Morrowseer was beginning to feel rather frustrated with himself. Of all the things in Pyrrhia, why did he keep thinking about her?

She was a nobody. She wasn't a noble, a general, a princess—she was a nobody. She had tried to walk down here with him, actually. Other Nightwings had urged her away—quickly, very quickly. Before they'd even stepped into the wing of the castle Morrowseer currently found himself in. Before they'd even made it to the hallway leading there, in fact.

A hallway—a hallway had been too close for her. That was how much of a nobody Secretkeeper was.

So why did she keep coming back into his mind? There were things eons more important to think about, lots of things: how to greet a ruler who never showed herself, how to talk with a dragon who never listened, how to present a plan to someone who hadn't interacted with her subjects in years.

Lots of things.

The large dragon closed his eyes, inhaling, running the words through his head for only the thousandth time: When the war has lasted twenty years, the dragonets will come. When the land is soaked in blood and tears, the dragonets will come. He exhaled, his soft breath shaking the rhythm in his head, the familiar lines wavering a bit before dissipating completely. The future-writing Nightwing frowned as his mind grew quiet, his eyes slowly opening back to the dark emptiness around him.

He could've gone on. Granted, the other verses—the second one, especially, which would have to be written with personal support from his queen—weren't completely developed yet. But there was still a general idea. A Seawing. A Mudwing. A Sandwing. A Skywing. And, of course, a Nightwing. A diverse group of dragons, all "miraculously" brought together to save the world.

But continuing these thoughts—at this point, especially—was unnecessary, senseless. How the prophecy's words rhymed, how they flowed, how they made other dragons feel—it was all pointless. The prophecy itself, as any enlightened dragon would have known, was pointless, was nothing, was no more than some fancy words for other dragons to gawk at. The real importance lied behind the words of his prophecy, the plan in his mind that his poem simply hinted at. The sentences he'd ran through his head—and had been running through his head for months—held no more value than the ash forever coating his scales.

Morrowseer sighed, tapping his talons as his head fell, his thoughts subtly but dangerously spiraling out of control. Unconsciously, as normal, he began thinking of those other words, those tender ones—the ones she'd said to him after he'd entrusted her with everything he shouldn't have: Come on, Morrowseer, what you're thinking is irrational. If the queen hadn't liked whatever she'd heard from you, she wouldn't have wanted to learn more—in a personal conversation, no less. So please, stop worrying about getting thrown into lava. You and I both know that you're way too important for that.

It took Morrowseer a moment before he realized what his mind was doing. It took him another before he disconnected from fantasy and found himself back in reality. But with a sudden unconscious whiff of dusty sulfur, Morrowseer was back in his sweltering, silent-as-death room—shuddering, alone. He spat out the taste of rancid smoke and then sighed, turning his head from nothing, his earlier annoyance replaced with something much closer to despair.

He couldn't keep thinking about her. Not when he had to think about her.

Her: The queen. A powerful dragon, yes; one that demanded reverence, certainly. But it was more than that: Battlewinner, Queen of the Nightwings, was a dream. A fantasy, an incredible fairy tale for dragonets to center their games around. A specter that only revealed itself through the occasional flesh-turning moan, a myth that dragons told ghost stories about in the dark. A nightmarish bit of fiction, a scale-raising legend, a dragon like Darkstalker. She was hardly a Nightwing at all; instead, the queen was a force, which drove its subjects without hesitation or mercy. Even though some Nightwings could recall memories of her before the catastrophe—including, if he thought hard enough, Morrowseer himself—no one really knew her, not anymore. Battlewinner had turned into a complete mystery, and as far as any subject of hers knew, she wanted to keep it that way.

She did not talk with members of her tribe. She did not call dragons into her home to discuss things with them. She was not a dragon in the first place; she was the Queen of the Nightwings. That was why what Morrowseer was about to experience was unheard of.

That was why he couldn't keep thinking about Secretkeeper.

He needed complete focus. This conversation could destroy him if he made even a single mistake, but if he could pull it off, if he could present his plan to his queen without a flaw, it could—no, it would change the world, and all to his and his tribe's benefit. He just needed that focus—and Pyrrhia would fall into his claws.

So, why did Secretkeeper keep coming back into his mind, when his thinking should have been preoccupied with his queen and his plan? Morrowseer grimaced as he thought and, again, let his mind stray away. He was trying to figure out the allure of Secretkeeper's words; if he could at least understand them, he figured, he might then be able to effectively defuse them, suppress them, and refocus. But instead of simply analyzing and fighting the words he let into his mind, Morrowseer quickly found himself experiencing something else, something he didn't realize at first was nothing more than a distraction. It wasn't much—a small twinge in his stomach, no more—but it was enough to take the unnerved knot in his gut and blanket it with something that, if it hadn't been so intrusive, just might have been close to comforting.

I keep talking to you because you focus too much. She'd interrupted him during a drafting session, and he'd snapped at her in return—yet, in a move more stubborn than loving, Secretkeeper had stayed at his side. She'd told him to listen, steadfast and calm, even as he'd tried to turn away and go back to his work, even as he'd tried vehemently to get her away from him, even as he'd tried his absolute hardest to think clearly and fight past her empty comfort.

"Morrowseer," she had said, "I understand."

Battlewinner hardly talks to her own daughter, much less with any dragon on her council, and now she wants to talk face-to-face with you; believe me, I get why you're stressed. But you need to calm down; at this rate, you're going to kill yourself with worry before the queen even gets a chance to do you in. No, don't play that game with me, Morrowseer, you are worried. But—Morrowseer, please, look at me—you don't have to be.

You've already impressed Her Majesty, which is something a dragon hasn't done in… oh moons, decades. She's probably just called you in for some last-minute considerations, and she's already made up her mind to accept whatever you've concocted. All the pieces are there: You're a tactical genius, she trusts you more than most anyone in this kingdom, you've proven your loyalty to her time and time again—and now, you've caught her very fleeting interest.

...Look. Whatever the queen demands, you can give. She's just another dragon. Go up there and present your plan, as moving and flawless and amazing as always, just like you'd do in front of the council on any other day. Your plan—no, you—you can save our tribe. I know it.

And then Morrowseer had blinked, and he'd looked at Secretkeeper and hadn't turned away, and he'd felt something in his stomach then, just like now: something warm... something soothing... something... something...

...Something that didn't matter.

Something that his wife had said to simply make him feel better, even though work on something as important as his prophecy should have left no room for comfort. Something that did not help the Nightwing tribe, would never help the Nightwing tribe, was no more relevant than a small "hello" or "goodbye." Something worthless, something pointless, something completely insubstantial—something that was nothing. Something like everything Secretkeeper had ever said to him during his work—nothing.

Her words were nothing, her sympathy was nothing, the dragoness herself was nothing! Morrowseer actually had to catch himself from lashing out in anger, from slamming his tail or smacking his clenched claw against the floor, as surprising—and horrifying—as that was. But in the moment, he hardly cared: He was about to talk with Queen Battlewinner; his tribe's fate and, more importantly, his fate was at risk tonight! This plan should have taken his focus, not Secretkeeper! She should have stayed out of his head! So why did she KEEP COMING BACK INTO HIS MIND!?

...It took him a moment, but Morrowseer eventually realized that his wings weren't folded at his side. They had unfurled slightly. He did that when he was angry; it was a habit he'd thought he'd stamped out. Morrowseer's eyes moved down, towards his claws. They were clenched tighter than he had realized; his black scales were beginning to show a little white underneath. The Nightwing let out another sigh and unclenched his claws, closing his eyes, beginning to breathe a little less passionately.

He breathed rhythmically—again, and again, and again—and eventually re-opened his eyes, letting his gaze scan the dim room around him. His focus fell on the map of Pyrrhia in front of him—the only other thing in the room he'd been led to. Morrowseer strained his eyes and focused hard on that map, letting his gaze move over every mark, every scratch, every note inscribed on that diagram—thinking about just how many dragons were accounted for in that small piece of parchment.

Then the map shifted. The large Nightwing's focus jumped as it did; Morrowseer sighed, then straightened himself, confident now that his thoughts were clear and intent. He watched the map jolt as if possessed by a ghost; it quickly swung to the side like a curtain, revealing a small, pitch-black hole. Morrowseer didn't do anything more to control his emotions; he didn't need to. He just kept his body upright and told himself the things he already knew: I am strong, I am intelligent, I will succeed at my task—for I am a Nightwing, and I control Pyrrhia.

And then, from the shadows, came a young dragon, the "distinguished" Nightwing who was going to direct Morrowseer to his queen and back: Greatness, Battlewinner's only princess. She stepped into the open apprehensively, her eyes darting as if watching for predators, her scales still blended with the darkness around her. Morrowseer's sturdy expression dropped as he watched her antics, slowly faltering into a small, hardly-noticeable frown.

The small gecko scampered out in front of him, avoiding his eyes as she moved to his claws. She gulped—she gulped, as if he was something for the princess to be scared of, not the more sensible other way around—and timidly arched her head skywards, viewing his relatively towering form. Her voice failed to sound; she looked genuinely dumbstruck at the sight of him. Morrowseer raised his eyes expectantly, slightly widening Greatness's own—as if the princess had suddenly remembered that she had a job to do.

She forced herself to swallow and breathe, attempting to calm her doubtlessly-thumping heart and clear distress from her posture. Surprisingly, this worked decently well: Any shaking, any wandering of her gaze, any sign of nervousness in general was temporarily suppressed as Greatness managed to keep her eyes on Morrowseer's, inhale deeply, and then state (calm and loud—surprise again), "The queen is ready to see you now, Morrowseer."

Automatically, the large Nightwing nodded and stepped forward. But even as he did, Greatness's mask began to falter—she gulped nervously as he moved ahead, and Morrowseer saw her gaze flicker when she thought he wasn't looking. The seer sighed as he crouched into and began crawling through the dark tunnel in front of him, contempt rising in his stomach.

Sure, Greatness could talk. Sure, Greatness could "appear" strong. Sure, Greatness was a good figurehead—but that was all she was. The real Greatness was a small, scrawny, scared dragon—a coward, terrified of anything more than her own shadow. The real Greatness was not authoritative, threatening, or queenly; she was a royal who thought royalty was a curse. The real Greatness did not and could not command dragons, only appearing to hold power—real power, power that ordered and wasn't just a calm or emotionless expression on her face—when her mother was at her back. When her "power" was only borrowed from the queen.

True, Greatness was still young. She had time to grow out of her timidity. Maybe she would change—but somehow, Morrowseer didn't find it likely. In his experience, cowards, especially cowards who thought they were entitled to cowardice, never changed.

Still, Morrowseer knew how delicate the situation he was walking (or rather, crawling) into was. Battlewinner had done something for him that she hadn't done for anyone since the disaster; he was her very special, very unique guest, and he was determined not to show his host any disrespect—and that included anything directed towards her daughter. So Morrowseer simply kept his head straight and his posture tall and, overall, tried his hardest to completely ignore the princess at his side.

It wasn't very hard. From the few glances he snuck at her, Greatness appeared to be trying to do the same as him. Her eyes were locked forward; her steps pushed ahead with outward confidence, although the slight tremble in her body gave her inside fear away. Morrowseer caught himself frowning again; reminding himself of what he'd just thought, he looked away from her and back ahead. The cramped tunnel they were crawling through was beginning to open anyways, the cave in which Battlewinner had been forced to live for years now beginning to show in their view.

Morrowseer pulled himself out of the tunnel and lifted himself back up, gently shaking his wings clean of their accumulated layer of ash. His eyes quickly scanned the circular room: It was huge, walls stretching high into darkness, the only anomalies in the emptiness himself, Greatness, and a large crater in the cavern's center. Intense, suffocating heat poured in from this cavity, the low churning of molten rock audible from below. A soft, flickering glow came from the pit, gently illuminating the heat-distorted air around its edges. It was all very intimidating—befitting of what the subject could remember of his queen.

Morrowseer cautiously stepped towards the crater, leaving a suddenly-paralyzed Greatness in the shadows of the tunnel. She was down there. Battlewinner had been in that lava-filled hollow ever since the catastrophe with the Icewing. All Morrowseer could do now was walk to the edge of the pit, stand there, and wait.

The seer glanced back at his princess as he neared the crater's edge, wondering why she wasn't following. With one look, he understood: Greatness was horrified. She had pushed herself as far away from her mother as she could, her body compressed as small as possible, her wide eyes burning with fear. Morrowseer snarled as he turned his head, stepping to the side of Battlewinner's pit upright and furious.

She's pathetic. Here I am—an important council member, yes, but nothing royal—and who's standing tall in front of his queen, and who's hiding like she's been sentenced to death? Greatness is our princess; she should be able to stand up to her mother, at the very least. She's an embarrassment—not just to herself, not just to her queen, but to the entire tribe. Morrowseer had reached the edge of the crater by now, and was tapping his talons angrily as he thought. He felt no sympathy, no pity—certainly no respect for the young, scared princess. He only felt angry, disgusted, that this lizard was going to be his queen one day.

Morrowseer began entertaining dangerous thoughts then, things much worse than some distracting-yet-well-meaning words from Secretkeeper. He failed to ever see a queen in the weak princess, and he dared to let "remedies" close to treason slip into his mind. He thought that maybe someone else might be better for the throne, that if Greatness could not rule, maybe a strong husband could do so for her—that, perhaps, the tribe just might wind up better off with a king.

And then his queen spoke—one word: his name, long and drawn-out and icy—and the Nightwing seer jumped as he heard the hissing, chilling, "Morrowseer."

The dragon in question quickly focused back on the crater, berating himself, yelling at himself for the idiotic notions flowing through his brain. Later, he would wonder how his queen had known of his presence—Greatness certainly hadn't announced him, and he doubted that Battlewinner could have seen him from where she hid herself—but in the moment, all Morrowseer concentrated on was the sound of claws scraping against rock, of Battlewinner slowly and painfully pulling her body out of her lava.

She did not leap into view, like how some majestic sea creature would do from water. Instead, her front claws appeared abruptly, her talons, half the size of Greatness, grasping onto the edge of the crater with the force to crumble it. Then—slowly, painstakingly, with every move causing the queen no less than agony—Battlewinner began to appear. Eyes shut in effort, her head and upper body rose into Morrowseer's gaze, hisses of breath coming slowly, carefully, excruciatingly. Once she'd lifted about half her large form above where her subject stood, she stopped, still as stone.

Then, with sudden vitality, her eyes snapped open—tinged with ice, as if bloodshot. A long, rattling exhale escaped the queen's maw as she shuddered to life; her body began trembling uncontrollably, the queen's pained shaking revealing the effort it took for her to simply keep her position. Her mouth, ajar, exposed a thin coat of powder blue; a crystal of ice had formed on her tongue, and small icicles had grown from her fangs. Battlewinner carefully turned her head down, her eyes moving towards Morrowseer. Her subject immediately kneeled and bowed.

"Your Majesty. It is a pleasure," he said, only his eyes daring to lift.

"Indeed."

Morrowseer was suddenly struck with an image of a ghost, a ghastly feeling that the dragon in front of him wasn't alive at all. Battlewinner's voice had been nothing more than a weak, struggling wisp of wind—and even that had noticeably pained her. Combined with the frost spread and slowly spreading across the queen's scales and insides, Battlewinner appeared as a half-dead phantom—as something not alive, but also not dead. Something in between— something in some horrible, hellish state of limbo.

She was suffering, and she'd hardly moved. She was shivering, and she'd just left her lava. Her expression was cold, and it would never thaw—it would grow no warmer than the Icewing frost freezing her insides.

Clearly, the queen did not find their meeting a "pleasure."

This observation, however, did not make Morrowseer falter. Instead, it filled him with a sort of empowering flame, a shining plume of lava inside of his body. Battlewinner, he realized—Queen Battlewinner, the fearless and powerful and invincible Queen of the Nightwings—was presenting herself to pain, torture, just so she could talk with him about his plan.

Pride. He felt pride in his chest. Not an overpowering, blinding amount of pride, but pride nonetheless—a controlled, justified, righteous amount of it.

Morrowseer finished his bow and lifted himself back up, standing tall as his new fire glowed. Even though his show of respect had lasted no longer than a few seconds, the Nightwing felt himself both changed and powerful, ready to face his queen. Battlewinner's irises followed his movement, quickly sliding in a way that didn't seem possible for the otherwise frozen dragon. She rasped, not bothering to use energy moving her head or even changing her expression, "Well. Business.

"Your prophecy. The one you've said will—" Abruptly, Battlewinner stopped mid-sentence, taking a slow, shaky, pained breath, apparently having tried to speak too much at once. Morrowseer silently watched the horrible scene in front of him, expressionless and controlled even as his ruler broke apart in his gaze. "Will aid our tribe?" she continued, moving her head upwards as if to show she wasn't hurt, even as soft cracks sounded in her frozen joints. "Save it, even?

"Tell me it. Your plan. All of it. Now."

She sank downwards, breathing deeply, moving her body closer to her life-saving lava as her eyes burned into Morrowseer with all the fire that was left in her body. She, of course, had heard the details of most of Morrowseer's plan already—but formalities dictated that he repeat it to her, to make sure that she understood his plot in its earnest and where, if anywhere, to find fault in it. Just as well. Formalities were his specialty; working through them was his talent. If Battlewinner wanted formalities, Morrowseer would give her formalities—for this, this instant, was what he had been waiting for. This was his moment, his chance to speak up and take the world—and he wasn't going to let it slip for anything. He breathed in, just as he would have if he had been in front of the council. He met Battlewinner's eyes, straightened his body, collected himself—and he spoke.

"Your Majesty, as you no doubt aware, our tribe is dying. This island—this volcano—is strangling us. There's not enough to eat. Illness runs rampant. Less eggs are laid each year, and even fewer hatch. And most importantly, the very ground underneath our talons threatens to erupt and kill us all. We cannot stay where we are.

"At the same time, the other tribes of Pyrrhia believe—as they will continue to believe—that we retain the ability to see the future. A Nightwing-made prophecy will not be questioned; as such, the dragons of Pyrrhia lie in our claws. Their ignorance makes them usable—so I say, why not twist them to something of our use?

"One more thing that you know—the war on the mainland. The Sandwings have fallen to pieces and have taken the rest of the world with them, fighting viciously, yet in too many directions for there ever to be a decisive outcome without interference. Already dragons are feeling the horrors of war, and already they are desperate for relief. They want something to save them from their self-inflicted bloodshed; they will soon need something to bring them reprieve from death. And again, this bodes well for us. As you are most certainly aware, Your Majesty, nothing is more powerful or more dominating than hope.

"These three things—our problem, their ignorance, and this universal hope for peace—combine to give us a potent opportunity. My plan, in a few short words, revolves around manipulating the dragons on the mainland into ending their own war—after all, direct involvement by our tribe will not be accepted by certain factions, one tribe in particular. No, we will instead raise a group of young, malleable, and diverse dragonets to act in our steed—molding their brains to our control.

"These 'Dragonets of Destiny' will show up in Pyrrhia like angels, like prophets from fate itself. They will tell Pyrrhia which queen to accept, and Pyrrhia will be so far deep in despair that it will have no choice but to listen. Of course, these dragonets will pick the queen who we want to rule—and by doing so, bring a ruler into the Sand Kingdom indebted to us, someone so grateful for her new position that she'll have to give us something in return. Something, perhaps, which we can us to make our already strong tribe invincible: an alliance.

"This brings us to the most important and, for us, most rewarding part of my plan. It should be obvious what these allies are needed for: taking our new home. Consequently, the question shifts from how to where—and I've already deduced the perfect place for us to settle.

"We need a home that we don't need to fight a major war for—so we take a region that's defenseless, filled with dragons weaker and more ignorant than most. We need a home that can nurse the injuries from our previous one—so we take the most bountiful region on Pyrrhia. We need a home that will let us grow into the untouchable force we once were—so we take a region so spacious most Nightwings will never see its ends. And we need a home that truly represents the power and glory of our tribe—so we take the most beautiful region in the world."

Morrowseer raised his eyes at Battlewinner, and even though he knew that she knew what he was going to say, he still grinned at her—smugly, proudly, evilly. "So," he said, "we take the rainforest."

His smirk fixed on his face, Morrowseer's continued speech boomed out of his throat, his voice confident and strong, any hint of the slight nervousness that might have pervaded his posture before now unmistakably gone: "Its only inhabitants now are the Rainwings—stupid, lazy, worthless dragons, who could hardly do a thing to us alone, much less to a powerful Nightwing–Sandwing alliance. We will invade, we will crush any resistance, and the Rainwings will fall, at which point we can either eradicate or enslave them—your choice, of course. With the Rainwings gone and the rainforest ours, we can finally become the tribe that we are supposed to be. All the horrible suffering caused by our current home—the malnutrition, the disease, the lack of successful hatchings, the fear of extinction constantly looming over us—with this new domain, all of it will end.

"It's a drastic plan. I understand that—but these are desperate times. We need a new place to live, and what true resistance does the rainforest offer? Perhaps you worry that other dragons will watch our easy conquest of the Rain Kingdom and see an effortless takeover for themselves, maybe even calling their invasions justified. But that's the purpose of our Sandwing allies—once we return to the mainland, they and their threat of a major war will protect us until our tribe has recovered from the generations of torture this volcano has provided.

"The prophecy itself is soon to be completed. We will insert a—"

"No," Battlewinner suddenly interrupted, her cracking voice louder than expected—enough to echo off the walls of her empty room. Morrowseer started, his mind suddenly blank, his eyes dumbly attaching to his queen's. The Nightwing Queen only stared back, thinking silently, an eerie, icy gust blowing in and out of her mouth as she breathed. Long seconds dragged by; Morrowseer didn't dare take his eyes from Battlewinner's as the queen slowly prepared to speak.

"The idea," she finally whispered, breaking the frozen silence. "I like it."

Morrowseer instantly felt that previously-controlled (and by now, almost-burnt-out) pride flare up again, almost to the point of outburst. The Nightwing seer quickly suppressed the emotion before he let out something stupid, like a giddy cry of glee; the dragon in front of him seemed not to notice, and simply continued watching him, forcing herself to keep talking.

She breathed in. "Rainwings—true, they can't hurt us." She breathed in again, her body trembling as she did. "The rainforest—yes, it's an easy capture." She breathed in one more time, pain showing all throughout her figure as her posture began to collapse. "And you're right—we do need a new home."

She then paused for an uncomfortable amount of time, silently regaining herself. "But," she eventually and abruptly hissed, "the execution." She stopped again, wind rushing past the icicles in her mouth and into her shivering lungs as she took another slow, desperate breath.

"It lacks sense," she managed, almost spat, before she dropped her head and coughed, forced to regain her overstrained voice.

Morrowseer's flare of pride had already gone from suppressed to extinguished while he'd watched Battlewinner struggling in front of him, but now was when its embers turned cold and froze. New emotions—disbelief, disappointment, bewilderment; emotions that he hated—began to fill him, but these new feelings were quickly suppressed, just like all the rest. The Nightwing seer was determined not to show weakness as he stared at the struggling queen in front of him, no matter what he truly felt.

Although, he couldn't help but wonder—what did she find wrong with his plan? The use of dragonets, perhaps? Morrowseer had tried to re-work that part of the prophecy, and he had only found failure. A group of crusty old dragons chosen to act as the innocent saviors of the world? It was ridiculous; no one would believe the Nightwings, and that was besides the fact that adults already had their own opinions and loyalties—they were not easy to manipulate, like children were.

So then what? He hadn't even told her about what he found the most worrying part of his plan: the almost-decade long wait before the dragonets would mature and the prophecy would take effect. Too many things could happen in that time—one of the sisters might win the Sandwing throne, the rainforest could be occupied by another tribe for its resources, or, worst of all, the volcano could erupt again, destroying the Nightwing tribe for good. But the wait seemed necessary to instill legitimacy; a prophecy stating that a bunch of dragonets would come and tell them how the war would end tomorrow wouldn't have the same effect on a group of dragons as having them wait for years. But again, Morrowseer hadn't told her about that; what did Battlewinner find wrong with his plan?

"The prophecy."

The Nightwing seer was hit with a jolt; his eyes, previously having wandered as he'd thought, aimed back towards the queen. Battlewinner was trembling again; it looked like she was trying to swallow. Morrowseer let her finish without interruption, not letting his confusion show, and the queen eventually moved her eyes back to his.

Then, with words unbroken, without any hint of her horrible internal injuries other than quiet hiss of her voice, she spoke: "Why is it necessary, Morrowseer?"

Morrowseer blinked, a chill rushing through him as he struggled to comprehend what his queen was thinking. The prophecy was necessary for forming an alliance with the Sandwings and not going to the mainland without protection—he'd said that only a few minutes earlier, by the moons! The Nightwing seer swallowed—his throat was vaguely dry—and repeated, "Your Majesty, if we don't use this prophecy to form an alliance, other dragons may attack us in our fragile new home—"

"Why?"

Again, the sudden interruption startled Morrowseer—even though he should have been getting used to Battlewinner's crude disruptions by now. The seer hesitated, and his queen elaborated in his silence: "What tribe would…" Battlewinner grimaced, straining as she regained her voice, trying to recover quickly, "...risk everything… to attack us?" She had to stop then, coughing hideously, but then she struck back, her blue eyes holding a fury that Morrowseer couldn't comprehend. "Remember:" she rasped, "We're strong. They're weak. They are in our claws.

"I think your plan—it's smart. Heartless. Necessary. But with one flaw.

"We can take the rainforest—we will take the rainforest. Just like you want. But we'll do it alone."

Morrowseer didn't even have a chance to think of a reply during Battlewinner's quick, tortured pause. The queen had moved even closer to her lava, and it seemed to have warmed up her jaw or her lungs or something, because she was talking relatively quickly now: "You said so—dragons don't want to fight. They're killing themselves already—why throw themselves at us? Rainwings—they can't hurt us. Not themselves. Not with help. We invade, they fall—without effort. Let the other tribes—the Icewings, perhaps—" Battlewinner suddenly hacked in pain, her sudden surge of hate apparently too much for her. Morrowseer watched wordlessly; Battlewinner eventually continued, blazing rage in her eyes, "Let them destroy themselves. But the Nightwings—we do not need to get involved, Morrowseer."

Despite their inherent weakness, despite the fact that Battlewinner had to stop and gasp afterwards to regain the ghastly rasp that came out of her mouth, despite the fact that the queen had had to move even lower to stop any more ice from crystallizing on her scales, the large dragon's words still managed to reverberate powerfully around her chamber. Morrowseer felt an assault from every possible angle as Battlewinner's voice slowly faded from the room. And even after the sound had faded, her declaration stayed ringing in his mind.

To a less experienced dragon, they'd be overwhelming. To someone like the shivering, wide-eyed Greatness still huddling in the shadows, they'd be absolute. Battlewinner's words held absolute power—an implication that her resolve was unbreakable. To most dragons, the queen had already made up her mind.

But to Morrowseer—whether it be from superior intellect or levelheadedness or dumb perception or just sheer stubbornness—Battlewinner's words had held the slightest hint of doubt.

She knew that an attack on the peaceful Rainwing tribe would lead to condemnation from all the others. She knew that moving to the mainland without allies was dangerous, overconfident, and could easily lead to disaster. She knew that Morrowseer's prophecy could very well be better for the Nightwing tribe in the long flight—after all, what glory would the Nightwings receive after ending the worst war to touch Pyrrhia in decades? Without a doubt, Battlewinner knew that Morrowseer's plan had its merits.

Morrowseer knew that he could still convince Battlewinner to his side. Morrowseer knew that he could still make her believe that using a prophecy was the best way to safely conquer their new home—he knew that his queen was smarter than haphazardly establishing a new, vulnerable kingdom on the mainland. It would only take a little bit more persuasion; he knew that he could jump on Battlewinner's faint hesitation and use it to his advantage. He still could change the world in the way he desired—he knew so.

And he was about to defend his plan, to try and twist destiny back into his own claws, when his queen spoke up again.

She had been slowly sinking back into her lava, its heat apparently too alluring for her to resist, but then she had stopped and caught her subject's eyes, again halting Morrowseer's thoughts as she hissed his name—although (and it was very hard to tell), her voice seemed… softer, this time.

"Morrowseer. This plan—it's yours. It will be treated so. You—I can make you great. You will be great…" Battlewinner struggled for a second, before whispering, "General Morrowseer. Of my… dedicated, specialized, and powerful… invasion force."

Morrowseer had remained attentively silent during his queen's speech, his thoughts about how to effectively sway his queen to his side temporarily replaced with respectful interest on her words. Despite his refocused concentration on his queen, however, Morrowseer had kept his plan's virtues and reasons for implementing constantly running through his mind—until his queen had uttered those two words.

"General Morrowseer"—these were the words that had finally made Morrowseer freeze.

Silence filled the room as Battlewinner's voice faded, and the Nightwing only blinked at her, again, somewhat dumbly. Abruptly, his brain jolted into action, and Morrowseer began thinking again—quickly, very quickly. Battlewinner had just offered him the chance to revive the Nightwings (the whole point of his plan, mind), with the only difference from his original proposition the lack of a time-consuming, difficult-to-implement prophecy. Did he… Did he want to take that offer? Morrowseer's eyes fell—not much, hardly noticeable, but his gaze was broken nonetheless—and the Nightwing thought hard, his mind never straying far from the words of the dragon in front of him.

Was she right? Could the Nightwings invade the rainforest without allies, move to the mainland without protection? Would dragons see weakness in a new Nightwing Kingdom, or strength from the dragons who had conquered the Rainwings? And most importantly: Did a prophecy change any of this, or was it just Morrowseer's way of proving, elevating himself? Morrowseer tried to foresee the future; he ran calculations and made predictions and attempted to function as if he were a Nightwing with true foresight. The future, as always, remained unclear.

Finally, the Nightwing seer blinked, then sighed quietly. His eyes remained in the distance for a second before he brought them back to his queen's. Battlewinner still appeared uncomfortable, frozen, cold; Morrowseer needed to give his response, and soon. He knew what he had to say, in any case. It just took a few seconds before his voice began working again.

"I understand, Your Majesty," he said, lowering his head, his voice still strong and powerful. "I will do as you wish—to the very best of my ability."

"Good." Battlewinner's hiss came with the slightest of nods; a sudden irrational shiver rushed through Morrowseer as his queen's response echoed. "Greatness…"

Morrowseer raised his head back up just in time to see Battlewinner disappearing from his view, his queen dropping into her lava without a second glance, a soft crunch-like sound resonating through the room as Battlewinner submerged her body back into molten rock. For a second, the Nightwing seer felt confused at his queen's final hiss, until he saw movement in the corner of his eye and realized she had been referring to the princess, not the concept. The small dragon quickly scuttled to Morrowseer's side before immediately urging him away—and the large Nightwing watched his stammering princess for only a second before he nodded, turned, and began walking.

He made it back to the tunnel before his doubts began again.

But this time he snarled to himself, refusing to amuse his insecurities. Battlewinner was right, he told himself; a prophecy was needlessly complicated. The Sandwing who was picked as queen could betray the Nightwings, turning on the weakened tribe before they could rebuild. The dragons of Pyrrhia might not listen to a group of barely-grown dragons, and instead twist the prophecy to their own ends. And again, the volcano itself could suddenly erupt while the Nightwings were waiting for the dragonets to grow.

No. Logically, the Rainwings could be destroyed without effort, and the Nightwings could take their new home with ease. Morrowseer's tribe did not need to get involved, however indirectly, in a war unbefitting of their true interests.

The Nightwings would still get their new home. The Rainwings would still get obliterated. The dragons on the mainland, even, couldn't fight forever. And the plan was still his—just without an unneeded addition.

He had still proved himself to his queen. He was still going to control the world. Nothing would change; they just hadn't needed his prophecy.

They didn't need his prophecy.

Battlewinner was right.

Nothing would change.

Nothing.

A/N: Three things. First, I don't own Wings of Fire. (WOAH, REALLY!?) Maybe I should have written this higher up, but a) I feel like it's pretty much a given and b) I couldn't find a way to put an Author's Note up there without ruining the tone I was trying to set up. So that's why the standard warning is down here. You know, if you had a burning desire to know.

Second—and this should also be fairly obvious—massive spoilers are ahead. Massive spoilers already took place, really, but spoilers for everything Wings of Fire related—that includes the main series, Darkstalker, and all the Winglets—are to be expected throughout the following story.

And third, thanks for reading! Reviews are always nice, especially if you're new and/or have super writing skills and have a couple tips for an amateur. Speaking of being new—that huge blob of text below here? It's silly. If you've never seen this story before, I'd say it's best to just ignore it. If you're curious about why I bothered implementing all the changes in this new version of the chapter, however, then read on. In any case, thanks again for reading, and hope you continue!

Update Log: If you're familiar with the old version of this chapter, you've probably noticed a great amount of new stuff. Like, around 5,000 words worth of new stuff. And while I'm not going to bother writing down my reasoning behind everything I did differently in this new version, I do feel a sort of accountability in explaining some of the major things that I've changed in this chapter.

First, and perhaps most importantly in my priority-skewed mind, is Battlewinner's speech. That doesn't mean her monologue—that means her way of speaking. The basic problem was that before, I had Battlewinner talking like a normal dragon. As it turns out, however, as shown in The Dark Secret, Battlewinner physically cannot talk like a normal dragon: Her insides are frozen to the point where she has to struggle with every gasp of breath. I therefore completely reworked her dialogue, generally restricting myself to six or less syllables before putting some form of pause in her speech. There are a couple of aversions to this rule, mainly for drama, but for the most part, Battlewinner now talks like she should.

With that somewhat blatant canonical error out of the way, however, most of the changes come down to pacing and detail. This chapter was really, really, really quick and jumpy before—it read like a rough draft, mainly because it was a rough draft. What I did in this new edition was to try and slow down the pacing and work on the somewhat lackluster description—this is what accounts for most of that aforementioned stuff.

That thing at the beginning with Secretkeeper? Those, like, two lines about Greatness in the old edition? The mystery and terror the Nightwings hold around their queen? The introduction and subsequent world-defining rejection of Morrowseer's prophecy? And most of all, Morrowseer's constant thoughts and worries about him and his prophecy's flaws? All of it's fleshed out and quite a bit longer, with The Dark Secret and Assassin being the two big compounds making up said flesh. A lot of this detail is actually building towards later in the story, but there's still a good amount of stuff here subtly dedicated to why Morrowseer let the prophecy fail in this AU, other than just, you know, IhavetogettheplotgoingsomehowsoIguessMorrowseerjustgivesup.

That all said, however, the whole chapter remains very love–hate for me. There's a lot of stuff that I sometimes think slows the chapter down too much, and then sometimes think is necessary for character development, foreshadowing and imagery purposes, and just a little pinch of humor. I understand that the chapter isn't really that exciting—some of that coming from its basic concept (Morrowseer thinks about many things (and boy, is Morrowseer the kind of guy who'll go off on long, impassioned tangents) and then talks with Battlewinner—woo hoo, excitement!), and some coming from the fact that I'm basically retelling a part of the actual series. However, if you've already read into TDAC (especially into Part 2), you should understand why a lot of the stuff here is important. Things will speed up, I promise—I just felt like nothing else could replace this chapter and some of its more ostensibly-trivial details as the prologue, at least not in a way I'd be satisfied with.

This shouldn't be a common theme, by the way. The long update logs—most will probably be pretty short, actually. It's just that this chapter in particular went through a lot of redevelopment—more than anything else, working with Morrowseer and Battlewinner killed my account on FanFiction. It still ain't perfect, but I'm at the point where I don't care. I put too much effort into this story already to let one chapter kill it.

So, if you read this story in "the old days," thank you, seriously, for sticking with me through all my crap. If you're new and ignored the comment above about this block of text being silly, thanks for your interest in the story and how it's evolved. And for all of you… well, I can't make love hearts on this site, but if I could, they'd be everywhere. Thanks for reading, seriously.