Melty Poles

Kael stood at the edge of the shelf, his toes gripped into a surface that had been rock-solid for generations. Beside him, the colony was a sea of huddled, black-and-white shapes, an organic wall against the wind. But the wind had changed. It no longer carried the sharp, crystalline scent of deep freeze; it smelled of salt-rot, of exposed mud, of the great, hungry heat encroaching from the north.

Then came the tremor. It vibrated up through Kael’s talons, a sickening, rhythmic pulse. The shelf dipped. Not a tilt, but a profound surrender. A fissure, jagged and jagged as a lightning bolt, raced through the center of the nursery grounds. Kael watched as the ice simply lost its grip on the foundation of the world. It didn’t break away in a chaotic smash; it drifted, mournfully, sliding into the abyss.

The calls of the others—a cacophony of panicked trumpeting—were swallowed by the roar of the rushing sea. Kael did not join them. His instinct, usually a compass pointing toward the safety of the collective, suddenly inverted. He felt a cold, sharp clarity pierce through the ambient terror. The colony was becoming part of the ocean, being reclaimed by the warming depths. To stay was to...