Chapter 37: Hearth of Clay and Flame

Five years had passed.

The forest had grown thicker. The skies were more familiar. The scent of my home now carried across the wind like a signature—rich with smoke, damp earth, and dragon.

Much had changed.

Our family had grown—again.

Four more cubs had hatched, each one loud and wild, full of fire and hunger and curiosity. That made eleven in total now. Eleven dragons soaring through the skies, fishing in the ponds, hunting through the brush, fighting over roasted deer bones, and wrestling in the sun-warmed mud.

Our old cave, once a sanctuary, was now a crowded den of wings and tails and noise. The younger ones still curled up beside us at night, snoring softly into leaves and moss. But the older cubs—they needed space. Freedom. A place of their own.

So we began building.

Not just digging. Building.

We found a flat stretch of land a little ways above the great hunting pond—close enough to the main den, far enough to feel like their own world. A small cliff overhang shielded it from rain. Trees lined its edge, and it overlooked the water like a throne carved from nature.

We started with mud.

Thick, heavy, island mud. Dug from the deepest parts of the forest and carried clawful by clawful to the new site. We shaped it into walls. Pressed it into form. Layer by layer, we built with our claws and tails and even our teeth.

Then came the fire.

I stood before the walls and unleashed a steady breath of flame—not wild, not destructive, but focused and hot. My mate did the same from the other side, while the cubs stood in awe. The mud hardened under the fire, the surface turning to something like stone, blackened and warm.

We repeated this process again and again.

A foundation.

Walls.

Openings shaped like windows, and a wide mouth that served as the entrance. We even carved small ledges inside where a dragon could curl up and sleep.

It wasn't just shelter.

It was a home.

Their home.

The older cubs helped, each with their own ideas—some wanted it taller, others wider. One insisted on a tunnel leading to a high lookout spot, and another began shaping a small fire pit from stone in the middle of the floor for warm nights.

They earned this place.

Five years ago, they were tiny, helpless sparks crawling on unsteady claws.

Now, they hunted their own prey. Caught deer. Fought off scavengers. Flew far and fast.

Some of them were almost the size I had been when I first met Kong.

And speaking of Kong—he passed by once, during the construction. He watched for a moment in silence, then nodded once before moving on. He didn't speak, didn't roar. But he saw.

He knew what this meant.

This wasn't just survival anymore.

This was a future.

The younger cubs ran in and out of the new structure, shrieking and laughing as they slid on wet stone and leapt off low ledges. My mate shook her head at their chaos but smiled as she curled around the smallest one, who had fallen asleep with a fish still hanging from his mouth.

I stood on the roof—if it could be called that—watching the trees sway and listening to the wind.

This home would last. Maybe not forever, but long enough.

Long enough for them to grow, to live, to pass it down—or build their own.

We were no longer just dragons on an island.

We were something else now.

Founders.

And this place—mud-born and fire-forged—was our legacy.