The sun dipped low over Bird Island, casting golden light across the cliffs. Mighty Eagle lounged in his hot spring, robe damp, sardine tin balanced on his belly. Steam curled around him like lazy thoughts. Red, Chuck, and Bomb relaxed nearby, swapping stories and complaints about pig-related chaos. Leonard sipped coconut water, pretending he wasn’t the reason half the village smelled like glitter glue.

“Ahh,” Mighty Eagle sighed, wings creaking. “No explosions, no heroics. Just me, my spring, and Chuck talking too fast.”

Chuck blinked. “Hey!”

Then it came—a piercing bird call from the sky. Sharp. Unfamiliar. Loud enough to knock the sardine tin into the water.

Birds froze. Heads turned. Beaks tilted skyward.

Red frowned. “Who’s making that sound?”

Mighty Eagle shrugged, reaching for his sardines. “Probably a seagull with a megaphone. Happens.”

Another cry rang out—longer, deeper, unsettling.

Mighty Eagle flinched. “Okay, that one had reverb.”

From the horizon, a silhouette emerged. A bird—large, unfamiliar, wings slicing through the clouds. Its flight was graceful, deliberate, and mysterious enough to stir whispers.

“Is that… a new bird?” Bomb asked.

Leonard adjusted his sunglasses. “I don’t recognize that plumage.”

Chuck zipped in a circle. “Not from the mainland! I’ve flown every inch of it! Except the lava parts. And the bees. And the lava bees.”

Red turned to Mighty Eagle, now standing awkwardly in his spring. “You sure it’s nothing?”

Mighty Eagle puffed out his chest. “Don’t worry. It’s not like it would attack.”

The bird cried again—this time, the sound echoed like something ancient. Birds scattered, flapping in panic.

“Real mature,” Red muttered.

Mighty Eagle squinted. Something about the flight… the way it moved… it wasn’t random. It was searching.

He stepped out of the spring, robe dripping. “Okay. Maybe I’ll investigate. Not because I’m worried. Just bored. And heroic. Mostly bored.”

Chuck zipped beside him. “Want backup?”

Mighty Eagle didn’t answer. He spread his wings, slow and deliberate, letting the robe fall behind. The wind caught beneath him, lifting him from the rocks with a practiced grace. Sardines forgotten, steam trailing, he rose into the sky—toward the sound, toward the silhouette, toward whatever had dared to break the island’s quiet.