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 kestrel glided silently overhead, its sharp eyes scanning the swaying grass below. Sylven didn't look up 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 relentless game among the grasses. He thought about reaching for an arrow from his quiver, which was made from the hollowed out, tough outer shell of an acorn, and strapped to his back with a lizard tail. But decided against calling more attention to himself from either of his targets.

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 bulrush, 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 other whiskers, twitching as if testing the air. Sylven's breath slowed. He hadn't meant to name it yet—not until the bond was certain—but the word slipped into 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.

Uiska's whiskers twitched as he darted between the tall grasses, his legs burning with the effort of the run. Above him, the kestrel screamed again, its shadow drifting 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 of the prairie nothing could beat a pika at full speed.

The next outcropping wasn't far. Its jagged stones jutted out of the ground 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 felt wrong. It shifted and cooled, making his fur prickle.

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 ground.

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, a desperate cry that made Sylven's ears hurt. Its legs kicked 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," Sylven thought. "I don't think this pika will tame true easily."

"Hold still!" he grunted, fumbling for the 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 as the pika's fur brushed against his fingers as it thrashed. The thread was faint, like a spider's web stretched thin, but it was there. A ribbon of magic connecting him to the creature, fragile and incomplete, but binding.

For a moment, he caught something—an impression, a familiar word.

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"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..."

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."

The Cradle Caverns hummed with placid 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 was drawn 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, caulk for baskets or sealing leaks to keep the nest warm and dry, or even to feed their more fortunate hatchling siblings in times of need.

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 sense of 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 embodying the heart and mind 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.

She shifted her scrutiny 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 were like bowerbirds, 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 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, her soothing ministrations 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—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 wagging 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 clutch-sister dropped her first egg. So 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, it turned out she wasn't quite that different, but she still felt that there 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 reassuring, 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 its full extent only a few times, when she'd ventured too close to the edge of the Ember Foothills. The elders had scolded her every time she returned, their whistles sharp with disapproval. They called her reckless, foolhardy.

Maybe they were right. But the memory of those moments 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.

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