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—and 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—not until the bond was certain—but 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—at 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—a 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—he’d siphoned some power from it earlier to top off his own Arclith—but 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—an 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.

“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—Whisker. “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—not 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—flexing, 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?

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

The queen’s gaze moved on, and Vikka exhaled, her chest tight.

She didn’t know why, but she felt it again—that 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—cleaner, 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—the preening fools posturing as they stood guard at the entrances into the main caverns, as if they were any good at it—made 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.

Middler Ambitions

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.

She 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—something 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—Sunshy, Middleshy, and Deepshy—mingling 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—the 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.

She 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—her innovations—to 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.

“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.”

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.

Slipping Out

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—just a sliver cutting through the shadows—but 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—”

“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—a 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—clumps 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. The creature darted sideways with an agility that made her scales itch with frustration, its faint blur fading into the shadows of the wall.

“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.