MOUNTAIN BOND
PART I - THE SEVERANCE
MOUNTAIN BOND, PART I - THE SEVERANCE
Previously:
"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.
-
II.
The great halls of Stormcrest Holdings had been carved from living rock three centuries ago, when the clans first learned that dragons and humans could share more than just the same sky.
Ryn followed the familiar passages from the landing platforms toward the inner chambers, their footsteps joining the rhythm of a hundred others moving through the morning routine. The corridors here told the story of that ancient compromise—wide enough for young dragons to pass through, narrow enough that humans didn't feel lost in the vastness. Every few yards, storm-crystals embedded in the walls cast steady light, their soft blue glow replacing the torches that would have been suicide in a home shared with fire-breathing dragons.
The air tasted different inside. Outside was all wind and weather, the sharp clarity of altitude. Here, the mountain's breath mixed with dragon musk and human cooking, with the metallic tang of the forges and the green scent of the underground gardens. It was the smell of home—complex and layered and impossible to describe to anyone who hadn't lived it.
Many gather, Kivith observed through their bond. He'd remained on the platform—most dragons preferred the open air to the enclosed passages—but his awareness traveled with Ryn. More than usual. The storm-crystals sing with their worry.
Ryn paused, hand touching the nearest crystal formation. Sure enough, there was a subtle vibration in the stone, almost below perception. Storm-crystals responded to strong emotions, particularly from weather-workers. With this many riders concerned about something, the crystals throughout the holdings would be humming like a plucked string.
"Ryn! Finally!"
They turned to find Kael hurrying toward them, his flight jacket askew and silver-touched hair still mussed from flying. At eighteen, everything about him was slightly unfinished—his bond with Whisper barely six months old, his place in the Flight Circle still uncertain, his understanding of weather patterns more instinct than skill.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," he continued, falling into step beside them. "Did you hear? Windcaller clan sent three pairs. Three! And there's someone here from Mistmantle, though no one seems to know why they've come so far."
"When did they arrive?"
"The Windcallers? About an hour ago. Made quite an entrance too—that spiral descent they do, all three in perfect synchronization." Kael's hands sketched the flight pattern in the air, his excitement momentarily overriding whatever had him worried. "Whisper says their dragons smell like snow and thin air. Can you imagine living that high up all the time?"
They could, actually. Windcaller clan held the highest territories, where the air grew so thin that humans without weather-worker adaptations couldn't survive. Their children learned to fly before they could properly walk, carried aloft in specially designed harnesses until they were old enough to bond. It made them strange, even by mountain clan standards.
The passage opened into one of the common areas, a circular chamber where multiple corridors met. Morning activity swirled around them—riders heading to various duties, unbonded clan members carrying supplies, children racing between the adults' legs with the fearlessness of those raised around dragons.
But Kael was right. There were more people than usual, and they moved with the kind of careful haste that suggested something important without being quite an emergency.
"Have you seen Lysa?" Ryn asked.
"She's in the Circle chambers with her charts. Been there since dawn, apparently." Kael lowered his voice. "Therin's been acting strange. Won't tell her what's wrong, just keeps projecting images of... wrongness. That's how she described it. Wrongness."
Ancient dragons like Therin perceived the world differently than their younger kin. Where Kivith might sense that air currents felt disturbed, Therin would taste the deeper patterns, the connections between wind and stone and the rhythm of seasons. If something had him unsettled...
They climbed a series of worn steps, moving from the public areas toward the Flight Circle quarters. Each Circle maintained its own section of the holdings, a private space where bonded pairs who flew together could live in close proximity. It was more than convenience—flying in formation required a level of trust and understanding that only came from sharing daily life.
The Aerie Commons occupied a choice position in the mountain, with access to both inner passages and a direct opening to the sky. As they entered, morning light streamed through the crystal dome overhead, painting everything in subtle blues and golds. The space itself was simple—cushions and low tables arranged around a central brazier, charts and equipment stored in carved niches, doorways leading to private quarters sized for humans while the center remained open for dragon visits.
It was home in a way that Ryn's birth family's quarters had never quite managed to be.
Lysa sat surrounded by weather charts, her copper hair catching the light as she bent over her work. At forty-three, she was the senior member of their Circle, the one who guided the younger riders through the complexities of weather-work and the delicate politics of clan life. Her dragon, Therin, was visible through the dome—a massive shape of bronze and crystal perched on the ledge outside.
"There you are," she said without looking up. "How were the valleys this morning?"
"Beautiful," Ryn answered automatically, then paused. "But the currents felt... off. Just slightly. We had to compensate during our weather-working."
Now Lysa did look up, her green eyes sharp with interest. "Off how?"
Ryn struggled to put the sensation into words. Weather-work was as much instinct as skill, and describing the subtle wrongness was like trying to explain color to someone who'd never seen. "Like... there was resistance where there shouldn't be. The mist wanted to flow one way, but something pushed it slightly another."
"Show me where."
Ryn moved to the charts, tracing the valley systems with one finger. Lysa's maps were works of art in themselves, showing not just geography but wind patterns, pressure systems, the invisible architecture of weather across their territory. They found the hidden valley where they'd danced with mist and marked it, then traced the disturbance patterns they'd felt.
"Interesting," Lysa murmured. "That correlates with what others have reported. Look—" She pulled out another chart, this one marked with red symbols. "Every disturbance follows the same line, roughly. As if something is creating a barrier to natural flow."
Through the dome, Therin shifted, his crystalline scales catching the light in patterns that seemed almost like communication. Ancient dragons sometimes spoke in light as much as thought, a language few riders fully understood.
"Is that why the Windcallers came?" Ryn asked.
"Partially. But there's more." Lysa glanced toward the passage, as if checking for listeners, then lowered her voice. "Nevan didn't want to worry everyone, but the Guild operations he mentioned? They're using new equipment. Something we haven't seen before."
"New how?"
"That's just it—no one's gotten close enough for a proper look. They have guards posted, and they've marked the areas as active extraction zones. All perfectly legal, technically. The disputed territories have always been open to negotiated use." She frowned at her charts. "But six sites at once? With no advance notice? Using equipment that's affecting weather patterns three valleys away? That's not normal Guild behavior."
The door banged open, making them both jump. Nevan strode in, still in his flying gear, with an expression that suggested his morning had gotten significantly worse since Ryn saw him on the platform.
"Storm Court's been moved up," he announced. "Elder Verin wants all Circle leaders and their seconds in the chamber in one hour. Full formal presentation." He paused, taking in their expressions. "And yes, before you ask, that's as unusual as it sounds. We haven't had a full formal presentation since the avalanche three years ago."
"What prompted the change?" Lysa asked, already rolling up her charts.
"The Mistmantle representative brought news. Apparently, this isn't isolated to our territory." Nevan moved to the equipment storage, pulling out his formal vest. "Similar operations have appeared in the boundary zones between Mistmantle and Stoneridge. Same pattern—multiple sites, no warning, new equipment."
Kael appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. "Whisper says more dragons are coming. From the south. He can see them from the upper thermals."
"Which clans?" Lysa asked.
"Can't tell yet. They're still too far away." He hesitated. "But there are a lot of them."
A moment of silence settled over the chamber. In Ryn's memory, all seven clans had gathered only twice—once for the funeral of a particularly beloved elder who'd taught half the mountains to fly, and once when a plague threatened the dragon populations. Neither had been pleasant occasions.
Fear-scent rises from the stones, Kivith observed. Old worries waking. The elders remember things they haven't spoken of.
"One hour," Lysa said, breaking the silence with practical authority. "Formal presentation means formal dress. Kael, you'll need to borrow Jereth's spare vest—yours is still at the cleaners. Ryn, you're presenting for our Circle?"
It wasn't really a question. As the most experienced weather-worker among them, Ryn would be expected to share their observations with the Storm Court. The thought made their stomach tighten. Speaking before the elders was never comfortable, and with tensions this high...
"I'll present," Ryn confirmed.
"Good. Focus on the sensory details—what you felt, where, how strong. Let them draw their own conclusions about causes." Lysa stood, her movements efficient. "And Ryn? Wear your hair back. Let them see the silver clearly."
The silver-white streaks that marked all bonded riders served as a badge of honor, proof of the neural changes that allowed human minds to merge with dragon consciousness. In formal presentations, displaying them prominently showed respect for tradition and pride in one's bond.
As the others scattered to prepare, Ryn remained by the charts, studying the patterns Lysa had marked. Six sites in their territory. More in Mistmantle's. All using unknown equipment. All affecting weather patterns in subtle but measurable ways.
"Coincidence?" they asked aloud.
No, Kivith answered simply. Patterns exist. We just can't see the shape yet.
Through the windows, more dragons appeared on the horizon. Whatever the Guild was doing in those valleys, it had caught the attention of every clan in the mountains. That alone suggested this was more than simple overreach or bureaucratic failure.
But what exactly it was remained frustratingly unclear.
One hour to prepare. One hour to organize observations into something coherent enough to present to the assembled elders. One hour before they'd learn whether this was a minor issue that could be resolved with strongly worded letters, or something more serious.
Ryn touched the storm-crystal embedded in the wall, feeling its subtle vibration. The crystals throughout the holdings were all humming now, resonating with the collective unease of hundreds of weather-workers.
Whatever was coming, the mountain itself seemed to be holding its breath.
Time to prepare. Time to discover what had brought seven clans together for only the third time in living memory.
We face it together, Kivith sent, his mental touch warm with reassurance.
Together, Ryn agreed, and went to find their formal vest.
The hour passed too quickly. By the time Ryn emerged in formal attire—dark vest embroidered with their Circle's patterns, hair pulled back to display the silver-white streaks, weather-working tools polished and hanging from their belt—the passages were crowded with others heading to the Storm Court chamber.
The sight was impressive and unsettling in equal measure. Riders from all seven clans, each wearing their traditional patterns, moving through Stormcrest's halls with careful courtesy. Old rivalries set aside, at least temporarily, in the face of... what?
That was the question humming through the air as clearly as the storm-crystals' vibration. What had the Guild done that warranted this response?
Soon, they'd find out.
The Storm Court chamber waited, and with it, answers.
Or at least, Ryn hoped, the beginning of answers.
-
to be continued…
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake. All rights reserved.