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—she knew them like family—but 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.
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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—the 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—“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—the 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.
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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—not up there in the grass chasing pikas and running from kobolds. And Menna intended to dive down as deep as she could go.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
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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—or Uiska, as the pika held onto his real name in his mind—huffed 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.
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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—pikas, 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—not 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.”
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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—harnesses, reins, and gear—set 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.