MOUNTAIN BOND
PART I - THE SEVERANCE - CH. 01
MOUNTAIN BOND, PART I - THE SEVERANCE
I.
The world tilted beneath them, and through Kivith's wings, Ryn felt every shift in the morning air.
They'd been flying for an hour already, following the thermal currents that rose from the valley floor as the sun warmed the stone. This early, the air still carried the night's chill, making each updraft visible as mist swirled and parted around Kivith's passage. The young dragon—fifteen years old and still growing into his full strength—banked left with the particular confidence of youth, wings catching currents that would carry them higher into the mountain peaks.
Faster? Kivith asked through their bond.
The question arrived not as words but as pure sensation—silver excitement mixed with the metallic taste of anticipation, the way the air felt just before lightning struck. After three years of partnership, Ryn had learned to interpret these thought-flavors as easily as spoken language. Maybe easier. Words could lie or mislead. The bond carried only truth.
Ryn's answering grin traveled back through the connection, and Kivith's joy resonated between them like a struck bell. This was why they flew. Not for duty or training or the weather-work that would occupy their afternoon. They flew for the pure exhilaration of it, for these moments when the boundary between human and dragon consciousness blurred until they became something new. Something neither could be alone.
The mountain peaks rushed past in a blur of granite and morning shadows. Kivith threaded between the spires with millimeter precision, each movement flowing through their shared awareness. Too close, and Ryn could have scraped knuckles against stone. Too far, and they'd miss the powerful updrafts that formed in the narrow spaces between peaks.
Too Perfect.
Elder Verin would call this reckless. The storm-weathered teacher had spent decades trying to instill proper caution in young riders, warning them about the dangers of overconfidence. "The mountain gives," he'd say, "but it also takes. Respect it, or it will teach you respect through pain."
But Verin had never flown with a dragon like Kivith, who found joy in precision the way artists found joy in color. Who could read air currents like written words and adjust his flight path by fractions of degrees to find the perfect line through any obstacle.
Like freedom, Ryn thought, if freedom had wings.
Kivith's rumbling laugh vibrated through their shared chest. Then he folded those wings and dove.
The drop stole breath from Ryn's lungs—not from fear but from pure sensation. They plummeted through the narrow gorge, stone walls blurring past on either side. The bond made dizziness impossible, their combined consciousness processing spatial information from two perspectives simultaneously. Human eyes tracked the rocky walls while dragon senses mapped air pressure differentials, creating a three-dimensional understanding of the space that neither species could achieve alone.
Becoming more than yourself while remaining exactly who you were.
They burst from the gorge into hidden valleys.
Morning mist clung to the trees below, a blanket of silver-white that turned the forest into an ocean of cloud. Shafts of sunlight pierced through gaps in the peaks, each beam catching droplets of moisture and transforming them into pillars of gold. The whole scene felt suspended between dream and waking, too beautiful to be real yet too vivid to be imagination.
"Oh," Ryn whispered.
The sound was barely audible over the wind, but Kivith heard it through the bond. His pleased rumble carried notes of deep satisfaction—not at the valley's beauty, though he appreciated that too, but at Ryn's reaction to it. Dragons, Ryn had learned, took profound pleasure in sharing discoveries with their riders. It was one of the ways they showed affection, this gift of secret places and perfect moments.
New, Kivith projected, the concept tinged with proprietary pride. Found last week. Waiting to show you.
The young dragon had a passion for exploration that exceeded even typical dragon curiosity. During solo flights while Ryn attended to human duties, Kivith mapped the unmapped, searching for valleys and caves and wind patterns that no one else knew. He collected these discoveries like treasures, presenting them to Ryn with the focused intensity of a cat bringing gifts to its chosen human.
They circled the valley once, twice, banking through air that felt untouched by the world beyond the peaks. No one else would see this today. Perhaps no one else would see it ever. The mountains held thousands of such hidden places, accessible only to those who could fly and visible only to those who knew where to look.
Some beauty existed simply because it could. That was the first lesson of the Weather Mind philosophy—not everything needed purpose or witness or preservation. Sometimes the universe created loveliness for its own sake, and finding it was gift enough.
Ready? Ryn asked through the bond, though they already knew the answer. They could feel it in Kivith's muscles, in the way his breathing shifted, in the anticipatory tension that sang through their connection.
The dragon's wings tilted just so, catching a crosswind that would carry them in a slow spiral around the valley's edge. This was the dance they'd been perfecting for months—weather-working so subtle that most riders couldn't even attempt it. Not the dramatic storm-calling that elders demonstrated during ceremonies, but something quieter. More personal.
Art for its own sake.
Ryn's hands began to move in the precise patterns they'd developed together, fingers shaping invisible currents that Kivith amplified through minute adjustments of wing and tail. The mist responded like a living thing, curious about these newcomers who spoke its language with such gentle intent.
Tendrils of fog lifted from the forest canopy, following the paths Ryn's gestures suggested. Kivith's wingspan created pressure differentials that guided the moisture into new configurations—spirals at first, simple and clean. Then more complex patterns as they found their rhythm. The dragon's flight path became a brush, the mist their medium, the sky their canvas.
There, Ryn murmured, feeling the moment when everything aligned.
The patterns bloomed outward. What had begun as simple spirals evolved into interconnected helixes, each strand of mist precisely placed to catch and refract the morning light. Bridges of vapor arced between the valley walls, delicate as spiderweb yet stable in the still air. The sunlight transformed these structures into prisms, casting rainbow patterns across the trees below that shifted and danced with each subtle change in viewing angle.
Perfect, because temporary, Kivith observed, his mental voice carrying the particular satisfaction of young dragons who'd discovered something profound. Like frost on glass. Like songs with no audience.
He'd been developing quite the philosophical streak lately, Ryn reflected. Most fifteen-year-old dragons focused on speed and strength, on establishing territory and impressing potential mates. Kivith cared about those things too, but he also spent long hours contemplating the nature of beauty and meaning in ways that surprised even veteran riders.
Dragons measured worth differently than humans. A century of life—easily within a dragon's span—meant nothing if it held no moments of transcendence. A single perfect flight could justify decades of mundane existence. This morning's creation, which would dissolve within an hour, held more value in Kivith's estimation than any permanent monument.
They held the pattern as long as atmospheric conditions allowed, each breath synchronized, each heartbeat marking time in their shared dance. The mist cathedral they'd built shimmered in the morning light, impossible and inevitable, a collaboration between consciousness and cloud that neither could have imagined alone.
Then the mountain winds shifted, as mountain winds always did.
The mist began its slow dissolution, patterns unraveling with the same grace they'd shown in forming. Soon, no trace would remain of what they'd created. The valley would return to its natural state, unmarked by their passing save for the memories they carried.
A falcon's cry split the silence.
Sharp. High.
Wrong.
Kivith's head snapped toward the sound before Ryn had fully processed it. Dragons had better hearing than humans, could parse frequencies and distances that human ears missed. Through the bond, Ryn felt their dragon's sudden alertness, the way his nostrils flared to catch scents carried on the wind.
Storm falcon, Kivith identified. But...
But storm falcons didn't fly this low in summer. They remained in the highest peaks during warm months, descending only when winter drove their prey to lower altitudes. To hear one here, now, in a valley this far from their normal territory...
The cry came again. Closer.
This time Ryn heard what had alarmed Kivith—a note of distress beneath the falcon's call. Storm falcons were proud creatures, would suffer in silence rather than voice weakness. For one to cry out in genuine distress meant something had gone very wrong.
"The patterns," Ryn said, understanding flooding through them.
The mist sculpture wavered as their concentration broke. Kivith corrected with an elegant adjustment of his flight path, turning what could have been collapse into an intentional flourish. Even distracted, he maintained the grace that had made him Ryn's perfect partner.
Patterns find strength in breaking, Kivith said, trying for philosophical acceptance. But underneath Ryn felt his disappointment. They'd planned to hold the formation longer, to push their skills to new limits. Always do.
Then came the horn. Three long notes. Two short.
Circle Call.
The emergency pattern cut through the morning air with brass authority, reaching them even at this distance. Each Flight Circle had its own call, and this one belonged to theirs—Nevan's horn, blown with the particular urgency that meant drop everything and return.
"Too early for training flights," Ryn said, though they both knew this wasn't about training. The pattern was wrong. The urgency too sharp. Something had happened while they'd been dancing with mist and morning light.
Kivith hovered for one more heartbeat, watching their creation fold in on itself. The mist bridges collapsed first, then the spirals, each element returning to formless fog as if it had never been anything else. Within minutes, no sign would remain of the small miracle they'd wrought together.
We leave it, Kivith said, his mental voice carrying forced lightness. We remember.
They banked hard and rose, catching a thermal that would carry them back toward Stormcrest Holdings. The flight home always felt longer than the flight out—not in distance but in weight. Behind them, beauty dissolved into memory. Ahead, duty called with its brass voice and urgent summons.
The landscape changed as they flew, wild secret places giving way to the lived-in territory of the mountain clans. Terraced gardens carved into cliffsides, their geometric precision a counterpoint to nature's chaos. Stone bridges arcing between peaks, some so ancient their origins were lost to history. Mine entrances marked with clan symbols, warning away trespassers while welcoming those who belonged.
And everywhere, dragons.
They passed a teaching flight from Stormcrest's academy, young riders learning basic formations under the watchful eye of Master Roan. A cargo dragon labored past with supply bundles, his rider calling cheerful greetings that Ryn returned with a wave. Near the crystal mines, a patrol pair circled in the steady pattern that meant "all clear, nothing to report."
Normal morning activity. Except...
Feel it? Kivith asked.
Ryn did. A tension in the air that had nothing to do with weather. The patrol pattern was too tight, too focused. The cargo dragon flew faster than his load required. Even the teaching flight had moved closer to the holdings than usual, keeping the young riders within easy recall distance.
Stormcrest Holdings came into view as they crested the final ridge. The great settlement sprawled across multiple peaks, connected by bridges and tunnels that turned separate mountains into a single community. It defied every principle of conventional architecture, this vertical city built to accommodate both human needs and dragon sensibilities.
The landing platforms jutted from the mountainside like petals of an impossible flower, each one sized for different purposes. Trade platforms near the base, where outsiders could conduct business without entering the heart of the settlement. Training platforms midway up, scarred from generations of practice landings. And at the top, the ceremonial platforms where Storm Court gathered and important visitors were received.
But it was the activity that caught Ryn's attention. Too many dragons circled the upper platforms. Too many riders moved with the kind of purposeful urgency that preceded crisis.
Nevan waited on their Flight Circle's platform, and even from this distance, Ryn could see the tension in his stance. The young man paced back and forth, his copper-scaled dragon Sitha crouched nearby with the kind of absolute stillness that dragons adopted when their riders were upset.
They touched down with Kivith's usual precision, talons finding purchase on stone worn smooth by countless landings. Before Ryn had even dismounted, Nevan was moving toward them.
"Took your time," he said, but the words held no real criticism. Just worry shaped into mild complaint.
"We were working on something," Ryn replied, sliding down from the saddle. The morning's peace already felt like a distant dream. "What's happened?"
"Guild activity in the western valleys. Mining operations, but..." Nevan paused, choosing his words with unusual care. "Different. Aggressive. They've moved equipment into disputed territory."
The disputed territories. Those valleys where no clan held clear claim, where ancient treaties created buffer zones between dragon lands and human expansion. For the Guild to move operations there meant either ignorance of centuries-old agreements or deliberate provocation.
Through the bond, Ryn felt Kivith's growing anger. Not the hot rage of challenged territory, but something deeper. Colder. The kind of fury that came when something precious was threatened.
"How many sites?" Ryn asked.
"Six confirmed. Maybe more." Nevan's hands moved in rapid Flight Circle signs, conveying information faster than words could manage. Machines. Scale. Damage. Recklessness.
"Six?" Ryn frowned. The Guild usually notified the clans before establishing new operations, even in disputed territory. It was basic courtesy, preventing misunderstandings that could escalate. "Did they file notice with the Storm Court?"
"No. Nothing. Kess from Windcaller spotted them by accident during a patrol flight." Nevan glanced at Sitha, who hadn't moved from her watchful crouch. "That's why Verin called the assembly."
Through the bond, Kivith shared images from their morning flight. The mist patterns they'd created had been beautiful, yes, but Ryn now recognized something else in them. The air currents had felt subtly wrong, as if something disrupted the natural flow. They'd compensated instinctively, but looking back...
"We felt something off in the western valleys," Ryn said slowly. "The air patterns were... fighting us. Just slightly."
Nevan nodded. "Others reported the same. Whatever they're doing out there, it's affecting the atmospheric flows."
"Storm Court?" Ryn asked.
"Full assembly. Elder Verin has called in every weather-reader, every bonded pair. Even the archivists." Nevan shrugged, a gesture that didn't quite hide his concern. "Probably just needs to sort out boundaries and permissions. You know how the Guild is—always pushing to see what they can get away with."
But even as he said it, Ryn noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way Sitha's tail twitched with barely suppressed agitation. Whatever was happening in the western valleys had everyone on edge.
Around them, Stormcrest Holdings buzzed with activity. More dragons than usual circled the upper platforms. Riders moved between levels with quick, purposeful strides. In the depths of the mountain, the Storm Court would be gathering to address... what? A boundary dispute? A misunderstanding? Or something else?
The morning's beauty felt distant now, overtaken by questions without easy answers. But as Ryn headed toward the inner halls, one hand resting on Kivith's warm scales, they held tight to the memory of mist and light. Whatever the Guild was doing in those valleys, it couldn't erase the perfect hour they'd shared.
"Probably nothing," Nevan said, though he didn't sound convinced. "The Guild gets ambitious sometimes. Verin will sort them out."
The horn sounded again, calling all riders to assembly.
But in Ryn's mind, mist still danced in morning light, and for just a moment longer, the world remained perfect.
Then duty called, and perfection dissolved like fog in sunlight.
Time to face whatever the Guild had done to the western winds.
Together, Kivith said, the word carrying everything they were to each other.
Together, Ryn agreed.
They moved toward the storm chamber and the uncertain future that waited beyond the morning's peace.
-
to be continued…
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake. All rights reserved.