Chapter 35: The Dragon’s Waters
The rain had stopped.
The sky cleared, leaving mist curling over the ground like steam from the earth itself. The forest glistened, washed clean by the storm. And as the sun rose, it painted everything in gold. The soil was soft, the air fresh, and the world felt new.
It was the perfect day to plant a future.
I flew with my family—my mate, our seven cubs—through the dripping trees, past stone ridges and muddy banks, to the edge of our great new pond. The massive basin Kong had dug for us shimmered, even half-filled, and already it felt like a sacred place. A dragon's lake.
But we weren't done.
This wasn't just water—it was ours, and I had plans for it.
First, we got the plants.
Lush, leafy, underwater greenery, scooped from smaller ponds and marshes scattered across Skull Island. We pulled them from the shallows with claws and teeth, flying them back in bundles to our new lake. Not for beauty—but for life. Food for the fish. Shade for the water. Places for the small things to hide and grow.
Each of us helped. The cubs dove and splashed, poking the plants deep into the mud at the bottom. My mate and I placed them more carefully—some at the edges, others in the center trenches, where they could root and flourish. In hours, the floor of the pond was alive with green.
Next came the fish.
Not just any fish.
Only prey fish. Small ones. Fast ones. Ones that bred quickly, that would thrive in still water and wouldn't eat their own kind. We flew across the island for them—pond to pond, swamp to swamp. Caught them gently, carried them in our mouths, in leaf-woven slings the cubs made from vines and branches.
We didn't take everything—just enough to seed a future.
By evening, the new pond teemed with life.
Dozens of fish darted through the plants, flashing silver in the shallows. They were already swimming in groups, adapting, exploring.
And there were no predators.
Only peace.
Only growth.
The cubs stared at the water, entranced, watching their prey swim lazily through the reeds. I could see the thought in their eyes: when they're bigger, we'll eat well.
But it wasn't just about that. It was balance.
Still, I wasn't done.
There were three ponds now.
The original one—small, secret, carved in those desperate days when I was still half-starved and barely more than a spark of a dragon. That was my pond. A reminder. A shrine to survival. Too small for many, but special in a way none of the others were.
Then there was the second—fresh and clean. Dug by my claws, my mate's fire, my children's joy. A place for drinking, for soaking, for sleeping in peace beneath the stars. It had no fish, no mud, just clear water and quiet.
And now the third—our lake.
Massive.
Rich.
Alive.
A true hunting ground.
A future not just for us—but for many. Maybe even other dragons, if they come.
I started digging again. This time, not deep—but long. Tunnels. Trenches. Narrow cuts in the earth connecting all three ponds. The original, the clean one, and the lake. A system. A network.
A territory.
The younger cubs helped by piling mud and rocks along the edges to shape the flow. My mate scorched the soil, hardening it, sealing it. The older cubs flew ahead, mapping where to dig, guiding the flow with flame and shadow.
When the final trench connected, and the water began to flow between all three, I stood at the center and roared.
A deep, proud, living roar.
The clean water flowed gently toward the lake, while the lake's fish avoided the passage to the clean pond, kept at bay by clever stone placements and hidden currents.
It worked.
All of it worked.
The fish in the lake were already breeding. Plants swayed with life. The water was clearer every hour. It had only taken a day—and yet, it felt like the beginning of an era.
Kong passed nearby once during the work, watching in silence as we shaped the land. He didn't interfere. Just grunted once, then turned and disappeared into the trees. I think he approved.
This wasn't just a place to live anymore.
It was a domain.
A legacy.
A dragon's gift to the future.