Golden Treasure The Great Green-plaza Here

He walked. One step. Two. The floor was cold and dead under his claws. Then, the third step landed on soil. Real soil. Gritty, damp, smelling of rot and life and the ghost of a trillion tiny deaths.

The PLAZA had come.

The PLAZA rebels stopped running. They turned and stared. Golden Treasure The Great Green-PLAZA

A Klaxon. Not the deep, organic groan of a dying tree, but the flat, panicked scream of a machine. The lights in the Habitat flickered and died. The glass walls shimmered, then went dark.

This place. This Green. This ruin. Mine. He walked

He took a step. The leaf litter crackled. Somewhere, deep in the dark of the woods, a predator that had forgotten how to fear woke up and remembered.

He remembered the First Nest, a crater of molten rock where his egg had cracked. He remembered the Deep Singers, the worm-things that taught him how to listen to the stone. He remembered the Sky-Serpent, a comet that had whispered secrets of iron and gold into his dreams. Most of all, he remembered the Great Burning —not his fire, but the fire of a falling star that had turned a jungle into a glass desert a thousand years before his first molt. The floor was cold and dead under his claws

It was the Song of the Claim.