill flared. "Stop."

"Or what?" She loomed over him, her breath hot on his snout. "You'll blind me with your useless eyes?"

"Enough." A new voice cut through the tension—deep, authoritative. The dragonets stiffened as a hulking NightWing emerged from the shadows, his scales etched with old battle scars. "The Queen wants him conscious, not broken."

Fierceteeth hissed but retreated, her glare promising later retribution.

Mightyclaws lingered, his whisper feather-soft. "She's alive. For now." Then, louder: "Rest, prophet. You'll need your strength."

As the dragonets filed out, Starflight curled tighter, his mind racing. Alive. Banished. Unwanted. Icemoon, alone in a world that saw her only as a weapon or a mistake.

Somewhere in the dark, the Obsidian Mirror's voice hissed:
"The crack widens..."