Previously:
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.
-
III.
The Grand Chamber of Stormcrest Holdings had been carved from the mountain's heart when dragons first chose to partner with humans rather than simply tolerate them.
Ryn descended the spiral pathway with their Flight Circle, each step taking them deeper into stone that remembered the first words spoken between species. The chamber itself was a feat of engineering that predated most clan knowledge—a vast hollow space that could hold two hundred riders and accommodate dragons of any size. The walls flowed outward like frozen breath, unmarked by tool or claw, shaped by methods lost to time.
"Stay together," Lysa murmured as they entered. "Circle formation. Show unity."
Good advice. The chamber was already half full, and the sight made Ryn's breath catch. Riders from all seven clans, wearing their distinctive patterns and colors. Stormcrest's storm-blue and silver. Windcaller's white and pale gold. Mistmantle's grey and pearl. Even a small contingent from distant Stoneridge, their earth-brown vests marking them as travelers from the farthest southern peaks.
The last time Ryn had seen this many clans represented, they'd been thirteen years old, attending the memorial for Elder Skywright. That had been a solemn occasion but a planned one. This felt different. Urgent. Uncertain.
Storm-crystals embedded throughout the chamber hummed with barely contained energy. With this many weather-workers present, this many dragons perched on the external platforms, the air itself seemed to thicken with potential. Like the moments before lightning chose its path to ground.
Many minds, many worries, Kivith observed from his position outside. Dragons couldn't fit in the chamber—it had been carved for human use—but openings at various levels allowed them to observe and communicate with their riders. The old ones whisper in frequencies I can't fully hear.
Elder Verin stood at the chamber's heart, his weathered face grave beneath silver-white hair that had gone fully crystal with age. Beside him, his dragon Morith's bronze head was visible through one of the larger openings, ancient eyes surveying the gathering with an expression Ryn couldn't read.
"Be seated," Verin called, his voice carrying easily through the chamber's perfect acoustics. "We have much to discuss and limited time to discuss it."
The various groups found their places on the stone benches carved in concentric circles around the center. Ryn's Flight Circle settled together, Lysa on one side, Kael fidgeting nervously on the other. Around them, similar groups arranged themselves—some by clan affiliation, others by specialized function. The weather-readers claimed one section, their instruments and charts spread before them. The patrol leaders occupied another, still in flight gear as if they'd come straight from the sky.
"Honored riders," Verin began once the chamber settled. "Thank you for answering the call. What I share now requires your full attention and, for the moment, your discretion."
He gestured to the center of the chamber, where a crystal formation began to glow. Not storm-light—this was something else, a technique Ryn had only seen once before. Memory crystal work, the art of preserving and sharing visual information through crystalline matrices.
The air above the crystal shimmered, then resolved into an image.
A valley, viewed from above. Familiar topology—one of the disputed territories where no clan held full claim. But something was wrong with the picture. Where natural stone formations should have stood, geometric scars marked the earth. Structures of metal and crystal arranged in patterns that hurt to look at, as if they violated some fundamental principle of how things should be shaped.
"The Seventh Formation," Verin announced. "Recorded this morning by Windcaller scouts."
Gasps echoed through the chamber. The Seventh Formation was more than just rocks and crystals—it was a nexus point where multiple weather systems naturally converged. Storms born there could affect patterns across a dozen valleys.
The image shifted, showing the site from different angles. Each view revealed more details that made Ryn's stomach tighten. Guild workers moving between the structures. Extraction equipment unlike anything they'd seen before—not the careful tools used for sustainable harvesting, but massive mechanical constructs that seemed to tear rather than collect.
"Six sites," Verin continued. "All following similar patterns. All activated within the last week without notice or negotiation."
"That's not possible," someone called out—a Mistmantle elder Ryn didn't recognize. "The disputed territories require notification. It's been law for two centuries."
"Nevertheless," Verin replied, gesturing for the next image.
This one showed a different valley, but the scars were the same. The mechanical intrusions. The geometric arrangements that seemed to actively fight against the natural flow of the landscape.
But it was the third image that made the chamber erupt in voices.
Weather patterns, visualized through specialized crystal resonance. The natural flows that should move like water through the mountain passes were... breaking. Fragmenting. Creating eddies and dead zones where wind simply stopped.
"Silence," Verin commanded, and the chamber obeyed, though the tension remained thick enough to taste. "Lyra Stormclaw will explain what we're seeing."
Lyra rose from among the weather-readers, her ancient frame moving with careful dignity. At her age, most riders had long since retired from active duty, but her bond with Kethris granted her perceptions that exceeded those half her age. When she spoke, every weather-worker in the chamber leaned forward to listen.
"The extraction isn't just removing crystals," she said, her voice carrying despite its softness. "It's disrupting the pressure matrices that channel weather through these valleys. Observe—"
The crystal projection shifted again, this time showing the same patterns but with overlay of what they should look like. The contrast was stark. Where smooth flows should exist, jagged interruptions. Where pressure should build and release naturally, artificial dams that would force storms to seek new paths.
"In simple terms," Lyra continued, "they're creating wounds in the sky itself. Storms that would normally ground safely through these formations will have to find new paths. More violent paths."
"Can we repair them?" This from a Stormcrest weather-reader in the front row.
"Unknown. The damage appears to be more than physical. There's a resonance effect—the crystals that remain are... singing wrong." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "As if they've been forced to remember new patterns that conflict with their nature."
Maesha Stormclaw stood beside her sister, activating another crystal array. The chamber filled with sound—two distinct tones that made everyone wince. The first was familiar, the harmonic resonance of healthy storm-crystal formations. The second...
Wrong. Discordant. Like metal grinding against stone, but translated into frequency.
"This is what our dragons hear," Maesha said simply. "What they've been hearing for days, growing stronger. Is it any wonder they're disturbed?"
Through the bond, Ryn felt Kivith's distress spike. The sound was even worse for dragons, whose sensitivity to resonance exceeded human perception. Around the chamber, other riders were touching their bonds, offering comfort to dragons who couldn't escape the wrongness being broadcast through the crystals.
Maesha mercifully ended the demonstration.
"The question," Elder Verin said into the silence that followed, "is what we do about it."
"We demand they stop," someone called out—young voice, probably newly bonded. "This is our territory. Our responsibility."
"The disputed lands are precisely that—disputed," another voice countered. "The Guild has legal precedent for resource extraction."
"Not like this," Lysa interjected. "Sustainable extraction is one thing. This is... devastation."
Arguments began to build, voices rising as different factions expressed their views. Some called for immediate action. Others counseled patience and negotiation. The Windcaller contingent spoke of precedent and treaties, while Mistmantle's representatives worried about escalation.
Through it all, Ryn noticed something. The eldest riders, those with dragons approaching Therin's age, remained silent. They watched the arguments with expressions that suggested they were seeing patterns others missed. Remembering things others had forgotten.
They fear, Kivith said suddenly. The old ones. They remember something about divided skies. About patterns forced to change.
Before Ryn could ask for clarification, Elder Verin raised his hand for silence.
"We will send investigators," he announced. "Small groups to observe and document. We need to understand their methods before we can counter them effectively."
"Observation only?" The question came from a Peakwalker rider, his tone suggesting what he thought of such restraint.
"For now," Verin confirmed. "We are not at war with the Guild. These may be... overzealous individuals exceeding their authority. We must give them opportunity to correct course before considering stronger responses."
Murmurs through the chamber. Not everyone agreed, but Verin's authority held. For now.
"I need volunteers," Verin continued. "Experienced pairs who can approach unseen and document what they observe. The sites are under guard, but not militarized. Caution should suffice."
Several hands rose immediately. Ryn felt Kivith's eagerness through the bond—young dragons always wanted to prove themselves when challenge arose. But before they could decide whether to volunteer, Nevan stood.
"Stormcrest Circle volunteers for the Seventh Formation survey," he said clearly. "We have the speed and maneuverability for mountain approach, and Ryn's weather-sense is among the most developed of the younger riders."
Ryn's stomach dropped even as pride warmed their chest. Nevan had just volunteered them for the most dangerous site—the one whose disruption would have the widest effect.
Elder Verin studied them, his expression unreadable. "You're young," he said finally. "All of you. The Seventh Formation requires experience."
"Or fresh eyes," Lysa countered, standing beside Nevan. "They might see what experience has trained us to overlook."
A long moment of consideration. Around the chamber, other riders watched the exchange with interest. Circle dynamics were complex—Lysa supporting Nevan's decision meant their entire Circle stood united. That carried weight.
"Very well," Verin said at last. "Stormcrest Circle takes the Seventh Formation. Windcaller will survey the northern sites. Mistmantle..." He continued assigning territories, but Ryn barely heard him.
They were going to investigate. To see firsthand what the Guild had done to create such wrongness in the world.
Good, Kivith projected, satisfaction radiating through the bond. Better to see than wonder. Better to know than guess.
But through the dragon's eagerness, Ryn caught those deeper currents again. The ancestral memories stirring, warning of patterns that should not be broken. Of skies that should not be divided.
"One more thing," Elder Verin said as the assignments concluded. "These investigations are observation only. Document what you see. Test the resonances if you can do so safely. But do not engage with Guild personnel. Do not interfere with their operations."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the chamber.
"Not yet."
Those two words carried more weight than everything that had come before. Not yet implied that engagement would come. That interference would eventually be necessary. That what they were seeing was not misunderstanding or overreach, but the beginning of something that would require response.
The Storm Court dissolved into smaller groups, riders discussing approaches and sharing what they'd observed. Ryn's Circle gathered around Lysa, who was already sketching approach patterns on a portable chart.
"Dawn departure," she decided. "Come in from the northeast, use the morning thermals for cover. Kael, you and Whisper provide high watch. Nevan and Sitha take middle guard. Ryn, you and Kivith go low for close observation."
"What are we looking for?" Kael asked, nervous energy making him shift from foot to foot.
"Everything," Lysa replied. "How the equipment works. How many people. What they're extracting and where it goes. But especially..." She paused, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "Especially, I want to know if they understand what they're doing. If this is ignorance or intention."
The distinction mattered. Ignorance could be corrected. Intention would require a different kind of response.
As they planned, Ryn noticed the patterns again. The way the eldest riders moved through the chamber, speaking in low voices, their expressions grave. The way dragons outside had gone unusually quiet, as if listening for something human ears couldn't detect.
Change was coming. Even if they didn't understand its shape yet, everyone could feel its approach.
Tomorrow we fly toward answers, Kivith said, picking up on their thoughts.
Tomorrow, Ryn agreed.
But tonight, they would prepare. Check equipment. Study charts. Try to sleep despite the questions multiplying in their mind.
The Guild had wounded the sky itself. Tomorrow, they would learn why.
And perhaps more importantly, they would learn whether those wounds could heal, or whether this was the beginning of something that would forever change the balance between human ambition and natural order.
The storm-crystals continued their uneasy humming as riders filed from the chamber, each carrying orders that might determine the future of the mountain clans.
Whatever came next, it would begin at dawn.
-
to be continued…
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake. All rights reserved.