#yeticrab

HI, for you un Wattpad users, heres the Turning Tides prologue :D

Yeticrab's mother had always hated the Meteor Chamber.

Even as a dragonet, she remembered the way the stone seemed to breathe — the way the carvings glowed faintly when she passed, as if watching her. As if waiting.

Now, as a grown dragon and a mother, the chamber felt worse.

Colder. Hungrier.

She swam into the hollow cavern with her fins tucked tight, her heart pounding against her ribs. The spirals and falling‑star symbols carved into the walls pulsed with a pale, unnatural light. The newest cracks glowed brightest, like fresh wounds.

Another quake.

Another warning.

The Scribe hovered near the far wall, claws trembling as she traced the newest fracture. "The vents are rising again," she whispered. "The volcanoes are waking."

Yeticrab's mother felt her stomach twist. "Then we must move the nursery. The dragonets—"

"The sacrifice must be chosen," the High Priestess interrupted, gliding into the chamber like a shadow. Her black scales reflected the carvings' glow in sharp, cold flashes. "The deep demands balance."

Yeticrab's mother stiffened. "You can't mean—"

The Priestess pointed a single claw toward the largest carving on the wall.

A dragonet shape. White‑tipped horns. Glowing claws. A pale flare at the tail.

Her daughter.

Her little Yeticrab.

"No," she breathed. "She's only a hatchling."

"She is the one the carvings name," the Priestess said. "The white‑marked child. The one born under the falling‑star sign. The volcanoes will not sleep unless she is given."

The chamber trembled again — a long, rolling quake that rattled the stone and sent silt drifting like snow. The carvings flared brighter, then dimmed, as though gasping.

Yeticrab's mother pressed a claw to the wall, feeling the vibration run through her bones. The stone felt alive. Afraid.

"She is my daughter," she whispered. "You cannot take her."

"The deep chose her," the Priestess replied. "Not us."

The Scribe looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

Far above them, in the warm currents of the nursery cave, Yeticrab slept curled beside her brother — tiny, glowing claws tucked under her chin.

Unaware of the fate carved into the walls below.

Unaware that the next quake would not be a tremor.

It would be a breaking.

A shattering of stone. A roaring of vents. A storm tearing open the world above.

And in that chaos, Yeticrab and her brother would be swept away from the deep forever.

The carvings had spoken.

But a mother's heart refused to listen.

Not until the world itself cracked open.

But that day was still three moons away.

For now, the Meteor Chamber fell silent again, its glow fading back into the stone as if exhausted by its own warning. The tremor passed. The water stilled. The silt settled.

And Yeticrab's mother stood alone in the dim light, her claws pressed to the cold wall, her breath shaking in her chest.

Three moons.

Three moons until the ritual. Three moons until she would be expected to carry her daughter to the vents. Three moons until the tribe would watch her let go.

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her heartbeat. She had always known the prophecy. She had always known the white‑marked dragonet would be claimed by the deep. But knowing did nothing to soften the ache in her ribs.

She hated herself for the fear she felt. She hated the way she flinched at Yeticrab's glow. She hated the way the tribe looked at her daughter — not with love, but with expectation.

And worst of all, she hated the tiny, shameful thought that whispered in the back of her mind:

Maybe the deep was right to choose her.

She shook her head sharply, as if she could dislodge the thought. No. Yeticrab was her daughter. Her hatchling. Her responsibility. Her mistake or her miracle — she didn't know which — but hers.

She pushed away from the wall and swam upward, leaving the Meteor Chamber behind. The carvings dimmed fully as she left, sinking back into their ancient sleep.

The nursery currents were warm when she entered. Soft. Peaceful. The opposite of the cold, humming stone below.

Yeticrab slept curled beside her brother, tiny claws glowing faintly like drifting stars. Her white‑tipped horns gleamed in the dim light. She looked so small. So harmless. So impossibly fragile.

Her mother hovered over her, torn between reaching out and pulling back.

Three moons.

Three moons to love her. Three moons to fear her. Three moons to decide which feeling would win.

She lowered her head and brushed her snout gently against Yeticrab's back — the first touch she'd allowed herself in days.

The dragonet stirred, blinking sleepily, her glow brightening for a moment.

Her mother's chest tightened.

Three moons.