“Hello,” Starflight coughed. “Hello?”
One of the shapes came close enough for him to make out the features of a disgruntled-looking dragonet a year or two older than himself. She poked at his mouth and peered at his teeth, jabbed at his chest so he coughed again, inspected his claws, and sighed huffily.
“Weak,” she declared. “I’d have sent him back, too.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re hoping they’ll pick you instead,” said another dragonet, pushing forward. He patted Starflight’s head in an almost friendly way. “But prophecies don’t work like that.”
“We’ll see,” she muttered.
“That’s Fierceteeth,” said the friendlier dragonet to Starflight. “Don’t mind her. Older sisters always think they can do whatever you’re doing better than you can. I know, I’ve got one, too. I’m Mightyclaws, by the way.”
“Older sister?” Starflight echoed, blinking at Fierceteeth.
“Yes, this is the touching family reunion part,” she said. “Same mother, different fathers, we assume. How do you feel?” She eyed him from horns to tail. “Ill? Very ill? Dying, perhaps?”
“What part of brightest night are you having trouble with?” said another dragonet behind Fierceteeth. “Haven’t you been listening in class? Events have to match the prophecies. Hi, strange dragon. I’m Mindreader. But don’t worry, I promise I’ll stay out of your head.”
The older dragonets in the room laughed uproariously, as if this was the most hilarious joke in Pyrrhia history. The three dragonets who looked younger than Starflight rolled their eyes, like they were used to hearing jokes that made no sense from that group.
Starflight rubbed his wet scales, confused.
Now that his sight was clearing, he could see that he was in a long, narrow cave lined with indentations in the rock at regular intervals, all the right size for dragonet beds. He was curled on one of these, not far from a large archway that seemed to be the only exit from the room. Next to him on the floor was a large hollow stone, which was apparently what the dragonets had used to collect the seawater they’d just poured all over him.
It didn’t look like a prison. It looked like a dormitory.
Hot coals smoldered in alcoves in the walls, lending a red glow to the room. A skylight at each end of the cave allowed a bit of dim gray light to filter in.
There were at least fifty sleeping spots that Starflight could see, but only about eleven of them looked slept in. Several had rough blankets heaped on them in messy piles, while others were scattered with objects that looked like seashells and twisted bits of rock. A few of the blanket-covered beds had a scroll lying next to them, which made Starflight’s claws itch with longing. But most of the beds were completely bare.
Places for dragonets, but no dragonets to fill them.
Starflight remembered something Morrowseer had said offhandedly, shortly after rescuing Starflight from the SkyWings. He’d said, “We can’t afford to lose any NightWings, even peculiar little ones.”
Maybe there is something wrong with my tribe, Starflight thought. Maybe they’re losing dragonets somehow — or not having enough of them in the first place.
Everything smelled like sulfur and decaying animals. As Fierceteeth leaned over and jabbed his stomach again, Starflight realized that a lot of the decaying smell came from the dragonets. They all had horrendously bad breath. Morrowseer’s breath had never been wonderful either, but this was much worse. It took all of Starflight’s willpower not to recoil when they spoke to him.
They were also shockingly thin, every one of them, with narrow chests, bloodshot eyes, and hacking coughs. Even the dragonets who survive are in pretty bad shape, Starflight thought.
He stretched gingerly, eyeing the door. It didn’t seem to be barricaded in any way; as far as Starflight could tell, he could walk right out into the caves beyond. There’s probably a guard, he thought. Or LOTS of guards. Or maybe something really creepy, like Queen Coral’s electric eels. Or a lava river like the one that keeps the RainWings trapped in their prison caves.
A shiver of fear ran down his spine.
“Why am I here?” he blurted.
The little crowd of dragonets exchanged glances.
“Because you failed,” Fierceteeth offered. “I assume.”
“We don’t know that,” Mightyclaws interjected. “A couple of the big dragons dropped you here a few hours ago and you’ve been muttering and thrashing around ever since.”
“Yeah, lots of worrying about Sunny. Who’s Sunny?” one of the other dragonets demanded.
Starflight considered throwing himself into the volcano. “Another dragonet,” he mumbled. I hope she’s safe.