Her smile shriveled, and she stepped into one of the entrance tunnels that was lit with glowing moss. They walked for a time in silence and didn’t encounter anybody even though they were in a larger passageway. Piscalo guessed that most green dasha were busy transferring the huge bones from the gray feast to the gardens, which was perfect. Piscalo did want anyone interrupting what was about to happen.

“Be careful not to touch the walls,” he said to her as they got higher up in the spire.

Misola turned to give him a searching look and then smirked, lifting her left hand to the stone. “Why? What’s going to happen?

Piscalo grabbed her arm, jerking it down. “Cuz I said!” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Now be quiet. I don’t want him hearing us if he’s already back.”

Misola didn’t say anything, just stared at him. They were very close now and standing still, the uneven ground making them near the same height. He blushed as she kissed him. He always did. It was so warm. That’s the only way he could think to describe it. And it was always over too soon. She stepped back, giving a little nod and smile before starting up the tunnel again. Piscalo glanced over his shoulder to check if anyone had happened to pass by at that moment, but no one was there.

He moved quickly behind her and touched her on the shoulder when they reached the third fork. She got the hint and took the one on the right, which would lead to a ledge overlooking the inside of Gresset’s cave.

They were nearly out of the tunnel when a thump sounded ahead of them. Misola stopped, and Piscalo slipped around her, listening carefully. Nothing. He strained to catch something, even holding his breath to hear better but still not a sound. He crept forward, motioning for Misola to do the same.

Reaching the exit, he poked his head out, looking side to side. The small ledge held only rock and grit. He inched forward, checking over the rim. The cave was empty. They had made it in time.

He turned back but instead of finding Misola, he came nose to snout with a dragon and almost stumbled over the edge. Luckily, the beast shot a wing out, catching him in its leathery embrace.

“Zalc!” Piscalo whispered at the horned dragon as he regained his balance. “What are you doing? Trying to kill me?”

“What am I doing?” hissed the youngling. “What are you doing back here?”

Misola crept out onto the ledge. “Who are—” She started when she saw Zalc. “Oh,” she said pressing her lips together and giving a little snort. “I should have known.”

Zalc’s scaled brows lowered. “Why is that mud runner here?”

Misola answered before Piscalo had a chance. “Don’t worry, Zalcar. I won’t tell anyone that you’re still sulking in your spire since Tixle left you. Of course,” she said, expression turning thoughtful, “everyone already knows that.”

Piscalo sighed to himself. For whatever reason, Misola and Zalc loved needling each other, and he had learned that once they got started it was faster to just let them finish than to try and stop them.

“She didn’t leave me,” the horned dragon said, tongue darting out in annoyance. “She was called to explore. That’s what yellows do. There’s a difference.”

Misola grinned. “I wonder. Called to explore, or maybe just to escape?”

Zalc clacked his teeth together sharply. “You know nothing about it, gray. So still your chatter.”

“I know that you haven’t let the green dasha clean you for days,” Misola’s smile turned wicked. “Her smell all you had left?”

Zalc clacked his teeth together again but didn’t offer up any more banter. Instead, a set of cloudy lids dropped over his eyes. The move was purely instinctual. The lenses were meant to protect the dragon from the bright and searing heat of their flame. Normally the move was threatening, but Misola just giggled.

“Oh no. Don’t burn me, Zalc.” She set her feet wide and flicked her hair. For some reason, Piscalo found his heart skipping faster as he watched her face off against his friend. “Who do you think you’re fooling, green? You can barely steam. I’ll make sure to let you know when the beetroot is too tough for the hatchlings.” Then she turned, stepping over to the edge. “Now what are we waiting for? And where is Gresset?”

Piscalo was too busy watching said steam shoot out Zalc's nostrils and billow on the stone floor to answer.

“Um, well…” he said.

Zalc’s mouth opened, revealing countless serrated teeth, and Piscalo moved in front of the dragon. Zalc would never in his right mind dare to hurt another brood’s dasha, but Misola had a way of putting people out of their mind. Luckily, Piscalo was saved from tackling his friend by the sound of clicking and scraping coming toward them, which they all three spun to face.

Out of the darkness popped the snub-nose head of Jikkol, who was crawling on the side of the wall.

“Now we just need to wai—”

Jikkol stumbled—obviously surprised to see them all—and nearly fell. He only dropped a few scales though before digging his talons back into the rock and giving them all an angry hiss.

Everyone started to talk then: pointing, yelling, snapping teeth.

THUMP.

Both dragons, Piscalo, and Misola clamped their jaws shut and turned to face the entrance of the cave. In crashed the mighty green, tail lashing, wings beating, whipping the air even as high up as they crouched. Massive claws ripped the ground as the dragon thundered forward, fire seeming to glow in the depths of his mouth and nostrils. His eyes roamed the rocky floor and finding it empty the dragon let out a mighty bellow.

“PISCALO!”