I cast the spell again.
This time wasn't a probe. This was a proper reconnaissance. The magic circle formed in front of my snout — green light, green symbols, the familiar hum in my teeth — and the vine erupted from the soil with the same eager speed as before. But this time, I didn't just let it grow. I *directed* it. I reinforced the sensing tip, pushed more power into the vine's perception, and aimed it deeper than last time.
The vine shot across the valley floor, weaving between sleeping hatchlings and scattered shellcrab remains, heading straight for the river bank. When it reached the water's edge, it didn't hesitate. It dove in.
Darkness.
The vine's vision was black at first — absolute, impenetrable darkness. But then, slowly, details began to emerge. Not light, exactly — more like the vine was learning to *see* without light, sensing the water pressure, the temperature gradients, the chemical signatures of the creatures moving through it.
This was what made me different from a normal spellcaster. A normal caster would have lost the vine the moment it went underwater — the sensory mismatch would have been too much. But I had an element familiar bonded to me, working behind the scenes, adapting the vine's senses to the environment. So *that's* what that was — the presence I'd felt settling into the back of my mind after the slumber, the one I hadn't been able to name until now. I was cheating. Gloriously, unapologetically cheating.
The vine sank. Fifty meters. Sixty. A hundred.
The current slowed. The water got colder. The vine's senses adapted — my element familiar was working overtime now, adjusting the vine's perception to function in total darkness, translating pressure and temperature and chemical signatures into a coherent picture of the underwater world.
At fifty meters, the water was still moving — a steady, purposeful current that carried sediment and tiny organisms past the vine's sensing tip. At seventy meters, the movement slowed. At a hundred meters, the water was almost perfectly still, like an underground lake that hadn't been disturbed in centuries.
And then—
Fish.
Not just a few fish. A *school.* Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, moving through the dark water in coordinated formations. Each one was massive — the smallest was a meter long, the largest pushed five or six meters. Their scales gleamed with a faint bioluminescence, and their mouths were full of teeth that looked like they could bite through stone.
They moved with terrifying speed and precision — darting, turning, accelerating in perfect unison, like a single organism with fifty bodies. When one changed direction, they all changed direction. When one sped up, they all sped up. It was beautiful. It was hypnotic. It was also, I realized with a surge of predatory excitement, *delicious.*
Just watching them made my mouth water. The Inheritance was right — these fish looked like they'd be incredible to eat.
*Kashi.* The Inheritance supplied the name automatically, along with a wealth of tactical data.
*Water-attribute monsters. Prefer cold environments. Found in underground rivers and deep lakes. Armed with a mouth full of teeth and nothing else. Weak. Slow thinkers. But their flesh is tender and flavorful — a delicacy among those who can catch them. Oh, and they're fast. Very fast. Faster than you, definitely faster than these hatchlings, and they use magic to enhance their bodies, which just makes the meat taste better.*
The Inheritance sounded almost *enthusiastic* about eating them.
One of the Kashi — a two-meter specimen — spotted the vine. It turned with explosive speed, mouth opening, and in a single burst of acceleration, it *charged.*
The vine's vision went white. Then nothing.
Above ground, the vine wilted, turning from green to brown in seconds.
I stared at the dead vine for a moment, then grinned.
*Perfect.*
I'd found them. A whole school of Kashi, living in the dark, fat and happy and completely unaware that a bunch of hungry dragons had just moved in next door. The river was *full* of food — more food than we could eat in a month.
The problem was catching them.
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Kashi were fast. Faster than any hatchling. In the water, they had every advantage — they knew the terrain, they could use magic to boost their speed, and they had mouths full of teeth that said "good luck." Direct pursuit was suicide. We'd never catch one.
But...
I looked at the valley.
The valley was a bowl. A natural basin, surrounded on three sides by cliff walls, with the river running through the center. The shellcrabs had been grazing in the lower part, near the water. And the valley floor was *lower* than the river bank — maybe ten, fifteen meters lower.
If I could breach the bank — dig a channel from the river into the valley — the water would flow in. And with the water would come the fish. They'd follow the current, follow the scent of the shellcrab vegetation that grew in the valley, and they'd end up trapped in a basin with no easy exit.
A fish trap.
The valley *was* a fish trap. It just needed someone to open the door.
The idea was so clean, so *elegant,* that I felt a surge of pride that had nothing to do with dragon instinct and everything to do with my previous life's career. This was project management. This was resource allocation. This was looking at a problem — "how do we feed seventeen growing dragons in a valley with limited surface food" — and finding the solution that turned the environment itself into a tool.
I was a middle manager who'd just been reincarnated as a dragon, and I was about to pull off the greatest infrastructure project in the history of dragonkind.
My brain started laying it out automatically. Scope: dig a channel from the river to the valley, roughly thirty meters long, two meters wide, deep enough that the bank wouldn't collapse under the current. Timeline: before the hatchlings finished digesting and got restless — call it two hours. Resources: seventeen pairs of claws, zero engineering experience, one supervising adult who could level a boulder with a single strike. Risk assessment: high. The river was fast, the bank was soft, and if the channel collapsed before the water was through, we'd lose the window and have to start over.
In my previous life, I'd called this a kickoff meeting. Identify stakeholders. Define deliverables. Assign work packages. Manage dependencies. The only difference was that my "team" had claws instead of laptops, and the "deliverable" was a hole in the ground.
The Gantt chart drew itself in my head. Phase one: break the bank. Phase two: let the water flow — fish follow the current in. Phase three: once the fish are in, Vesperra collapses the channel entrance behind them — she's the only one strong enough to seal it with a single strike. Phase four: the valley has a natural drainage crack on the far side — I'd spotted it from the cliff — so excess water drains out slowly, keeping the valley as a shallow pond instead of a flood. Phase five: I weave one-way vine barriers at the drainage point — fish can't escape through the gap, but water flows out. Phase six: feast. Six phases. The closure was the critical path — without Vesperra collapsing the channel, the fish could swim right back out, and without the drainage crack, we'd drown the valley. But both pieces were already there, built into the geology. I just needed to open the door and then close it behind them.
But I had a plan. And in any organization, the person with the plan controls the people with the muscles. That was the first rule of management.
All I needed was labor.
I looked at the valley. I looked at the hatchlings, most of whom were still sleeping off their shellcrab meals. I looked at Vesperra, who was watching me with that unreadable expression she wore like armor.
I was a spellcaster. A *weak* spellcaster, by dragon standards — my body was smaller, my claws were less sharp, my scales were thinner. I couldn't dig a channel by myself. I couldn't haul rocks or move earth or do any of the physical labor this project required.
But I didn't need to. I just needed to be the one with the *plan.*
I was so pleased with myself that I didn't notice Vesperra approaching until she was right beside me.
"You have an idea."
Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact. Not a question. She could read it on me — the way my tail was swishing, the way my eyes were fixed on the river bank, the way my claws were digging into the dirt like they were already digging the channel.
"What if we dig a channel," I said, "from the river into the valley. Fill this place with water. The Kashi will follow the current in, and then they'll be stuck."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "You want to turn the valley into a pond."
"A *fish pond.* With walls. And no exit. And a bunch of hungry dragons waiting at the bottom."
Another pause. Then, very slightly, the corners of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile — Vesperra didn't smile — but something close. Something that said she approved.
"The other hatchlings will need to dig."
"I'll direct them. You just need to tell them to follow my instructions."
She considered this. I could see her working through the logistics — the number of hatchlings, the width of the channel needed, the time it would take, the risk of the bank collapsing before the channel was complete. She processed all of it in about three seconds.
"It could work," she said.
"It will work."
"You're confident."
"I'm a spellcaster. Confidence is literally my only stat."
She looked at me. Really looked at me, her crimson eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made my scales prickle. There was something in her gaze — something I couldn't quite read. Approval? Amusement? Something else entirely?
And then her claw rose.
I saw it coming this time.
I didn't flinch. I didn't freeze. I just... stood there, and let her pat my head.
One claw. Two seconds. Warm.
This time, I didn't short-circuit. I didn't panic. I just... accepted it. The way you accept a gift you don't understand but know you shouldn't refuse.
She walked away.
I watched her go, and I felt the warmth on my head, and I felt something else too — something quieter, something that lived below the shock and the confusion. Something that might have been, if I were being honest with myself, which I rarely was...
*Comfort.*
I shook my head. Not in denial this time. Just... clearing the thought away.
*File under: things that happened and I still don't understand. Category: Vesperra. Status: accepting that I may never understand.*
I turned back to the valley.
Fish. That was the priority.
I raised my voice. "Everyone! Wake up! We've got work to do!"