“Siluastryx, you are going to be late!”

  I know, mother.

  I reach down for my bag and she calls again, “Siluastryx, did you hear me?”

  Yes, mother. The whole neighborhood heard you, mother.

  “It’s Stryx, mother,” I say, emerging into the wide, expansive vault from my cramped, messy room and securing my bag to my hip.

  “You haven’t earned the right to shorten your name yet, Siluastryx,” she says, her voice just grating now. I think she’s doing it on purpose. “Do you have your notes?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “And your homework?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “And your snack?”

  “Yes, mother!”

  “Don’t you say it like that. Wait, come back here. Where do you think you’re—”

  “Goodbye, mother.”

  I take the kebab and, pinching it between my claws to pull it from the skewer, bite into the succulent and crumbly flesh of the stone, savor the tenderness and flavor. For all her flaws, mother is a wonderful cook.

  “Siluastryx,” my mother calls. I turn just in time to catch my stormcoat. “There’s supposed to be another star storm. Fly safe.”

  “Thanks, mom,” I mumble as I stretch the flexible fabric over my wings and my long neck. Another star storm? What is it now, ten days straight? What are those silly stars doing? I draw my starglasses on, blotting out the closest star and hating how dark it gets, and I take flight. Just before I seal myself in my stormcoat, I squeeze the last few chunks of granite off the stick with my teeth and chew, lick my lips, swallow. I look at the constellations far off in the distance to read the time. Oops, looks like mother was right. I am going to be late.

  When I take off from the asteroid mother and I call home, I see Xyluexial up ahead and call out for him to wait. He and his mother are our closest neighbors and he’s my best friend. Most of the time. Well, all the time when he isn’t acting stupid around his other friends. He cranes his long, silver neck to look back at me and smiles, those jagged teeth gleaming gold-yellow in the dim light that makes its way through my starglasses. He slows down to let me catch up and in a few heartbeats we are wing to wing, twirling and floating through space.

  “Hey, Stryx,” he says, using his telepathic voice. “We missed you at practice. What was going on that you couldn’t come?”

  “My father was back for a bit.”

  “Blech. Fathers. I haven’t seen mine in five sweeps.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Promise me something. Don’t be like them.”

  “Never.”

  I knew he would. Most of the male wyrms left when they reached adolescence. They needed too much space and long before I came around everyone agreed it was best if they had that space elsewhere. There was no room for them in our cramped cluster of asteroids. Before anyone knew it, they’d be fighting for dominance and the whole cluster would suffer. They were allowed to return, but on a schedule. Many chose not to return at all, finding other stars or planets or just floating in the infinite space between worlds for eternities. I still had Xy for thirty-one sweeps, though, and that was good. For now.

  Xy is my best friend not because I always have my best times with him, but because we are comfortable enough around each other to have quiet times together. And I never have my worst times with him. Calm and patient, he is a rock when the other hatchlings talk behind my back or, worse, talk bad about my mother. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Xy talk bad about anyone, not even when I vent, not even when he’s angry.

  We hit one of those quiet patches on the way to school. The nearby star cluster, a group of thirteen stars all within a few parsecs of each other, shimmered and shone and we brace for the heat and the radiation, pulling our stormcoats over our neck and head as the energy from the star flares sweep past us, one wave after another. The light is so bright I have to close my eyes, even with my starglasses on. I gingerly peek through my third eyelid to catch a glimpse of the shower of sparks and all the million colors of the rainbow, but I have to squeeze them shut before long. The heat sweeps off my stormcoat, hardly reaching my scales, and the warmth is invigorating.

  “The storm’s worse than last time,” Xy says, but I disagree. He senses it in me, but he doesn’t say anything more.

  Half a dozen questions and comments run through my head, but I’m happy with the silence so I don’t say anything. Xy gets the hint.

  My time with my father was as it always was. Fraught. He asks me what I want to do with my life, how many hatchlings I want, if I’d rather be a hunter, if I’d like to find my own flight or live in this cluster of asteroids with mother and the others. I don’t know the answers. Even if I did, they wouldn’t be what he wants to hear. He wants me to travel with him instead of live with mother, to visit him in the more distant belt, to entertain him and occupy his mind and maybe even his body. He wants to mold me, just like he wanted with mother. He doesn’t care that I’m a child or that I’m his child. He doesn’t care at all about anything other than himself. He, he, he.

  That’s why I like Xy so much. Xy never talks about himself. I think his own father beat that out of him and he has the scars to prove it.

  After last night, I’m excited to get to school and see my friends and teachers. Drake Rov waiting for us at the cave entrance to ensure we get in safe and sound. He’s my favorite. It’s nice to have a drake role model whose times of aggression are long since past, especially for Xy, I bet. After five thousand sweeps he’s the oldest dragon in living memory and he has the stories to prove it. Any time we learn a new star has been born, he can tell us the hundred closest stars and he’s been to half of them more than once.

  He bobs his long neck to us as we land and ushers us inside with his massive, pocked black wing. “Don’t forget to hang up your coats,” he says, his gravelly voice as old as the stardust.

  When we get inside, the classroom is full, everyone in their appointed section save me and Xy. We shimmy out of our stormcoats and shift into our more informal shape, slipping our wings inside the armored folds along our spine. There’s an age at which our wings outgrow that little trick but I’m glad I’m not there yet. Xy and I curl our tails around our claws and settle into our seats as Drake Rov ambles to the front of the classroom.

  Rov’s shimmering black scales reflect the light’s iridescence and catch my eyes with shades of pink and white and gold. With his powerful mind he has been collapsing the entrance to the cave ever since he stepped away from it and I hear it shudder to a close behind me. He shifts his weight from one side to the other as he rocks into his spot at the head of the classroom. Thus begins each of his lessons.

  “Welcome everyone. I hope Mother Time has treated you all well since our last meeting. I’d like to start by working on our memories. Jadesnithyll, would you do us the honors?”

  Chuffed, Jade puffs up her neck scales and shimmied to the side of the room, where she brought a map of the nearby galaxy—a spiral—into being with her mind. Starting with the top of the spiral, she called out the name of the closest star and then projected a visual of the system into the center of the cavern above us. We all leaned back in our seats and let the stones roll us over so we could look up as we rehearsed each system by name. Within each system we would go over the planets and the other notable features: nebulae, clouds, belts, rings, moons and so on. Then more specific: temperatures, dominant elements, planet makeup. And most importantly, were there any reasons to travel to that particular system.

  Some discussion occurred at various intervals. Someone wondering if perhaps this planet or star might provide something useful by the next time we passed through. Did we expect life had begun at any of these locations. Important historical events that might have occurred.

  This is my least favorite part of the lessons. It drags on for an eternity and my memory isn’t as good as the others, so when I’m called on, I am oft admonished for forgetting the pronunciation or how many twin star systems dot the galaxy or some other factoid I can’t recall.

  As we make our way through the galaxy, we take turns with the projections and presentations and the whole while that I’m waiting to present I’m nervous for the mistakes I’ll surely make. But once it’s my turn, my mind finds clarity in the mess and I have no more slip-ups than my predecessor or my successor. Xy, who presents a few after me, does a phenomenal job and I congratulate him with an appreciative slide of my tail down his long neck when he comes back to his seat.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Once that portion of the lesson is finished, we move on to our homework, which was to detail all the forms of life from the previous galaxy we passed, but that is a dwarf galaxy and I remember it well from our previous sweep. I think it’s because my mind had been clear of extraneous worries at the time, but it’s hard to recall.

  In my twenty sweeps so far, I had seen entire galaxies born and universes die. Of course, we could all say that, but I like to remind myself of the power of my existence. It’s easy to forget.

  When I share my work, defending my hypothesis on whether the dwarf galaxy would grow or shrink or collapse entirely, I give a compelling argument for the former, though I expect it will grow so slowly that it will remain a dwarf galaxy for most of my entire life. Unless, of course, I live to be as old as Drake Rov. I’m not certain, but when I make that statement I could swear I see the old drake’s mouth curl into a smile.

  By the time our class lets out for lunch, our asteroid cluster has swept through most of the galaxy. Xy and I eat outside and watch the stars swim past while we nourish our bodies and minds and spirits with the gift of gooey molten platinum encased in a flaky obsidian shell with gold and silver seasoning. After I finish my meal, I see that far-off look in Xy’s eyes and ask him what’s wrong.

  “I’m worried about our upcoming assignment,” he says.

  “What assignment?”

  “Some of the others were talking that it’s something about creating life. I’m just not sure I’m cut out for that.”

  “Well I can do it for you if you want,” I say.

  He laughs. “Drake Rov would never accept that. And anyway, you’ll have to do your own.”

  “But Xy, you’re the smartest hatchling I know. You’re so good at everything you do.”

  He makes it seem like he’s stretching, but I can see him reach his claw up to the scars on his back. “The clouds are beautiful today.”

  Classic. Changing the subject. I look away and out to the window of stars. It really is beautiful, the stardust colorful and the patterns intricately weaved into the blanket of darkness beyond. But I still don’t understand his melancholy.

  He’s always had it. It’s like a constant third dragon in our midst. A sadness that speaks of past lives, of lost loves and deep, dark secrets. A sadness someone so young should never feel.

  “What story do you think we’ll do with Drakera Hyver?”

  He perks up. I know storytelling is his favorite class. “It’s supposed to be a new one. One she’s been working on for a hundred sweeps or more. I hope we’re able to perform it, but I suspect that will have to wait.”

  Stories are how a cluster defines themselves. The stories they choose to share tell of their generosity and humility, the importance of their bonds and the capacity of their hearts. While I am no storyteller, I know that one day Xy will be.

  Our peoples are nomads, swimming in the sea of stars, sometimes skirting the edges of the universes. And it is in these times and places that a meeting between two clusters might occur. On the rare occasion that two clusters meet, which has only happened once in my lifetime, it is the storytellers who lead the discussions. The bards who determine the fate of their future relationship. If the two clusters are of a like mind, they will often schedule another such time and place for a meeting. But given the randomness of the universes and the fact that they keep expanding, it doesn’t always work out.

  After a bit longer, Xy and I are called back inside. The other students are talking excitedly about something, the volume of the classroom enough to get that aching pound started just behind my eyes. Xy is accosted at the door. The other students love him and will never understand why he and I are friends. They are asking him questions about the new story, thinking perhaps he knows since he’s worked with Drakera Hyver in the past. I drown out their sound with my new favorite song, listening to it in my head. Settling deep into my comfortable chair, I promptly, inadvertently fall asleep.

  When I come to, Drakera Hyver is standing over me with an impish grin. Her voice is rich as molten gold. “Are you planning to sleep through my new story, Siluastryx?”

  I jolt awake, my body and mouth making unsavory sounds. “No. Of course not. I don’t—what happened?”

  She laughs, rearing back. Her smooth and shimmering white scales sparkle in the dimly lit room. “Worry not, I have yet to begin.”

  I jostle in my seat until I’m able to face her straight on instead of looking up. I want to apologize, but she just taps me with her tail and lets me know, without words, that she isn’t bothered in the least. I haven’t mastered the art of nonverbal communication yet like Xy and a few of the others. Drakera Hyver is the best I’ve known. A single tremble of her claw could tell you she’s seething with a rage so fierce she might smother you with dragonfire, while the tap of her tail on the right spot, just above where the wings meet your back, can make you feel like everything will be alright. I’ve tried, as I did with Xy earlier, but I can’t seem to master the trick, if there even is one.

  Drakera Hyver clears her throat at the head of the classroom and everyone hurries to their seats with muted apologies. “I hope everyone ate enough and we are ready to continue our learning. We will be reading a new story,” she says, taking a moment to inscribe the words into our mind’s eye. “I think it is a bit early to be acting it out, but we can take turns reading, if you wish.”

  Xy says, “I think you should read it to us.”

  He’s in love with Drakera Hyver. I know it to be true. While I can’t use nonverbal communication to relay a message, I see the subtle hints. The shape of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the words he chooses and how carefully he selects them. I don’t think she knows, but it’s only a matter of time. He’s gotten more and more obvious over the past sweep or two.

  “An excellent suggestion,” one of the simperers behind me says.

  “I can begin, but this tale is long and, at times, difficult, so I may ask for assistance along the way. Are we ready?”

  Everyone agrees and Drakera Hyver begins. Her stories usually start with a sweeping history, an entire fiction she has crafted for a system, how it came to be, all the myriad ways in which it has grown. But this story opens with an individual. We are introduced to all the fractious decisions they have made to render them a bitter, aging hag. And then we reconstruct their life, stopping at each important juncture to explore how things might change for this drakera, had she made different choices in her life. Had she chosen peace instead of war, had she chosen forgiveness rather than vengeance, had she chosen love over hate.

  I am moved from the start, relishing each and every twist and turn, her majestic turns of phrase, the powerful projection of Drakera Hyver’s voice. Stories have never been this for me; that was always Xy’s passion. But… I can’t quite describe how that subtle shift, focusing entirely on the individual rather than putting them in a time and place, makes all the difference. Before the story ever nears its conclusion, I am transformed. It is as if a fire inside me is lit and I am forever changed.

  I can feel the heat growing neath my scales, and I know Xy feels it, too, for he inches closer to me until our scales are touching. Until we are experiencing the story as one. I can feel his excitement, too, for he knows this story of Drakera Hyver’s is revolutionary. This one will soon go into the annals as a shift in our mindset. Not only as individuals, but also as a colony.

  By the time the story ends, every hatchling in the room is in tears. I know I have cried a thousand tears. After the introduction to this character, the merest hint of sadness in Drakera Hyver’s voice was enough to make my body vibrate with emotion.

  A silence falls in the room, the air heavy and damp. A sigh. Drakera Hyver’s sigh at such a wonderful response to her deeply personal, visceral story of love and loss and all the choices that shape who we are.

  Though no one speaks, we are all resonating with enough empathy to communicate our feelings perfectly well with no words.

  “I suppose I could read the whole thing after all,” she says after a time, her voice raspy from overuse. “Thank you all for your wonderful thoughts. This has long been a labor of love for me and you have no idea how much it means to get this sort of response from the first people I have shared it with. So thank you.”

  Xy knew exactly how she was feeling, for he had tried his hand at telling a few stories. Short ones, but no less powerful for it. I had felt what it meant for him when I expressed my appreciation for his tales.

  “What happens next for her?” someone asked, their voice raw and trembling.

  “Well, that is up to her,” Drakera Hyver said. “Just as it is up to all of us to determine our fate, given the choices we’ve made.”

  Another student asked a question, but I was drawn back into the comfortable folds of Drakera Hyver’s words, reading and rereading passage after passage as I contemplated the depths of her tale.

  When Xy spoke, however, I listened. “What inspired you to change the focus of so many of our stories?”

  Drakera Hyver thought about how to answer for a long while. Drake Rov, who had been nestled in the corner throughout her tale, stretched, his creaking bones breaking the silence.

  “In my mind,” she began, “I haven’t changed the focus. I have changed the subject. I believe that our tales have always been about us, but have never been told through us, our thoughts. Only through our eyes, which see a great deal. I thought that if I… if I tried to capture our spirit through our past, I might shine a different light.”

  Silence once more settles upon us, each individual wrapped tight in the embrace of a beautiful story.

  Drake Rov clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but I believe some of your mothers will be upset if you don’t return home soon. We would all like to thank you for your brilliant story, Drakera Hyver.” He pauses so we could applaud her, each in our own way, before continuing. “One last order of business before I release you. This beautiful, transformative story segues nicely into our next homework assignment. We will be coming upon another young galaxy soon and I would like each of you to think about what it means to create. We will be adding this new system to our sweep, so we will need to cultivate subsistence, not only to nourish our bodies, but also our minds and our spirits.

  “I would like for each of you to find a star or planet to shape and mold into whatever you wish. When next we sweep through here, you will be asked to implement your assignment and we will continue to monitor these over the next several sweeps. Think carefully how you would like to proceed, as this is one of the first assignments that can have long-lasting consequences, both positive and negative.” He pauses. “When next we meet, we will be working on music and crafts and science. If you have any questions, you may return after my nap.”

  With that, we are dismissed. But no one moves. We are all still rooted in place by Drakera Hyver’s story and Drake Rov’s assignment. It isn’t until Drake Rov snores that the spell is broken. Drakera Hyver opens the door to space. A few of the students shift in their seats, timid, until others move and then the usual ritual of dismissal begins. The gathering of bags and the stuffing of stormcoats and the murmur of discussion. Xy and I are still locked in place, our haunches still touching. Neither of us wants to move on from this magical moment.

  In the end, it is Drakera Hyver who approaches. “I look forward to your creations.”

  We know she is ready for us to leave, but too polite to ask.

  “Can I talk with you about my idea?” Xy asks tentatively.

  “Of course. Come with me.”

  “Sorry, Siluastryx.”

  “Don’t worry at all,” I say, though I am hurt that he would rather ask her than me. It isn’t fair to any of us, but sometimes I can’t help what I feel. “Should I wait?”

  “If you want,” he says.

  I remember a line from Drakera Hyver’s story as the pair of them wander deeper into the school’s caverns: “Patience can plant a sourness in the spirit. But it also reaps the sweetest fruit.”