Chapter 32: The Year of Fire and Family

A year passed in the blink of an eye.

But when I looked at my children—now larger, stronger, faster—I could feel every moment of it.

The four older cubs had grown to nearly half my size, their wings spreading wider, their flames no longer sparks but streams. They hunted with precision, flew with grace, and roared with confidence. And though they sometimes squabbled among themselves, their bond was unbreakable.

And we had three more now.

Three smaller ones, born just as wild and curious as their older siblings. Their scales were a little darker, their wings still stubby and their fire… well, more like smoke with attitude. But they were fierce. Loud. Always chasing bugs, lizards, even each other's tails. And they adored their older siblings, even when they got tossed into the pond for it.

Our family had grown.

And Skull Island had accepted us.

We were no longer predators hiding from bigger monsters—we were a presence. A force. Creatures that even the Skullcrawlers had learned to avoid when they heard our screeches echoing across the cliffs.

But there was someone else who had become… more than just a passing figure in our lives.

Kong.

The King.

The one who had once just been an apex to avoid, a rival to respect, had become something else entirely.

It began slowly. I started bringing the older cubs near his territory, flying overhead while they watched him from the cliffs. He never minded. He would look up, grunt softly, and return to whatever he was doing—whether it was cracking boulders for roots or chasing away an encroaching threat.

Then, one day, we landed.

All of us.

And he didn't move.

Didn't roar. Didn't push us away.

My cubs approached first. Hesitant, playful. They sniffed at his massive hands, tried to climb his fur, flapped awkward wings as they stumbled over his fingers like they were trees.

Kong? He chuckled.

It was the weirdest sound I'd ever heard from him—deep and rumbling, like an earthquake that decided to smile.

That was the day everything changed.

Now, one year later, it's a routine.

We bring the cubs to Kong's side of the island. The older ones fly with me or my mate, sometimes diving through the canyon winds. The younger ones? We just leave them with Kong.

And he watches them.

Kong is our babysitter.

It sounds insane even in my own mind—but it's real.

He doesn't coddle them. He's not gentle like we are. He's just… steady. If a cub gets too bold and climbs too high on his arm, he gently taps them back down. If one nips too hard or breathes fire too close, he gives them a stern look, and they listen.

Sometimes he throws a rock into the river and watches them chase after the splash. Sometimes he lets them crawl into his lap while he sits under the shade, arms crossed, pretending he's not as invested as he really is.

And sometimes, when he thinks no one's looking, he even smiles.

My mate and I often perch nearby on a cliff, just watching. Sharing fresh meat while the wind carries the laughter of our children and the quiet grunts of a giant ape playing babysitter.

It's peaceful.

Surreal.

Beautiful.

This isn't just about survival anymore. It hasn't been for a long time.

We've built something.

A family.

A home.

A life where monsters don't just tear each other apart—but share space. Share purpose.

Kong didn't just let us exist.

He let us belong.

And in this strange, violent world where only the strongest thrive…

Kindness?

That's the rarest power of all.