Chapter 33: The Growing Pond

Time had moved again, and so had we.

Our territory was thriving. The forest around our cave buzzed with life, the pond full of fish large enough to keep a family of dragons fed. The cubs—our seven cubs—were growing at different paces, but all of them stronger than ever. The older four could now fly long distances, breathe real fire, and even hunt alone. The younger three? They were still wild, clumsy, and loud—but their wings worked now, and that was all they cared about.

It was peaceful.

But we wanted more.

Not more power. Not more territory.

More space.

The pond, once my secret refuge, was now a center of life. But it was too small. The fish needed room. The cubs needed room. And frankly, I needed a place to soak without someone cannonballing in every few minutes.

So we dug.

All of us.

Day after day, clawing and scooping beside the pond's edge. Carving out a second basin, deeper and wider. The younger cubs rolled in the dirt, the older ones carried away rocks and branches. My mate shaped the earth with fire to harden the walls.

But there was still one problem.

No water.

That's why today was different.

We brought gifts.

I flew through the trees with two deer dangling from my claws, their bodies limp but still fresh. Behind me, my mate glided with the older cubs, each of them carrying large, flapping fish pulled from the pond—our pond. The younger ones flew awkwardly in formation, squealing and chirping, unable to carry anything but desperate to feel involved.

We landed near Kong's territory. The earth trembled faintly as he approached from behind the trees, towering and calm as always.

The deer thudded to the ground before him. The fish flopped a little longer before going still.

Kong raised an eyebrow at the feast laid before him, then turned his massive head toward me with a grunt of curiosity.

I didn't roar.

Didn't puff my chest.

Instead, I walked a few steps forward and gestured with my head—follow me.

Kong hesitated, then gave a slow, rumbling sigh and began to walk.

It wasn't far. Just a short flight and a long walk through the thick jungle.

Eventually, we reached the pond.

Our home.

He stopped.

Looked around.

The original pond shimmered in the sun, the fish darting just below the surface. The cubs ran to it instantly, splashing, laughing. But next to it—just a few feet to the side—was the new basin. Empty. Dry. Waiting.

I looked at him.

Then stepped toward the new pit, stomped once near the edge, then flapped my wings and hovered over the center of it.

I roared—not loudly, but with intent. Then I flew over the main pond, pointed down, and hovered again.

It didn't need words.

He got it.

He really got it.

Kong grunted once, rolled his shoulders, then stepped forward. He crouched by the main pond and slowly dipped his enormous hands into the water.

Scooped.

The water splashed down his arms as he stood and stepped over to the new basin. With a slow motion, he tipped his hands and let the water pour into the dry space below.

The cubs went wild. They screeched, flapped their wings, jumped from rock to rock. Even the little ones tried to catch droplets mid-air. My mate nuzzled my side, eyes warm.

Again and again, Kong went back to the original pond. Scooped. Carried. Poured. His movements were careful, deliberate. He didn't flood it all at once—he helped. He respected the space.

By the time the second basin had enough water to shimmer at the bottom, I stepped in and blasted a concentrated stream of fire at the wall between both ponds.

The rock cracked. Boiled. Split.

A few moments later—rush.

The water surged in, connecting the two ponds.

The cubs leapt in, sliding from one end to the other.

Kong stood over us, arms crossed, watching the chaos with what I swore was amusement behind those heavy eyes.

I turned to him, wings open in thanks.

Not a roar.

Not a growl.

Just a nod.

He nodded back.

This island, for all its death and danger, had become something more.

A kingdom of beasts.

And we?

We were building a future.