《Sun and Shards》 Scattered Shards Chapter 1: Scattered Shards The Shard Rites The grasses brushed against Sylven¡¯s shoulders as he crouched low, his hands steady on the Shardstring Snare. The faint hum of its woven magic matched the pulse of his own Arclith shard, a reassuring rhythm that helped him focus. Above, the sun blazed too bright against a sky too clear for comfort. He shifted his weight, glancing upward. The Skyclaw Kestrel glided silently overhead, its sharp eyes scanning the swaying grass below. Sylven didn¡¯t look for long in case the sunlight glinting off his eyes might give him away. If the kestrel spotted him, it wouldn¡¯t hesitate to dive. He muttered a quick blur cantrip, the outline of his body softening as the magic wrapped around him. His Sunshy skills and tricks were what kept him as a player instead of prey in this ongoing game in the grasses. The kestrel wasn¡¯t his only worry. One mistake, one misstep, and he¡¯d lose his chance¡ªand fail the rite. Ahead, the pika moved. Its rounded body darted between clumps of dewthorn, its gray-brown fur blending perfectly with the shadows. Sylven watched as it paused, its restless ears flicking toward the sound of the kestrel¡¯s cry. A juvenile, sleek and wiry, its muscles rippling beneath its fur, it was smaller than the adult pikas poised around the warren but still rather larger than a young Shy like him. His eyes caught on one of the creature¡¯s whiskers, curved and silver-bright in the sunlight. It stood out higher and longer against the others, twitching as if it were testing the air itself. Sylven¡¯s breath slowed. He hadn¡¯t meant to name it yet¡ªnot until the bond was certain¡ªbut the word rose in his mind as if the wind had whispered it. "Whisker." The kestrel screamed again, closer this time, and Sylven¡¯s stomach tightened. His fingers brushed the smooth surface of his personal Arclith hanging from a string around his neck, the shard warm against his palm. He¡¯d already used too much of its charge, first to cast blur on himself, then to activate the snare. Its magic was running low, and the harness shard wasn¡¯t fully charged either. ¡°Better to do it the true way,¡± Torran had said that morning, his brother¡¯s voice calm and steady as always. ¡°A true bond is worth ten forced ones. But don¡¯t come back empty-handed, either.¡± Sylven¡¯s jaw clenched. He¡¯d taken the advice to heart, but Torran hadn¡¯t mentioned what to do when there was a hungry kestrel overhead and only half-charged shards to rely on. He crouched lower, his hand tightening on the snare. One shot. That¡¯s all he¡¯d get. The wind felt wrong. Uiska¡¯s whiskers twitched as he darted between the tall grasses, his legs burning with the effort of the run. Behind him, the Skyclaw Kestrel screamed again, its shadow flickering over the ground. His heart felt like it would almost burst from his chest, but he didn¡¯t stop. The warren was behind him, safe now¡ªat least for the smaller kits. The adults would cluster together, their bristled fur making them look larger, intimidating the kestrel while the young sheltered in the burrows. That was why he¡¯d run. The bird couldn¡¯t dive at all of them if it was chasing him. He thought that even if it could fly fast up in the air, amidst the grasses, nothing could beat a pika at full speed. The next outcropping wasn¡¯t far. Its jagged stones jutted out of the grass like the teeth of a large beast, and he could already picture the crevices between them, too deep and tight for the kestrel¡¯s talons to reach. One more bounding burst and he could squeeze into safety, then all this would be over. But the wind shifted. Uiska froze just as he was set to leap towards the outcropping, his long whisker picking up a¡­ wrongness a literal whisker-length ahead of him. The kestrel¡¯s cry rang out again, but it was slightly farther now, circling higher above than before. This new scent wasn¡¯t from the bird of prey. It wasn¡¯t from the warren either. It was sharp and strange, mixed with something that didn¡¯t grow from the grasses. His ears flicked toward the clump of grasses next to the rocks, his eyes scanning for movement, the dangerous silhouettes that elders had drilled into their minds as kits. He didn¡¯t see anything beyond vague shadows. But he felt it¡ªa faint presence, its outline unnaturally broken up. The hesitation cost him. Sylven saw the pika pause, its head swiveling toward him, its long whisker twitching as if it could sense him through the magic. His stomach dropped. It knows. Above, the kestrel let out another piercing cry, its wings folding as it dived. Sylven didn¡¯t hesitate. His fingers tightened around the snare, and the spell released, the fibers flashing in the sunlight as the loop flew forward. The snare caught just as the pika bolted, the magic tightening around its chest with a sharp hum. The creature squealed, its legs kicking against the ground, dragging Sylven forward as its powerful muscles strained against the line. ¡°Easy!¡± Sylven shouted, his boots digging into the dirt. His arms ached as he tightened and tugged on the snare, his heart pounding as the kestrel passed overhead, its talons raking the air where the pika had been. The bird awkwardly pushed away from the ground, its frustration clear in its sharp cries, but Sylven didn¡¯t let his focus waver. The pika thrashed harder, its claws tearing at the fibers, its sharp teeth snapping dangerously close to the line. ¡°Sorry, Tarron,¡± he thought. ¡°I don¡¯t think this spirited pika will tame true too easily.¡± ¡°Hold still!¡± Sylven grunted, fumbling for the Sunwoven Harness slung over his shoulder. The harness shard wasn¡¯t fully charged¡ªhe¡¯d siphoned some power from it earlier to top off his own Arclith¡ªbut it would have to do. He whispered the activation spell, the harness fibers pulsing faintly with light as he slipped it over the pika¡¯s neck. The creature kicked again, its body arching against the straps as the shard flared. The glow spread, rippling through the harness like water, and Sylven felt the bond form. It was faint, like a spider¡¯s web stretched thin, but it was there. A thread of magic connecting him to the creature, fragile and incomplete, but binding. For a moment, he caught something¡ªan impression, a familiar word. "Whisker." The name settled in his mind, unspoken but certain. Sylven exhaled slowly, adjusting the straps as the pika¡¯s movements stilled. Its dark eyes glared at him, defiant even as its breathing slowed, its distinctive silver whisker shining in the sunlight as it trembled.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°Come on,¡± Sylven murmured, his voice softer now. ¡°We¡¯re going to be a team, you and me. You¡¯ll see.¡± The words felt thin, hollow. He wasn¡¯t sure if he believed them himself. The harness settled into place, the straps snug but not straining. Sylven stepped back, his breath catching as he took in the creature standing before him. Its chest rose and fell slowly, its muscles taut beneath its fur. ¡°You¡¯re going to thank me for this,¡± Sylven said soothingly. ¡°One day, you¡¯ll see.¡± He glanced toward the Ember Foothills in the distance, the rocky terrain rising sharply against the horizon. That was where the Daring Rite would take place. The thought of having to sneak around the kobolds and steal an egg made his stomach churn, but he pushed it aside. ¡°One rite at a time,¡± Sylven muttered, his hand brushing against the fully spent shard of Arclith embedded in the harness. He turned back to the pika¡ªWhisker. ¡°Let¡¯s get you back to camp.¡± Fractured Paths The Cradle Caverns hummed with quiet activity. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint tang of moss. Female kobolds gathered in loose circles, their scales catching the flickering light of the egg-candles as they worked. Some wove baskets from dried moss and grass, their claws moving in practiced rhythms. Others tended to the rows of eggs, arranging them into neat clusters on padded nests of woven grass, their chitters and hisses blending into a lullaby that echoed softly off the stone walls. Vikka sat apart, her back pressed against the cool rock of the cavern wall. A half-finished basket rested in her lap, but her clawed fingers idly traced patterns in the dirt floor. Her gaze drifted to the queen, who moved among the workers with calm authority. Only the queen knew with a glance which of the freshly laid eggs were fertilized and would actually hatch. Although a few of the older, more experienced nest mothers could eventually sense which ones could do with a bit more warmth and coddling after a few days of incubation, and which ones were ultimately destined for the no less noble purpose of serving the tribe as candles or caulk. It was hard not to have your eyes drawn towards the queen. She was taller, with more lustrous scales than the other females, and her elegant head boasted the unmistakable crown-like configuration of horns. But beyond her physical attributes, there was a weight to her presence, an unspoken command that rippled through the tribe like a silent tide. The females bowed slightly as she passed, their postures deferential. The males, smaller and perpetually eager to gain favor, lowered their heads down to tailbone-level when she glanced their way. Vikka¡¯s claws tapped against the stone beside her. She gave a token, shallow, almost disrespectful, bow¡ªnot out of defiance, but because the impulse simply wasn¡¯t there. The other females spoke incessantly of the queen, their voices hushed and reverent. They whispered about her wisdom, her strength, her closeness to the essence of the tribe. For many, their greatest aspiration was to be noticed by her, to earn her approval and permission to fertilize their eggs, preferably with males of their choosing. Vikka had seen how their eyes lit up when their favorite males gained the queen¡¯s attention, their flirtations culminating in quiet triumph. She didn¡¯t feel it. Not the longing, not the reverence. Not even the envy. It wasn¡¯t that she disliked the queen. The queen was a part of the tribe, as essential as the air in the caverns or the moss on the walls. But there was a distance, a dissonance that Vikka couldn¡¯t explain. Her gaze shifted to the males clustered near the far side of the cavern. They were engaged in their usual antics¡ªflexing, posturing, puffing themselves up in clumsy attempts to outshine one another. Vikka¡¯s lips twitched in faint amusement. They¡¯re like dewthorn birds, preening for attention. One of them caught her looking and grinned, flashing his small, sharp teeth. Vikka quickly turned her attention to her basket, her claws moving awkwardly through the weaving process. ¡°Vikka,¡± a voice called, pulling her from her thoughts. It was Ryrik, one of the older females, her tone sharp with disapproval. ¡°You¡¯re behind. The tribe needs more baskets for the all the new gatherers and nests.¡± Vikka nodded mutely, her claws working faster. The unfinished basket took shape beneath her fingers, but her thoughts were already wandering again. The queen paused near the entrance to the caverns, her bronze scales catching the faint light of the egg-candles. She surveyed the workers with calm precision, her gaze sweeping across the room. For a moment, her eyes met Vikka¡¯s. Vikka froze. The connection was fleeting, but it left her unsettled. It wasn¡¯t recognition, not exactly, but something deeper. A flicker of¡­ expectation? The queen¡¯s gaze moved on, and Vikka exhaled, her chest tight. She didn¡¯t know why, but she felt it again¡ªthat pull. That restless itch that made her shift uncomfortably whenever the others settled into their routines. Her fingers tightened on the basket, her claws digging into the woven grass. She had gone to the edge of the caverns before. She had seen the sunlight, felt its warmth on her scales. The others called her reckless, warned her of the dangers beyond the Ember Foothills, but the memory of that wide, open sky stayed with her. It wasn¡¯t curiosity that drove her. It wasn¡¯t defiance either. It was something deeper, something she couldn¡¯t name. Her eyes drifted to the cavern entrance, where the faint glow of daylight filtered through the stone tunnel. The air smelled different there¡ªcleaner, sharper, alive. One day, she would leave. She didn¡¯t know when or how, but she would. Her claws resumed their work, her movements steady and practiced. But her feet tapped and tail swished idly from all the tedium. She glanced down at the soft, pale coils of woven grasses, her claws catching on the fibers as her thoughts drifted. The basket in Vikka¡¯s lap was nearly complete, but her fingers moved slower now, the rhythm uneven. She realized that beneath her notice, her tail had somehow coiled tightly closer into her spine, as if ready to shield any attacks from behind or low to the ground. That¡¯s when she felt it, pressing against her lower back, solid and undeniable. The egg. Her first. She knew that today was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life. But there was no joy, no pride, to be found in her heart. If anything, she felt... trapped. Vikka remembered when her clutch sisters started to show the first signs of finally being of egg-bearing age, how much of a fuss everybody made. She remembered their chirping excitement, the way they giggled and strutted, their tails flicking with joy as they basked in the attention of the queen and the nest mothers. Showing off the soft little bumps pushing out from their bellies, the entire cavern system would ring with their titters of glee until some of the crankier elders shushed them, It had been around a month since her last sister dropped her first egg, and for the last couple of weeks, Vikka was almost relieved to think that she may be barren and thus spared from all this mating and nesting nonsense, left to a life free to pursue other interests. Alas, turns out she wasn¡¯t quite that different, but she still felt that there still must be something terribly wrong with her since she felt no all-encompassing love or protectiveness for the vessel growing inside her. Well, the egg wasn¡¯t fated to hatch, so it¡¯s not like it needed to be nested anyway. Maybe that¡¯s why I don¡¯t care about it too much, she ruminated with some distaste at the prospect of eventually being paired up with a silly male. Her tail coiled tighter around her feet, as if trying to shield her from something unseen. She shifted in place, uncomfortable, but the sensation didn¡¯t leave. The egg was there, and it wasn¡¯t going anywhere. Not yet. It¡¯s unfertilized. It doesn¡¯t matter. The thought was sharp, but it didn¡¯t bring relief. She wasn¡¯t like the others, eager to show off her clutch, jockey for the queen¡¯s favor, and flirt with the males. The idea of breeding with one of them¡ªthe preening fools posturing as they stood guard at the entrances into the main caverns, as if they were any good at it¡ªmade her scales itch. Her gaze drifted to the cavern entrance, where the faint glow of sunlight filtered through the rocky tunnel. The air smelled different there, cleaner, sharper, ripe with possibilities. The memory of the open sky tugged at her, as it always did. The vastness of it, the freedom. She¡¯d seen it only once, when she¡¯d ventured too close to the edge of the Ember Foothills. The elders had scolded her when she returned, their whistles sharp with disapproval. They called her reckless, foolhardy. Maybe they were right. But the memory of that moment stayed with her, pulling at her like a thread she couldn¡¯t untangle. Vikka¡¯s claws dug into the basket, the grass fraying under her grip. The egg pressed harder against her back, as if to remind her of its presence. You can¡¯t ignore this. You¡¯re part of the tribe. This is what we do. This is what you do. But the words rang hollow in her mind. Dreams and Defiance Chapter 2 - Dreams and Defiance Menna wove through the crowds at the Glowmarket, her satchel bouncing against her hip. The Mooncap Mushrooms lining the walls glowed with soft, golden light, casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance with the rhythm of the market. Around her, voices rose and fell, a steady hum of trade and negotiation. Menna stopped at the edge of the market square, her eyes scanning the crowd. Her brother¡¯s stall was farther ahead, a chaotic mess of crates and jars, but her attention wasn¡¯t on him. It was on the Deepshy delegates clustered near the central platform. They stood apart from the crowd, their pale skin catching the mushroom light like polished stone. Their robes, intricately embroidered with silver thread, shimmered faintly as they spoke in low, measured tones. Menna couldn¡¯t hear their words from this distance, but she didn¡¯t need to. She knew what they were discussing¡ªsomething about Arclith prices and the upcoming Concord Crossing, which everyone, at least all the Middleshy, casually referred to as the ¡°Big Mix¡±. It wasn¡¯t just any gathering or trading opportunity. It was the only time of year when all three different Shykind gathered¡ªSunshy, Middleshy, and Deepshy¡ªmingling in an uneasy dance of trade, tradition, and quiet competition. It was a particularly important event for the Middleshy, who the other Shykind disparagingly referred to as the ¡°Middlers,¡± since by virtue of their placement, they were the perennial hosts of all the mixes, whether small, middle, or Big. It was a chance for mobility. A chance to be noticed, make connections, and maybe even cross over. A few crazy Middlers could head up to bask in the Sun, while the cleverest of them could be rewarded with the chance to go Deep. Menna¡¯s hugged her satchel closer to her chest, her father¡¯s ledger rested inside. She¡¯d memorized every line of it¡ªthe trade routes, the stock records, the tiny fluctuations in pricing that most traders overlooked. If she could catch the Deepshy¡¯s attention, prove herself to them as more than ¡°just a Middler,¡± it could change everything. ¡°Menna!¡± Her brother¡¯s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and impatient. She sighed, her focus breaking as she turned to find him gesturing wildly from his stall. A farmer stood opposite him, her arms crossed, her expression one of stubborn defiance. Menna strode toward them, her irritation barely masked. ¡°What is it, Murdo?¡± ¡°She won¡¯t budge,¡± Murdo sighed, throwing up his hands. ¡°She¡¯s asking three chips more than it¡¯s worth!¡± The farmer raised an eyebrow. ¡°If it¡¯s worth less, why don¡¯t you go pick it yourself?¡± Menna held back a groan. ¡°Let me handle this,¡± she muttered, stepping between them. She adjusted her satchel, her fingers brushing against the ledger again. She knew the numbers. She knew the value of the dewthorn fruit in the crates before her. More importantly, she knew how to shift the conversation. Her words came smoothly, practiced and deliberate. She offered a compromise, highlighting the merits of future trade deals and appealing to the farmer¡¯s pride in her product. Within moments, the farmer¡¯s expression softened, and she nodded reluctantly. Menna¡¯s brother grinned, slapping her on the shoulder. ¡°See? This is why I let you do the talking.¡± Menna didn¡¯t answer. Her gaze had already shifted back to the Deepshy. The Concord Crossing was only weeks away, and she was determined to make her mark. This deal was nothing compared to what she could accomplish there. The Glowmarket bustled around their stall as Menna finished dealing with the farmer. Murdo beamed, his mood considerably lighter now that the crates were secured, but Menna¡¯s mind was already elsewhere. Her eyes drifted back to the delegation near the central platform. They stood like pale statues, their conversation low and measured. Among them, Menna recognized Kaeloris, a young but influential negotiator who had recently been appointed to oversee Arclith trading. His richly dyed robes glistened in the mushroom light, the intricate embroidery marking him as someone of influence. His movements were precise, and the huge almost fist-sized Arclight shard hanging from a silver chain around his neck flickered as he pointed out various documents and samples. Menna watched as he gestured toward one of the larger Arclith shards on display, his expression thoughtful. Kaeloris wasn¡¯t alone. The woman beside him whispered something that made Kaeloris chuckle. Lyara, was another Deepshy negotiator, known for her cutting wit and ruthless tactics. Menna had crossed paths with her before, during a trade that ended with Lyara walking away with more concessions than Menna had hoped to counter. The memory still stung. Menna forced herself to focus. They¡¯re just people, no matter how important they think they are. She put down her satchel and straightened her well-tailored, but not quite as ornate robes. She knew she could outmaneuver them, given the chance. She just needed the right opening. If she could just secure a meeting to present her ideas¡ªher innovations¡ªto someone deep in the Deep like Kaeloris, and if only she could get past the prickly snobs like Lyara. ¡°Daydreaming again, Menna?¡± a familiar voice said, breaking her concentration. Menna turned to see Jerys, one of her father¡¯s rivals and an ambitious Middleshy trader. He was flanked by two assistants, his expression a mix of amusement and condescension.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Planning your next big move?¡± Jerys continued, his tone dripping with mockery. ¡°Or just hoping the delegates won¡¯t walk all over you¡­ again?¡± Menna forced a smile, though her jaw tightened. ¡°Better to aim deep than settle for scraps, Jerys. But I¡¯m sure you wouldn¡¯t understand that.¡± Jerys chuckled, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes. ¡°Careful, Menna. New ideas are a tricky thing. They can take you far, or can leave you stranded.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take my chances,¡± Menna said evenly, her voice calm but firm. Jerys inclined his head, his smile never reaching his eyes. ¡°Good luck with that.¡± He turned to leave, but after a few steps, twisted his head to call back at her. ¡°I¡¯m just looking out for you,¡± he said with a more sympathetic tone. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want you to embarrass yourself at the Crossing. The air is so rarified down in their cities that Deepshy noses are more highly attuned to the smell of desperation, you know.¡± As he walked away, Menna¡¯s grip on her satchel tightened. Her gaze shifted back to the Deepshy, her determination hardening. She didn¡¯t need luck, she needed something that could impress all of Shykind.
The Cradle Caverns settled into a steady hum as the day stretched on. The egg-candles flickered as they burned down, their soft light casting elongated shadows on the rocky walls. Vikka finished her third basket of the day, her claws slowing as the repetitive motion numbed her mind. The quiet buzz of kobold life surrounded her, but she felt detached from it, her thoughts drifting toward the cavern entrance. The faint glow of daylight beckoned her like a distant memory. Just one glimpse, she thought, her tail flicking nervously behind her. She glanced around the cave. Most of the females were busy with their tasks, their attention absorbed by their weaving, sorting, or egg-tending. The males were clustered by the entrances, still engrossed in their preening and posturing. No one seemed pay her any attention. Vikka set the basket aside, her claws brushing the cool stone floor as she rose. She moved slowly at first, keeping her movements casual, until she was close enough to the cave branch leading out to the surface. Her heartbeats sped up as she stepped into the corridor, the air growing cooler and fresher with each step. The sunlight hit her scales before she emerged from the opening. It wasn¡¯t much¡ªjust a sliver cutting through the shadows¡ªbut it was enough to make her pause. She stretched a clawed hand into the beam, watching as the light danced across her bronze scales. The world beyond was alive. The wind carried scents of grass and earth, of movement and possibility. She could hear the distant rustle of leaves and the faint chirps of dewthorn birds. It was a stark contrast to the stillness of the caverns, a reminder of the vastness that lay just beyond her reach. Vikka stepped closer, her tail curling with a mix of anticipation and unease. She¡¯d been out here before, but each time felt different, like the horizon was calling to her in a language she didn¡¯t yet understand. She crouched near the edge of the opening, her eyes scanning the view. The Ember Foothills stretched out before her, their rocky slopes dotted with patches of golden grass. Somewhere out there, she knew, were other kobolds, maybe even other creatures you could talk to and get to know. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp whistle behind her. Vikka stiffened reflexively, her claws digging into the cave walls. She turned to see Ryrik, her expression stern as she approached. ¡°What are you doing out here?¡± Ryrik demanded, her tone low but sharp. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be with the others, helping with the nests.¡± Vikka hesitated, her tail flicking in agitation. ¡°I just needed some air,¡± she said, her voice quieter than she intended. Ryrik¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯ve been spending too much time out in the open. It¡¯s dangerous out here. You¡¯re too young to be a gatherer or a guard, you haven¡¯t even laid your first clutch. You have no reason to be wandering.¡± Vikka lowered her gaze, her claws curling into fists. ¡°I wasn¡¯t wandering. I just¡ª¡± ¡°Back inside,¡± Ryrik interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. ¡°Now.¡± Vikka bit back a retort and turned toward the tunnel. She cast one last glance at the horizon before stepping back into the shadows. One day, she thought. One day, I¡¯ll go farther. As she returned to the main cavern, she sensed an almost imperceptible rustling against the side of her tail as it swished from side to side. Her eyes darted to the barest flicker of movement at her feet¡ªa telltale shimmer of tiny, delicate limbs. The pests were back. Her claws flexed as she considered her options. It wasn¡¯t the first time pests had crept into the caverns, and it wouldn¡¯t be the last. The tiny creatures were a nuisance, darting in and out like bouncing, blurry cave rats, stealing whatever they could carry¡ªclumps of shed scales, bits of polished stone, scraps of cave moss, and burnt-out egg candles. This one, though. This one was bolder than most. Vikka watched it scurry near the edges of the nesting chamber, its small, scale-less, clawless, hands clutching the discarded shards of an egg that had already hatched. She moved to chase it off then, but its blur of movement was too fast for her claws, and it whizzed around towards the periphery of the chamber, where it could hide behind the rows of non-viable eggs left to chill against the cold stone. She crept forward, her muscles tensing as she prepared to lunge. The Shy¡¯s faint outline shimmered in the dim light, its tiny head peeking from behind a discarded, broken egg. Not this time. Vikka sprang, her claws raking through the air where the Shy had been a heartbeat before. It wasn¡¯t just quick¡ªit was clever, speeding up to a blur each time it broke cover. The way it darted and doubled back, using the shadows to its advantage, made her scales prickle. ¡°Coward!¡± Vikka hissed, her tail lashing against the ground. She scanned the chamber, her sharp eyes catching the flickering shadows of the Shy¡¯s form as it darted toward an opening only a creature of its size could fit through. ¡°Leave it,¡± came a voice behind her. Vikka turned to see Ryrik, her expression tired but firm. ¡°You¡¯ll only waste your energy. They¡¯re too small and quick for us to catch, and even if you did, what would you do with it? Keep it in a basket? Give it to the hatchlings to play with?¡± ¡°They¡¯re pests,¡± Vikka muttered, her claws curling against the stone floor. ¡°They steal our eggs.¡± ¡°Unfertilized ones that we won¡¯t miss,¡± Ryrik said, her tone dismissive. ¡°Ones we¡¯ve already stopped warming and pushed aside to the walls. Let it go, Vikka. Focus on what matters.¡± Vikka bristled but didn¡¯t argue. She cast one last glance at the hole where the Shy had vanished, her irritation simmering beneath her scales. The cavern felt smaller than ever, the walls pressing closer around her. She turned away, her tail flicking sharply behind her. One day, she thought. I¡¯ll leave this place, and I won¡¯t have to deal with pests or walls or Ryrik telling me what to do. Bonds and Threads Chapter 3 - Bonds and Threads The Glowmarket¡¯s noise hummed around Menna like an undertone to her thoughts. She moved between the stalls with practiced ease, mentally reviewing her notes on each trader as she passed. She didn¡¯t really need to¡ªshe knew them like family¡ªbut the familiarity steadied her. Arclith quotas. Dewthorn exports. Mossweaver yields. Kobold scale and shell stocks. She¡¯d memorized every figure, every trend, every opportunity the Concord Crossing might offer. This wasn¡¯t just about trade, though. It was about positioning herself as someone who belonged in the halls of the Deepshy, who could shape the future of Shykind society. Her father¡¯s voice echoed in her memory. ¡°The Deepshy respect cleverness and results. Show them you can deliver both, and they¡¯ll have to take you seriously.¡± It wasn¡¯t just her father¡¯s words that pushed her, though. It was also the lingering sting of a conversation she hadn¡¯t been able to shake since the last Mix.
The market had been smaller then, just a regular trading day, nothing like the spectacle of the Concord Crossing. Menna had been haggling with a Sunshy trader over a shipment of dried herbs when he¡¯d sauntered over¡ªthe Sunshy youth with his sun-bronzed complexion and the kind of swagger that came from knowing he could outrun or outclimb any Middler of his age or even older and come fact to face with creatures most Deepshy only hear about in stories. ¡°What¡¯s so fascinating about all those notes and numbers?¡± he¡¯d teased, leaning casually against a stack of crates. ¡°You ought to try looking at life outside of ledgers. You know, the real world, like we do.¡± Menna had bristled, her reply sharp. ¡°And by the ¡®real world,¡¯ you mean what? One where we¡¯re prey, dodging predators all day? Burning through all the supplies you eagerly buy from us here in the Middle, not to mention the Arclith shards you can¡¯t seem to get enough of from the Deep?¡± Sylven had grinned, unbothered. ¡°Better than burying yourself in holes and tunnels till you¡¯re all soft, pale and pasty. At least we see the sky, lit by the sun by day, and the moons and stars at night. Not all this weak mushroom light. I can barely figure out the color of your eyes.¡± The evocative imagery he described gave her pause, but she didn¡¯t want him to think he¡¯d gotten under her skin. The argument had spiraled from there, her frustration mounting with every easy shrug and infuriating smile he threw her way. He¡¯d accused her of trying too hard to be a Deepshy¡ª¡°all books and calculations.¡± She¡¯d shot back that his idea of excitement was reckless and shortsighted, a way to avoid the mundane but essential work that kept the vast majority of the Shy alive and thriving. And yet, despite her annoyance, she¡¯d been truly struck by the way he talked about life out under the sun¡ªthe freedom of it, the wide-open spaces, the wind on his face, big wet raindrops falling on his head. There was something almost enviable about it, though she¡¯d never admit that to him, or anyshy.
Menna shook her head, banishing the memory. Sylven and the Sunshy could stick to being burnt by the sun and getting all wet in the rain. She had more practical concerns, ideas that could matter to all of Shykind. Menna adjusted the strap of her satchel as she returned to her family¡¯s trading post, ¡°Menna, how did it go with the dewthorn farmer?¡± Her father, Kerren Thistlebranch, called to her as she approached, his booming voice carrying easily over the market noise. ¡°Get us a good deal?¡± ¡°She was stubborn,¡± Menna replied, slipping into the stall¡¯s sheltered space. ¡°But I got her to agree to a fair rate.¡± Kerren grinned, his weathered face lighting up. He¡¯d been a farmer himself once, a boy from the quiet settlement of Clearfield, where dewthorn fruits and pondweed had been his family¡¯s only livelihood. But a sharper mind than most had pulled him out of the farms and into the markets, trading goods and resources until he¡¯d built a network that stretched across the caldera. ¡°Well done,¡± Kerren said, clapping her on the shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll be running this place better than me soon.¡± ¡°That¡¯s assuming she works better on how she presents herself,¡± said Ellanna, her mother, who was overseeing the arrangement of crates behind them. Her pale skin caught the soft glow of the mushrooms, a stark contrast to Kerren¡¯s warmer complexion. She moved with a practiced grace that spoke of her Deepshy heritage, though it was often tempered by a harshness that Menna had come to expect. ¡°A little more polish would go a long way in negotiations.¡± Kerren¡¯s grin widened. ¡°In the end, what matters more than polish and presentation are the results you get, the chips and chards you earn.¡± Ellanna¡¯s lips pressed into a thin smile. ¡°Both are necessary, Kerren. It¡¯s what sets us apart from the others,¡± she scolded, making a vague gesture encompassing the Middleshy workers and traders bustling around their stall as she stressed the last word. Menna rolled her eyes but kept quiet. Her mother¡¯s pride in her Deepshy roots was as persistent as it was grating. Ellanna loved to remind Menna and her brother, Callen, that they were descended from scholars and strategists, even if it was Kerren¡¯s growing trade empire that had saved her family from financial disgrace. ¡°We¡¯ve already made a tidy profit from our regular trade circuit this year, and there¡¯s still our last stop at Mossgrove Dell left to go before the Big Mix at Rootshadow. So, both your loving parents give you our blessing to have a break from getting all dull and dusty from messing around in the market stalls, and take all the time, thread and face paint to polish yourself to the deepest shine, my dearest little ledger,¡± her father teased. ¡°Your father¡¯s jests aside, you are pretty and pale enough to pass well enough down in the depths, and you can definitely put some of them to shame in terms of wit and erudition, her mother smiled softly before straightening her collar. ¡°But you really should hone in on every little detail, from your look to your language, at the next Concord Crossing,¡± Ellanna continued, as she arranged spools of vividly dyed spun silk. ¡°This is your chance to show the Deepshy what you can do. If you present yourself well, they may even consider you for the Umbryss Arcademy.¡± Menna¡¯s stomach tightened at the name. The Arcademy was at the very depths of Deepshy intellectual achievement, a place where the greatest minds of Shy society studied magic-shaping and Arclith crafting, and worked on serious, secret projects meant to keep all Shykind safe and thriving. Menna had dreamed of going there for years, though her feelings about living among the Deepshy were far from simple. She glanced over and watched as Kaeloris and Lyara descended with the rest of their delegation through the Arclith-powered elevator installed right next to the central platform. Down below in the stone-carved colleges, workshops, and council chambers was where the real power lay to shape the future¡ªnot up there in the grass chasing pikas and running from kobolds. And Menna intended to dive down as deep as she could go.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
The Sunshy camp came into view as Sylven crested the last ridge, his crotch chafing from rubbing against the saddle while bouncing on his ornery new mount. The Ember Foothills stretched out behind him, their grasses rippling gold and green in the late afternoon light. Ahead, the familiar cluster of tents, yurts, and covered wagons nestled against the rocky slope sent a wave of relief through him. ¡°Almost there,¡± he muttered, glancing down at his mount. Whisker¡ªor Uiska, as the pika held onto his real name in his mind¡ªhuffed in response, his restless ears flicking back. The pika¡¯s movements were still tense, his muscles coiled with pent-up frustration and the strain of bearing a rider¡¯s weight for the first time. Sylven could feel the flimsy thread of the bond between them, thin and taut, like a string stretched too far. ¡°I know it¡¯s a tiring climb,¡± Sylven admitted, more to himself than to the pika. ¡°But we¡¯ll get there.¡± Whisker snorted, his long whisker wagging like an expressive finger, scolding him to mean, easy for you to say. The bond wasn¡¯t what Sylven had hoped for. Torran¡¯s words echoed in his mind: ¡°A true bond is worth ten forced ones.¡± The Arclith shard in the harness had done its job, but something about the connection felt... incomplete. Forced. Sylven had felt it the moment the shard¡¯s magic had flared, the bond jerking into place like a poorly tied knot. Still, it was enough for now. And if he could prove himself at the Daring Rite, it wouldn¡¯t matter.
The Sunshy camp bustled with activity as Sylven led Whisker through the rows of tents. Sunwoven harnesses glinted in the sunlight, slung over posts or draped across mounts¡ªpikas, glider and waterbirds, even a stocky plowhog grunting as its rider brushed dirt off its tusks. A group of young Sunshy were gathered near the edge of the camp, practicing their climbing skills on the rocky outcrops. Sylven¡¯s younger sister, Saera, waved to him from atop a narrow ledge, her sun-bronzed face breaking into a grin. ¡°Back already?¡± she called. ¡°I thought you wanted to beat all the rites twice by sundown!¡± she teased. Sylven rolled his eyes, gesturing to the Pika. ¡°I¡¯ve got at least one rite down with the sun still high. This is Whisker. I don¡¯t think he¡¯s happy to make your acquaintance.¡± Saera¡¯s grin widened as she rappelled down the rocks to join him. Her eyes lit up as she inspected the pika, her hands brushing over the harness straps and the pika¡¯s fur as it took heavy breaths. ¡°Not bad. You tired him out, poor thing. But he looks healthy and alert,¡± she admitted. ¡°You still have the Daring Rite to finish, that¡¯ll be much more dangerous.¡± Sylven¡¯s stomach tightened. ¡°I know.¡± Saera smirked, her tone teasing. ¡°Better hurry. The Big Mix is coming, and you wouldn¡¯t want to show up empty-handed.¡± As Saera clambered back up to catch up with her friends, Sylven glanced toward the foothills, where the rocky terrain rose sharply against the horizon. The Daring Rite was waiting, and with it, the next step in proving himself¡ªnot just to the Sunshy, but to himself. And maybe, just maybe, to someone else. Someone even more annoying than Saera and way too sure of herself. The thought of Menna flickered in his mind, unbidden. He remembered the last Mix, her sharp words and calculating gaze, the way she¡¯d dismissed their lives as reckless and precarious. He hadn¡¯t meant to bump into her that day, but it had left a mark, driving him to prove her wrong. Now, as he tightened the straps on Whisker¡¯s harness, he felt a surge of determination. One step at a time, he thought. First, the mount. Next, the egg. Then, the Mix. ¡°Still alive, I see,¡± came another familiar voice. Sylven turned to see Torran, his older brother, leaning casually against a post. Torran¡¯s face split into a grin as he took in Whisker, who stood behind Sylven, ears flicking in irritation. ¡°Barely,¡± Sylven shot back, rolling his eyes. ¡°He¡¯s stubborn as they come.¡± Torran chuckled, crossing his arms. ¡°Good. A Sunbrave needs a mount with spirit. No sense in taming an animal that won¡¯t fight or run as if its life depended on it when you need it to.¡± His gaze shifted to Whisker, his expression turning thoughtful. ¡°Though I believe he could be happier about being paired up with you.¡± Whisker snorted as if in agreement, his long whisker twitching. Sylven sighed. ¡°He¡¯ll come around. We don¡¯t have much time, though.¡± ¡°It¡¯s best not to rush things if both of you aren¡¯t ready,¡± Torran berated him, his tone pointed. Sylven frowned, his hand brushing the Arclith shard woven into Whisker¡¯s harness. ¡°I know. That¡¯s why I¡¯m heading to Mossgrove Dell tomorrow. I need more supplies.¡± Torran raised an eyebrow. ¡°Gear and magic won¡¯t change a mount¡¯s attitude, or steal a kobold egg for you.¡± ¡°No, but they¡¯ll help keep us alive,¡± Sylven muttered. Torran took a step closer to his younger brother, his expression turning serious. ¡°You know the kobolds won¡¯t make this easy, right? They¡¯re more dangerous to us than even the bigger hawks, wolves, or lizards around. They¡¯re... different.¡± ¡°But that¡¯s the point, isn¡¯t it?¡± Sylven asked, his voice steady. ¡°The Daring Rite isn¡¯t supposed to be easy.¡± Sylven hesitated, then nodded. ¡°Just don¡¯t be foolish, take too many risks and get yourself killed. We need you here. Every Sunshy has an important role to fill, whether you¡¯re a Sunbrave or not.¡±
Whisker watched the exchange with wary eyes, his body tense. The camp buzzed with noise and the faint tang of magic. Sylven led Whisker toward the mount stables, a cluster of woven enclosures nestled in the shadow of the foothills. The scents of straw, leather, and fur filled the air, mingling with the occasional snort or chirp from the animals inside. The stables were alive with movement. A plowhog let out a low grunt as it shook its head after its rider took off its bridle, while a pair of waterbirds preened under the watchful eyes of their handlers. Nearby, a wiry pika with gray-streaked fur pawed at the ground, its ears twitching as it waited for its rider to return. Whisker resisted every step, his ears flat against his head and his nose twitching rapidly. Sylven sighed, tightening his grip on the harness. ¡°Come on, you¡¯re not the first pika to be dragged into this place.¡± Whisker stopped abruptly, pulling back against the harness. His eyes darted around the stables, his flanks shivering as if ready to bolt. Sylven felt the tension in the bond between them, a faint hum of defiance that echoed in his own frustration. ¡°You¡¯re not running, and I¡¯m not letting you,¡± Sylven muttered. ¡°So, what¡¯s it going to be?¡± Whisker¡¯s whiskers twitched as he scanned the stables, his senses bombarded by alarming and unfamiliar sensations, a different world from the warmth and intimacy of the warren he¡¯d know his entire young life. The air was thick with the scent of other animals, a few that he¡¯d never seen up close before, and the strange contraptions around him¡ªharnesses, reins, and gear¡ªset his nerves on edge. He didn¡¯t trust the pushy furless creature who had humiliatingly poked, prodded, then sat on him, then forced him to run in one direction towards unfamiliar territory. It felt like little shocks spreading from his paws to his tail when they first climbed up out of the safe, soft, sweet-smelling soil and grasses of the prairie on to the hard, sharp rocky foothills that young pikas were never supposed to explore. The Shy¡¯s voice was firm, its grip on the harness steady, but Whisker bristled at the way it assumed control, tugging him this way and that like some hapless kit. Not pika. Not warren. Not family. A smelly fart drew his attention to the nearby plowhog, whose massive frame shifted as it turned its narrow eyes toward him. The creature let out a short, snuffling sound, a noise that seemed almost amused. New? the plowhog grunted, its voice a low rumble. Whisker¡¯s ears flicked back. Not home. Must run. Home here now. Must stay. Another voice chimed in, this one softer, more familiar. A gray-streaked pika emerged from the shadows of its stall, its movements calm and deliberate. Not bad here. Good food. Safe. It pawed the ground for emphasis. Whisker¡¯s nose and tail twitched. Back hurts. Paws hurt. The older pika tilted its head, its black eyes glinting with something between wisdom and resignation. Hurt heals. You young. Grow strong. Whisker wasn¡¯t sure he believed that, but the calm in the older pika¡¯s voice soothed some of his tension. He allowed himself to be led into an empty stall, his movements hesitant but no longer as resistant. Sylven secured the harness and stepped back, his gaze meeting Whisker¡¯s. ¡°You¡¯ll thank me for this one day,¡± he said softly. ¡°You¡¯ll see.¡± Whisker snuffled but didn¡¯t pull away as the Shy closed the stall door. He glanced at the other mounts, their calm postures and quiet movements settling uneasily in his mind. Maybe feel better after sleep. Maybe this bad dream. Wake up back in warren. With nowhere to run or hide, he sighed and squeezed into a corner. He folded down his ears, burrowed under and curled up in the hay that lined the stall, and tried to shield his eyes and nose from all the strange lights and smells around him. He tried to pretend that he was snug in the warren, surrounded by his littermates and piles of grass that still smelled like his parents¡¯ wet kisses. The stress and exhaustion of the day quickly lulled Uiska into a fitful sleep.