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—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.
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—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.
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“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.
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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 gardener, gatherer or 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. It wasn’t just quick—it 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.