Teko slept sprawled across his sleeping nook, limbs splayed in all directions. A quiet, even snore drifted from him, the sound rolling into a soft croak every few breaths. The fungus lanterns along the wall had been uncovered for the morning cycle, their steady glow filling the alcove, but Teko didn’t stir.

  A small clawed hand shook his shoulder.

  “Teko,” Tava rasped, the word edged with a soft hiss and a dry click of her tongue.

  He didn’t wake. He only burrowed deeper into the thin blanket, letting out a soft, muddled grunt.

  Tava’s small crest, a short flexible spine rising from her forehead with a folded membrane tucked neatly along its base, twitched in irritation. She grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him harder.

  “Teko,” she repeated, sharper this time.

  He mumbled again, utterly incomprehensible.

  Another shake, firmer, impatient.

  His nictitating membranes slid back with a faint, sticky blink as his eyes snapped open. “Whaa… I’m up, I’m up.”

  Tava released him with a low chittering exhale. “Broodmother called twice.”

  Teko rubbed at his face with small clawed digits, scratching absently at the pebbled skin along his cheek. His scales were a mottled gray brown, darker along his back and limbs, lighter across his throat and chest.

  He blinked again, membranes flicking once more before fully retracting. “Too early,” he yawned.

  “Too late,” Tava said, clicking her tongue once for emphasis. Her own scales were a pale slate color with a faint bluish tint along her underside. She moved with the brisk purpose of someone who had been given a job and intended to see it done, whether Teko was awake or not.

  She turned toward the corridor, and he trundled after her, still shaking sleep from his limbs.

  The moment they stepped out of their sleeping alcove, the noise hit him.

  The hatchlings were awake.

  A dozen tiny bodies swarmed the feeding troughs, squealing and chirring as they devoured the freshly sliced field fruits Broodmother had laid out. Their voices overlapped in a chaotic chorus of high pitched croaks, sharp hisses, and rapid tongue clicks. Sticky juice coated their snouts and chests, dripping onto the woven mats below.

  Teko winced. “Too loud.”

  Tava nudged him with her elbow. “Broodmother said you were worse than all of them when you were a hatchling.”

  Broodmother let out a low amused croak from across the chamber, crest lifting in a small grin. “He was,” she said.

  Teko groaned. “Why does everyone keep saying that.”

  Before he could complain further, a particularly chubby hatchling began scrabbling up a support beam, claws slipping on the smooth surface. Teko sighed and stepped forward, lifting the little creature around the middle and turning it toward him so it couldn’t climb any higher.

  The hatchling let out a wet belch straight into his face.

  Teko grimaced, eyes narrowing in silent disgust.

  The hatchling blinked up at him, nictitating membranes half lowered. “Not tha momma,” it chirped, the words spat with irritation as it wiggled in his grasp.

  Teko exhaled sharply through his snout, carried the squirming hatchling back to the trough, and set it down without a word.

  The hatchling immediately shoved its face into the fruit pile.

  Teko wiped his hand on his thigh, muttering under his breath.

  Tava smirked. “Serves you right.”

  He shot her a look, but she was already moving to help Broodmother with the next basket.

  Another day in Skalehaven had begun.

  The morning work followed the same pattern it always did.

  Tava wiped down sticky snouts and chests with a roughspun rag, working through the hatchlings one by one as they finished eating. Teko moved along the mats behind her, gathering the rinds, stems, and pulped bits the little ones left scattered in their wake. Every so often he had to scoop up a wandering hatchling and carry it back toward the brood chamber, a shallow round room with a low wall meant to keep the smallest from wandering too far. Most of them went willingly, already growing drowsy after the meal.

  A few fussed, chirring in protest, but nothing either sibling hadn’t handled a dozen times before.

  By the time the troughs were empty and the last hatchling had curled into the warm pile in the brood chamber, Teko’s arms were speckled with drying juice and flecks of leaf. Tava’s rag was stained nearly every shade a field plant could produce.

  She glanced over at him, her crest giving a small twitch. “You missed a spot,” she said, nodding toward a smear on his cheek.

  Teko wiped it away with the back of his hand, more tired than annoyed. “They get it everywhere.”

  “They always do,” she said, already stacking the cleaned baskets.

  Broodmother passed through the chamber, checking each hatchling with a gentle touch of her claws. “Good work, both of you,” she said, her crest lifting in approval. “Your broodfather will need help in the fields. Go on.”

  Tava straightened with quiet purpose and headed for the corridor without hesitation.

  Teko followed, rubbing one last bit of pulp from between his scales. The hatchlings were settling, the chamber dimming behind them, and the cooler air of the passageway felt like a relief after the warm, noisy bustle.

  Another chore waited, and another after that.

  Teko and Tava stepped out onto one of the worn paths that wound through Skalehaven, the ground packed firm by daily use. The dwellings rose around them in uneven clusters, built up against the still standing walls of the old structures that dotted the plateau.

  Teko glanced up at the rounded shapes of the nearest homes, remembering the work that went into keeping them standing. He had helped their broodfather patch their own stone nest more than once. They mixed the soil scraped from around the central pool with the pale mineral deposits that collected beneath the stalactite cluster, adding just enough water to make a thick, heavy mud. That mud was pressed around the old stone bricks and packed tight around the hardened mushroom stalk poles that served as supports. Most of the dwellings had been shaped and reshaped many times since the kobolds settled here, each new layer smoothing over cracks or filling places where the clay had thinned. Some walls still showed the straight lines of the forgotten builders’ stone beneath, while others were almost entirely mud formed, their surfaces rounded and uneven but sturdy.

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  A few early risers were already out. Near one of the old walls, a group of weavers were sorting freshly sheared Shaggrunt fiber, pulling apart the coarse tufts and twisting them into long strands. The Clutch Keeper sat on a low stone bench beside them, her long, dulled crest hanging down her back as she worked a small bundle of fiber between her claws. A few adults knelt close, speaking to her in low, steady tones. She nodded along as they talked, her voice soft and even when she answered, the same calm murmur she always used when settling disputes or soothing frightened hatchlings.

  Teko slowed without meaning to. He remembered sitting at her feet when he was small, the way she used to press sweet grubs into the palms of hatchlings who behaved during story time. He could almost taste the syrupy crunch of them now.

  Tava caught his arm before he could drift closer. “Come on,” she said, guiding him firmly back toward the path. “We’re supposed to be helping Father.”

  Teko cast one last look over his shoulder as they walked on. The Clutch Keeper lifted her head briefly, her eyes following the movement of the morning crowd, then returned to her quiet conversation.

  Farther along the path, a lamp tender moved from dwelling to dwelling, lifting the dark cloth coverings from the fungus lamps set into niches beside each doorway. As the coverings came away, the soft green white glow spilled outward, brightening the paths in uneven patches. In some homes, kobolds inside were just now pulling back their own window coverings, letting more light seep into the morning.

  They had only gone a short distance when a small figure hurried toward them. Lumz, a younger neighbor with mottled tan scales and a bright, eager expression, nearly bounced as he came closer. His tail nub flicked in quick, restless motions.

  “Tava! Tava! Did you feel the ground this morning? The rumble?” He leaned in, eyes wide. “It was big. Bigger than the last one. Someone said they almost fell out of their sleeping nook.”

  Teko felt the familiar heaviness settle behind his eyes. Lumz always had a story ready, and it was always the most dramatic version possible.

  Tava glanced down at him. “Did you fall out of your nook?”

  Lumz hesitated. His tail slowed. “Well… no.”

  “See?” Tava said. “Then it wasn’t that bad.”

  Lumz frowned, thinking it over. “But it still felt big.”

  Before he could say more, a voice called from farther down the path.

  “Lumz! Come help with the washing!”

  He perked up immediately. “I gotta go, bye!” he chirped, already turning. He darted off down the path, nearly skidding as he went.

  Teko gave a small, exasperated shake of his head and kept walking.

  A pair of Trap Wardens passed along the path a moment later, offering quiet nods as they went. Their trap kits hung at their sides, darkened bundles of rope, bone hooks, and various other necessary tools, all neatly arranged. Teko stared after them before falling back into step beside Tava.

  He let out a low breath. “I wish we were old enough to help the wardens,” he muttered. “They get to do real work.”

  Tava clicked her tongue softly. “The fields are real work. Broodmother says without the fields, nobody eats. Hunters only bring in meat sometimes. The fields feed everyone every day.”

  Teko shrugged, eyes drifting back toward where the hunters had disappeared. “Still looks better than pulling melons.”

  Tava kept talking, her voice taking on that careful, lecturing tone she used when she thought he needed reminding. “And Father says the Lower Patch is important. The soil is special there, and the melons grow faster, and if we don’t help—”

  But Teko’s attention had already slipped away. The path was curving toward the center of the plateau, and the Dripwell came into view again. He looked up at the stalactites, watching the thin streams of water thread down their sides, catching the lamp light in tiny glints.

  “Hey,” Tava said sharply, “are you listening to me?”

  “Mmh,” Teko answered, which wasn’t yes or no.

  Tava huffed but didn’t push it. The conversation thinned out, fading into the soft sounds of the plateau as they walked.

  They continued on, the air growing slightly cooler as they neared the shallow pool at the base of the Dripwell. The surface shimmered faintly in the growing lamp light, disturbed by the steady fall of water from high above. The stalactite cluster loomed overhead, thick mineral formations built drip by drip over countless seasons. Water threaded down their lengths in thin, constant streams, gathering into a narrow trickle that fed the pool below.

  The steady dripping faded as they moved away.

  The plateau opened ahead of them into the fields. The soil here was darker and softer, turned so often that it never fully settled. Low ridges marked each plot, shaped to channel water from the Dripwell where it was needed most.

  Teko slowed without thinking. The fields always looked bigger in the morning, like the rows had stretched while everyone slept.

  Closest to the path were the tall plants with the drooping pale leaves, the ones that always left clinging pollen on your arms if you brushed against them. Workers were already crouched between the rows, tugging up the fat roots underneath. The roots glowed a little when they came free.

  Farther on, the squat fungi pushed up in uneven clumps. Their caps were thick skinned and bumpy, with short, sturdy stalks. Teko remembered harvesting them last season, the way they seeped blue juice when cut, staining your claws for days if you weren’t careful. His had stayed blue for weeks.

  Beyond those, spreading low across the ground, were the Mossmelons, pale, round fruits poking up between broad purple leaves. The vines twisted through the soil in thick lines, the melons sitting half buried where they grew. They came in all kinds of colors depending on how old they were: the youngest ones were green, then they lightened to yellow, and the ripe ones turned almost white. Most kobolds liked the taste of them. Tava loved them. Teko didn’t mind the fruit, but he thought the seeds were the best part.

  Ahead, the path narrowed between two plots, leading toward the section their broodfather oversaw, the Lower Patch, the wettest part of the fields. Their broodfather always said the Mossmelons needed the moisture here. He said young kobolds needed the Lower Patch too, not the soil, but the work. “A youngster who works the field learns the strength an honest day yields,” he would say.

  Their broodfather straightened as they approached, brushing soil from his hands. “Morning, you two,” he said warmly.

  Teko mumbled a greeting. Tava’s crest lifted in a bright, eager hello.

  He reached for the tools set beside him and handed them over with the familiar, expected line, the same motto he always used.

  Tava finished it before he was even done speaking, as she tended to do.

  Teko groaned under his breath.

  The rest of the day blurred the way long days in the Lower Patch always did, checking vines, clearing weeds, lifting broad purple leaves to look for pests, and hauling water until their arms ached. The glow lamps around the community dimmed one by one as the lamp tenders lowered their shades, signaling the day’s end.

  By the time the last row was finished, the fields lay in neat, freshly tended lines.

  Their broodfather straightened from his work, brushing soil from his hands. “All right,” he said with a tired smile. “One more thing before you’re done.”

  He nodded toward a single large woven basket waiting at the edge of the plot, piled high with cuttings, overripe melons, damaged fruit, and the day’s weeds.

  “Take this to the Rubbish Drop.”

  Teko stared at the basket. “The big one?”

  “It’s the only one left,” their broodfather said, already turning back to gather his tools.

  Tava stepped to one side of the basket and grabbed a handle. “Come on.”

  Teko sighed, took the other handle, and together they heaved it up between them. It sagged heavily, forcing them to walk in step as they started down the narrow path toward the Drop, the far path, the one that led to the edge of Skalehaven and the dark chasm where they dumped their refuse.

  Teko’s stride lengthened without him noticing, and Tava had to half shuffle, half jog to keep up. “Slow down,” she hissed. “Your legs are longer.”

  “You could take bigger steps,” he muttered back.

  “I can’t,” she snapped, breath puffing with effort.

  The path narrowed as they neared the Drop, the stone underfoot scuffed and smoothed by countless trips to the edge. The air grew still, the faint, distant rush of the chasm rising up to meet them.

  They reached the lip, a low stone ridge marking the boundary between Skalehaven and the endless dark below. Together, they braced their feet and began to angle the basket forward to dump its contents.

  A sudden voice behind them shattered the quiet.

  “Hey! You’re finally done!”

  Teko jerked. Tava flinched. The basket lurched dangerously toward the edge.

  “Lumz!” Teko barked, scrambling to steady his side.

  Tava dug her claws into the handle, teeth bared with effort. “Don’t sneak up on us!”

  Lumz froze, shoulders tucking in as he hunched in apology. “Sorry! I didn’t mean, I just wanted to...”

  The basket wobbled again, and both siblings strained to pull it back from the brink. Their arms trembled with exhaustion.

  Lumz, eager to fix what he’d caused, darted forward. “Here, I’ll help!”

  “Wait,” Teko started.

  But Lumz had already grabbed the rim of the basket. His grip slipped on the worn weave, and instead of steadying it, he twisted it sharply.

  The basket spun.

  Tava lost her footing first, her claws skidding on the smooth stone. She let out a startled cry as the basket yanked her forward.

  “Tava!” Teko lunged, grabbing her arm with one hand and the basket handle with the other. The weight dragged him off balance. His heels scraped desperately for purchase.

  Lumz’s eyes went wide, his whole body going rigid with horror.

  “Teko,” he choked out.

  The basket tipped.

  Teko and Tava went with it.

  For a heartbeat, Lumz saw them suspended against the glow lamps behind him, two silhouettes, arms flailing, eyes wide, and then they vanished over the edge.

  “Teko! Tava!” Lumz screamed, voice cracking as it echoed down into the chasm.

  There was no answer. Only the distant, fading sound of their fall.

  Lumz backed away from the drop, unsteady, the world tilting around him. Then he ran — feet slapping the stone, breath breaking in short bursts, racing toward Skalehaven for help.

  “Wait, they have melons in the Deep?” I’m kidding, of course.