These words are chronicled to serve the most important purpose the brood has. Preparing the offspring of the brood for their duty in the outside world with lessons from the past. History, therefore, is a precious thing to all, both personal and general. Never forget this.

-From Neonatum Provisae: 1: 1-4.

A dank musty smell wafted up from the depths. The neonate’s tongue flickered out, probing. Bitter and unfamiliar. Her eyes narrowed. Ugly brown displeasure and faded green exhaustion washing over her mind.

She didn’t like the idea of going down.

Need to see. Her Instinct insisted.

That was the other thing. She had gotten used to how dark it got at night with the constant monsoon, but the complete darkness of the depths of the ruin was something else. No light at all down there.

Even owls wouldn’t fly here.

She needed light. And the only way she knew how to bring light down with her was to somehow carry her fire in her hand or something similarly ridiculous.

She hissed. About as helpful as flapping my arms to get across the thorns.

Her Instinct snorted as she turned back to her shelter to take stock of what she had.

As the rain ran down her scales, dripping from her chin, she wondered if the bag could hold the fire and protect it from the rain. But she discarded that plan as well. The idea of putting something as destructive as fire in an already injured magical object was ludicrous. Especially with the example of the tube weapon still so fresh in her mind.

No, better to try and think of a mundane solution.

She sat under the roof of her hut, chewing on the cooked gulper meat. Smoke wreathed her as she shifted in the rag padded hollow that was her nest. Her treasures all splayed out before her. It agitated the neonate that the pile was so small.

She had already tried holding a piece of firewood, a smaller stick, dried reeds, one piece of the fish, and even a thin slice of the cloth of her bedding. All burned readily enough, but none had the sort of brightness that she needed, apart from the reeds.

She had been excited with how bright they had gotten, rushing back out into the rain to head down into the ruins, but the fire devoured them like they were snip bugs. It had nearly singed her claws before she tossed them to the ground.

She stomped back under cover and shook the majority of the water droplets off before basking in the heat of the flames to dry herself.

Take inventory perhaps?

She didn’t know what that would change, she had done it already. The fishhooks, disks, spheres, spikes, and wire were all earthbone, which wouldn’t burn. The bones of the rous only charred and became brittle, so she had set those aside. There wasn’t much left.

Her tongue flickered out and she winced for the fourth time. The rous skin was rotting, and the smell was terrible. It wasn’t helped by the fact that the one clear container of liquid from the grave, the liquid that was thick as honey, had leaked on it. The neonate had since moved the bottle to a flat stone where it could sit upright.

She reached over and grabbed the skin, wanting to see if any of it was salvageable. A single drop of the viscous liquid dripped onto the coals.

Fire!

Bright and sudden, it flared up and lit the pelt, which blazed into flame rapidly.

The shelter!

She hissed and threw it out into the storm, the tenacious flames roaring as the pelt sailed through the air. It splattered in the mud, the fire burning easily despite the rain and puddle the fur had landed in. The unstained portions just smoldered and stunk.

Gagging at the smell she grabbed a stick and used it to toss the reeking thing farther away. Coughing and waving her arms to dissipate the black smoke and smell of burning hair, she looked at the bottle of viscous liquid.

Liquid that burns?

Danger.

It would let me have light down there though. She glanced at the stairs as her Instinct hummed softly.

She took the piece of firewood she had used to flip the fur farther into the rain, uncorked the bottle, and dribbled some of the thick liquid out onto it. Almost instantly it slid off, not sticking in the way she wanted, and instead running onto her hand.

She snapped her jaws.

Holding her now slick hand away from the rest of her body, she tore off a piece of her cloth bedding to wipe the smelly stuff off of her skin. The thick liquid soaked readily into the fabric. Taking on that slick feel and the odd scent.

Her eyes widened.

That’s it!

Learn!

Her knife whispered through the cloth as she sliced some of it into long strips. She wound them tightly around the piece of firewood, soaking them liberally with the…

Should name this stuff… Firehoney? Yes. Firehoney.

Her Instinct grunted in approval.

The neonate soaked each strip in the firehoney as she wrapped them around the piece of wood. She also used one of the wires to hold the cloth in place, twisting it down tight. When done she had a total of three torches made. The neonate glanced at the diminished pile of bedding.

I wonder if I could use cordage instead. She could test that, delay going down.

Idiot. Focus. Her Instinct snarled, tightening her grip on the haft of the torch. Her stomach grumbled in agreement. She had to get moving soon.

The neonate made sure that she had the knife in its sheath, and put three of the torches in the bag, wanting to keep the firehoney soaked ends dry as possible. Taking the first one she had made, she lowered it towards the fire carefully.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Instantly, with a sound like a gust of wind, it caught. She was glad that without the stinking fur to burn as well, it was almost scentless. Not wanting to waste any time she ran towards the strange dark cavern.

The worked stones gave her a dubious grip in the rain. She had to make use of her tail as if she was up in the trees. She was glad to be under the stone roof of the ruin, though the pouring water down the stone steps made it feel like tiny hands were trying to pull her deeper in.

Survive. Her Instinct was hushed, as if trying to not drown out any sound echoing up.

She descended down into the depths, her scales shifting to match the hue and pattern of the stones without her needing to think of it.

The water ran over the backs of her calves as she moved down the stairs with deliberate strides. The only sounds were the echoes of the flowing water, which poured into her ears. The dank musty smell was overwhelming getting more intense as she moved lower. The stone steps were awkwardly high for her, designed for someone taller.

She ran still tender palms along the wall of the stairway, strange shapes and depictions carved into the stone. They looked like members of the brood, Truescales, but for each one something was slightly off.

A tail too short here, a claw too blunt there. At least for the Greenscales depicted. And if she was using Tok as an example, it was a similar issue with the Blackscales. They were things that should have been obvious to the carver.

She recognized one scene, the founding of the conclave. One of each brood. Black, blue, red, and finally, smallest, green. Different pigments marked each of them, now faded with time and damp. There were also scenes depicting unfamiliar events, with actors with utterly alien features.

One such held a flame in his hand, the other missing with the rest of the relief, which had crumbled away who knew how long ago.

I mean, I could say, but that would be telling. And the kiddo doesn’t need to know much about me yet.

Studying the reliefs as she went lower and lower, it seemed he had taken the fire from some sort of mountain or plateau. And he was running from something. What exactly was lost to the ages, broken off as well. It revealed more of the rune carved stones beneath.

It was a shame, it was quite beautiful in a strange way.

The next scene showed him somewhere completely different. Somewhere dark. Somewhere deep. From the remaining pigments, somewhere full of shadow.

She shook her head, joints in her neck cracking.

I need to get back on task.

Her Instinct grunted like Tok. She turned away from the carvings, and it wasn’t long before she was nearing the bottom of the stairs.

The light of her torch bloomed outwards as the space opened up, and awe washed over everything above her ankles. They were already submerged.

Gods…

Titanic in scale, it was a space that would make Tok look minuscule. Ceilings so high that even the tallest trees she had seen above would fit here below. Supported by colossal pillars that sprouted from the flooded waters.

Everything was elegantly carved, a work of art made by a master. So intricate and beautiful that it was hard to spot that even here there were carved runes in the stones.

She marveled at it. Looking around and feeling completely insignificant with the cold water flowing against her feet. She took a step in, wanting to explor-

Eyes! Seen!

She jerked and spun around, holding her torch high. There was nothing on the stairs.

Look up, fool! Her Instinct snarled.

She did, just barely seeing the ceiling, the cold rainwater at her feet sloshing. There was nothing there. Nothing that she could see. No movement.

The feeling only grew in intensity. Not just two eyes, thousands, millions. Wide open. Staring at her.

She waited, slowly drawing her knife, scanning the ceiling for movement, staring back at the dark. Slowly, head on a swivel, she made her way farther in.

This wasn’t the herbs.

She could tell.

Something about the smell of the place, the scent of something, made her bare her teeth in a silent snarl. She had to fight the urge to run. She knew if she did it wouldn’t help her in the slightest. Her scales shifted again, and she watched her legs vanish, the effect ruined by the water at her ankles. The smell wasn’t new, but it was prevalent. Something powerful. Unimaginable.

The reek of an unknown predator.

Whatever this is will slink out at night and kill me.

Survive. Her Instinct hissed from her knife hand.

The feeling of being watched grew oppressive, weighing down on her until the neonate found herself crouching near the water. She was trembling, teeth bared, her mind rebelling at the fear she had vowed wouldn’t rule her.

She shut her eyes, feeling her skin flickering between the black and red and the white and dirty yellow. Shame, acidic and overwhelming, stung her intestines as she cowered there.

The torch was almost out. She would fall into darkness and the things there would kill her.

No!

It couldn’t end here! But she couldn’t move.

Oh stop picking on the kiddo already.

The pressure lessened. It didn’t leave, but it moved away. As if to let her up. She looked around the space, slowly standing. Her sharp eyes straining against the dark, lifting the torch high. Water continued to roar all around, knee deep now. Cold.

It should stink, shouldn’t it? Be stagnant and slimy. It wasn’t though.

And the air wasn’t still either. Gentle breezes blew this way and that. Her tongue flickered out. Dank smells. Dark smells. Wet stone. Moss. Slow clean decay.

And something sharper. Territorial.

She growled.

Run! Leave! Live!

She ignored her Instinct. She couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without finding the eyes and putting them out for good.

She felt their gaze sharpen, grow more hostile.

The neonate shook herself again, wishing she could re-crack her neck. She started forward, and nearly fell into a massive pool of water. Snarling and spluttering from the chill of it she looked closer.

It was hard to tell through the constant disturbance from the rainwater, but it looked like there was much more to the structure beneath the surface.

Kneeling, she stuck her head under, and could see more stairs and passageways going deeper. Periodically there were circular platforms in-between submerged bridges. It was so strange to see such a large body of water with no algae.

There was something odd about the water something like thirty feet down, but she couldn’t tell without getting closer. And she wasn’t about to do that. She’d lose the torch.

What was this place? Where are the fish?

Her Instinct hummed, aware that some caves had fish.

She pulled her head out of the water, spluttering slightly before making a more careful way farther in.

It just kept going, her torch struggling against the gaping dark. The echoes and reflections of the water played tricks on her, making her stop often, scanning scent and sound for the hidden creatures whose eyes she still felt.

Screeeeeee!

She was completely engulfed!

Buffeted on all sides. Flapping fluttering shrieking things blocked her vision. She couldn’t even see the torch. All the tension, all the fear and anger burst from her as a tempest fit to rival the monsoon.

With a snarl she lashed out with blade and torch. The firehoney stuck to some of the creatures, the additional flames only making the combat more disorientating.

She smelled blood.

Her own and others.

She fought harder, spinning, lashing with her tail, her clawed feet, snapping her jaws. She caught something, and it wriggled, furry, tiny claws and teeth scoring the inside of her mouth.

That was all her Instinct needed to know.

Devour! Kill! Kill! Kill!

She crunched down. Blood, delicious and hot, filled her.

Bats!

Her forebrain took a beat longer than her Instinct, even as she snapped and bit the air even faster. Her shoulder went numb.

Kill!

The flat of her blade cracked the skull of a slightly larger bat, killing it as it lapped at her blood. Even larger ones assaulted her now, swooping through the little ones. She could somehow sense most of them snapping up the smaller breed. Her Instinct interpreting all of her senses for her.

Unnatural!

They were too large, as big as mawfrogs! How was this possible?

Doesn’t matter. Kill!

She shoved the torch towards them, and many veered away from her. Those that didn’t met her knife. One, larger than the rest, clamped onto her. It’s fangs sunk into her clavicle, making her yelp. She staggered, about to fall as the water sloshed about her calves.

Stand! Torch!

With a snarl she planted her foot. She felt woozy. It was… The bat was… licking at the wound… She stumbled slightly. It had some sort of venom? Snarling, her scales shifted into the black and red as she struggled against the soporific saliva.

Cull! Unnatural!

The matte black blade slammed upwards. She felt the blade jar against the beast’s ribs, blood and air hissing out of the punctured lung. She kicked it off to splash in the water. She pounced on top of it, getting a firmer grip on her weapon. Bubbles boiled from the wound.

“Die!” She snarled. Her head darted forwards. She tore out its throat. She pinned it there, letting the water fill in. Watching it drown. Liking it.

Her own chest heaving, she swallowed the chunk of flesh, glaring into the dark. Waiting for anything else.

Nothing came at her. She was alone.

And she still felt like she was being watched.