Chapter 8 – An Inadvertent Trap

The drizzle dripped down Vikka’s horns, forcing her to shake her head to keep the water out of her eyes as she trudged up the slick slopes, her claws caked in mud. The storm had subsided, but the intermittent showers left the paths slippery and strewn with debris. Being mostly used to the relatively dry, well-tended floors and corridors of the nest, every step was a struggle to keep her footing. She paused at the closest patch of soil large enough for her to stand in.

She was getting out of breath, and the weight of the basket was starting to strain her wrists. She peeked at the egg nestled inside. The mud she’d slathered on earlier was more like a thin layer of brown-grey streaks now, not fooling anyone.

It has to disappear.

She gritted her teeth and knelt, claws poised to dig.

The first hole she’d dug earlier had been useless—too shallow, too exposed. She needed a spot where the earth was soft enough to bury it deep, but solid enough to hold. Here, the rocks made the ground stubborn and patchy.

“Come on…” she muttered, scooping out clawfuls of wet earth and gravel. The mud squelched between her claws as she worked, but the moment she tried piling dirt over the hole, it oozed back down in soupy globs.

Vikka sat back on her heels, trembling with frustration. Her tail lashed angrily behind her, sending flecks of mud flying. She glanced at the egg again, her heart pounding.

Maybe I have to… break it.

The thought clawed at her gut. The rain would help wash away the traces, she reasoned. She wouldn’t have to carry the shame of leaving the egg where it could be found. Her claws hovered over the shell, shaking as she prepared to strike.

The moment stretched. The faint sound of rain filled her ears, water dripping steadily onto stone and grass.

Her hand fell away. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t.

The egg was perfect. Unbroken. Flawless. Fresh. It hurt to even think of destroying it.

Vikka let out a low hiss of frustration and hauled herself back to her feet. She needed another solution. She glanced around the slope, her sharp eyes scanning for a better hiding spot. Maybe farther down on the other side of the hill.

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Sylven crouched behind a gnarled root jutting out from the thicket where he and Whisker had sought shelter. His small form blended with the vegetation and shadows, but his sharp gaze never wavered from the strange sight unfolding before him.

A kobold. A real-life adult kobold female—a giant compared to him. She stood close enough that he could easily make out her horns and scales and see that she was carrying a basket and struggling with whatever was in it. She had already stopped and started digging with her claws several times, only to quickly quit and kick the dirt back into the holes she had dug out.

From his vantage point, by her fifth try at digging he could see the faint gleam of an egg in the basket whenever lightning flashed.

Sylven’s brow furrowed. What in all of the Shylands is she doing?

He’d always been told kobolds guarded their eggs with a fervor that made even the boldest Sunbrave think twice. Yet here she was, desperately trying to bury one—or was she abandoning it? Hiding it? He had no idea what was going on with the kobold and her egg.

His instincts screamed at him to retreat. The kobold was too close, and her size made her dangerous, even if she didn’t look like a guard or warrior. But curiosity rooted him in place. Why?

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Vikka stumbled again, the rain-slicked mud pulling her feet out from under her. She let out a startled grunt as she slid down the slope, claws scrabbling for purchase. Her basket jostled wildly, and for one heart-pounding moment, she thought the egg might spill out entirely.

When she finally came to a stop, she was lower on the slope—closer to a flatter patch of ground tucked behind a small rocky outcropping.

Mud streaked her scales, and her whole body ached from the effort of the climb and the tumble. She slumped into a crouch to catch her breath, eyes darting back to the basket. The egg was intact—gleaming stubbornly, mocking her with its flawless shell.

What am I doing?

Her claws curled into fists. She had to get rid of it—now. But as her gaze swept her surroundings, her sharp senses picked up something odd. She wasn’t alone.

A patch of flattened grass, a few scattered droppings that didn’t belong to any creature that lived around the caverns, and a faint scent of something musky, barely noticeable over the earthy smell of rain. A pika?

Her instincts sharpened. Where there were pikas, there may be others. And sure enough, her heat-sensitive vision caught the faintest flicker of warmth and movement peeking through the roots and underbrush of an overgrown thicket.

A Shyren, just as she thought. Her lips curled into a bitter smile. Egg thieves.

The elders whispered about them—pests who skulked into kobold territory to steal anything they could carry: scraps, scales, precious stones and metals. But Vikka had heard stranger stories. Some claimed the Shyren were drawn to their eggs because they used them for some kind of magic.

Vikka’s grip on the basket tightened.

Suddenly, she had an idea. A ridiculous, desperate idea. Vikka’s mind raced. Normally, outside of the nest she wouldn’t have given a pest like this a second thought. But this one…

Slowly, she turned away from the little creature, pretending not to notice him. Her movements were deliberate as she lowered the basket and carefully removed the egg. The rain had washed most of the mud away, and its smooth, pale shell practically glowed. Vikka placed it gently on a patch of cleaner grass, then while still bending over, carefully turned and raised her claws, palms up, as if in surrender.

She took a deep breath, then said softly, in the hissing cadence of the kobold tongue, “It’s yours. Please get rid of it for me. Thank you.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The small creature kept still, watching her with focused, wary eyes.

Vikka straightened slowly, her eyes lingering on the small figure for a moment longer before she began to climb backwards tail-first up the slope, still keeping her claws up and her eyes on the egg.

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Sylven stared at the egg, his heart pounding.

What just happened?

The kobold’s words had been unintelligible, but her intent seemed clear enough. She’d placed the egg there deliberately, her posture—her tone—almost… pleading.

Sylven tightened his grip on the root he hid behind, every instinct screaming at him to retreat. It’s a trap. It has to be.

But the egg sat there, pristine and abandoned, its pale shell gleaming in the rain. Sylven couldn’t look away.

He approached cautiously, his movements deliberate. Whisker lingered in the thicket behind him, ears pricked, nose twitching with unease. Sylven held his rucksack open in one hand and gripped his axe loosely in the other—just in case.

The kobold had left the egg there, as though daring him to take it. Sylven’s instincts warred inside him.

Why would she leave it?

He crouched beside the egg, the raindrops beading off its smooth shell. It was heavier than it looked as he picked it up. Except for faint streaks of mud, it seemed fresh and intact. No cracks, no rot. There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing to justify the scene he’d just witnessed.

Sylven couldn’t shake the hollow twisting in his gut. This doesn’t feel right. The egg was supposed to be a treasure worth fighting for, seized as a prize to prove his worth. It wasn’t meant to be handed to him like… like this. It felt so wrong.

The kobold had gone farther up the slope, moving slowly but steadily toward the ridge. Sylven’s gaze vacillated between her retreating form and the egg in his hands. His fingers brushed the leathery shell. Something about it sent an unease curling through his stomach. Why give it to me?

He sat back on his heels, the drizzle wetting his hair and dripping down his face. He should just ride off and take it back to camp. Then show up at the Concord Crossing as a proper Sunbrave.

But as he stuffed the egg into the rucksack, the memory of the kobold’s actions—the way she’d placed it down with almost desperate finality—clawed at him.

Surprising even himself, he stood. “I need to know why,” he muttered under his breath. He wasn’t done with the rite. It wasn’t really about the egg. It was about taking risks and bringing something back that you fought hard for.

Whisker squeaked questioningly, as if to ask, shouldn’t we be going?

He swung onto Whisker’s back, nudging the pika forward and up the slope, steering him after the kobold’s retreating form, all caution thrown to the wind.

“Hey!” Sylven called, his voice barely loud enough to carry over the wind and rain. “You! Kobold!”

Vikka didn’t turn. She kept walking, her claws crunching on loose gravel, tail flicking dismissively behind her.

“Are you deaf?” Sylven yelled, frustration flaring. “HEY!”

Still nothing.

Sylven wasn’t proud of what he did next, but he did it anyway.

He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out his slingshot and a pebble.

With a practiced movement, Sylven aimed and shot the pebble into the air. It struck the kobold square on her behind—not hard, but enough to make her stop.

The kobold froze mid-step, her head turning sharply to glare over her shoulder.

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Vikka moved more quickly now that she was free of the burden. Her basket was lighter, but her thoughts weighed her down. The memory of the egg still haunted her. She wondered what the Shyren would do with it.

But it was done, she told herself. It’s not my problem anymore.

Her tail flicked with nervous energy as she climbed, shoulders hunched forward to keep the chill out of her scales. Then a sound pricked her ear—a sharp little buzz right behind her.

She turned her head, listening. Nothing. Just the drizzle and the soft trickle of runoff down the slope.

Then she heard the little sound again, slightly louder this time. And she couldn’t shake the sense that it was directed at her.

Vikka twisted her head slightly to glance back from the corner of her eye and almost couldn’t believe what she saw.

The would-be egg thief was riding up the slope after her on a pika. It was waving one hand at her as if she hadn’t noticed it already.

She decided to ignore it and quicken her pace. “Unbelievable,” she hissed under her breath. “Why doesn’t it just go away already?”

The tiny voice piped up after her, annoyingly persistent. Vikka pretended she couldn’t hear it. She wasn’t about to engage with some little pest—certainly not one that had taken her egg.

Then something round and small hit right where her tail met her back.

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When the kobold turned and glared straight at them, Whisker squealed in fear, as if to say, Let’s get out of here! You’re insane!

Sylven slid off Whisker and threw up his hands in exaggerated surrender, copying the kobold’s earlier pose, egg-filled rucksack hanging off one shoulder. “You dropped this!” he shouted. He pulled the egg out and held it high, making a show of walking bravely toward the kobold.

Vikka’s eyes widened, incredulity replacing irritation. She turned fully now, towering over Sylven as he stomped closer.

“Why did you leave this egg?” Sylven asked loudly. He placed the egg carefully on the ground between them

He looked up at her, one eyebrow raised, and gestured dramatically toward the egg. “Why?” he repeated, pointing first to her, then the egg, then back to her.

Vikka blinked. She didn’t understand his words, but his gestures were unmistakable. He was asking about the egg. Her nostrils flared, her expression a mixture of disbelief and disgust. “Leave me alone,” she muttered in the Kobold tongue, though Sylven found the hissing and honking sounds of her language unintelligible.

He didn’t budge. Instead, he bent down, snatched up a stick, and started carving lines into the wet dirt. Vikka squinted, tilting her head.

He was writing. The strange, wavy symbols didn’t mean anything to her, but she sensed that it was meant to be a question.

“Why,” Sylven asked again, pointing to the marks and then to the egg.

“Just take it and leave!” Vikka groaned. Her tail flicked violently, splattering mud everywhere. But the Shy managed to dodge the splatter and continued to glower at her, his tiny face somehow full of stubborn resolve.

Vikka crouched low, claws planted into the ground like a predator preparing to strike, and leaned closer to Sylven’s diminutive form. His entire body was just around the length of her snout.

Her breath rushed over him as she screamed out “Why won’t you leave me alone!?” ending with a warning growl that sent spit flying into his face.

Sylven flinched. “Ugh, gross!” He stumbled back a step, but didn’t retreat. Instead, he wiped his face with his palm, then began to push the egg towards the kobold.

Vikka stared at him. “Are you really—”

Before she could finish, the Shyren spun the egg toward her with a determined shove. It rolled and stopped against her feet.

Vikka snorted, straightened up, and shoved the egg back toward the little Shy with a dismissive flick of her claws. Then she turned and began striding away again, her tail swishing like she was shaking him off.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Sylven huffed, his temper finally snapping. “I’m not done with you yet!”

He darted after her, ignoring the mud and the rain, his legs, which were barely the length of one of her claws, struggling to match her pace. “STOP!” he shouted.

Sylven grit his teeth, suddenly feeling very much like a bothersome insect. Fine. You want me to be a pest?

With a burst of frustration-fueled inspiration, Sylven grabbed the shardstring snare from his belt. His hand shot out, the elastic cords snapping open and flying towards the kobold.

Vikka tried to sashay away quickly, but the Shyren was quicker. There was a sudden sharp twang of tension behind her, followed by a snap. Before she could process what was happening, something tugged hard at the end of her tail.

Vikka yelped as her feet skidded in the mud, the pinching at her tail pulling her off balance. She sprawled awkwardly onto the ground with a thud.

A glowing, shimmering line of string—magically charged—snared her tail’s very tip, humming faintly with energy.

“What is this!?” she roared.

At that moment, the Shyren stood his ground, his expression strained but determined, one hand gripping the glowing shard hanging from his neck. The magic flared, and Vikka’s scales prickled as a sudden pulse of energy surged through her tail and spread throughout her body.

Vikka gasped, the sharp intake of air matching Sylven’s own startled breath. A strange presence intruded into her stream of thought—a sense of connection she couldn’t describe.

And then, it felt like a fog lifted, like she’d gained an additional set of senses.

“Now, can you hear me?” the Shyren’s voice rang clear in her ears—no longer high-pitched gibberish, but actual words.

Vikka blinked at him, her mouth opening and closing as her tail twitched, the magical snare still glowing faintly.

“You…” she wheezed, pointing at him. “What did you do?”

Vikka’s voice rang in Sylven’s mind, the words coming across as though she’d said them in perfect Shyspeak. He felt the connection settle—a thread like the one he shared with Whisker, only… different. Sharper. More defined.

The Shyren stared back, equally stunned. “I think… I just bonded us.”

They both froze, eyes wide as the rain drizzled down, the egg sitting innocently between them.