Previously:
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.
IV.
Dawn came too soon and not soon enough.
Ryn had spent the night with the weather charts, studying the ancient wind-paths that led to the Seventh Formation. Sleep, when it finally claimed them, brought dreams of stone singing wrong notes and clouds that moved against nature's grain. Kivith's restlessness had colored every moment, the young dragon's eagerness tangled with ancestral memories that whispered warnings neither of them fully understood.
Now, standing on the morning platform as first light painted the peaks gold and rose, Ryn watched their Flight Circle gather for departure.
"Remember the old wisdom," Lysa said, adjusting the leather straps of her weather-worker's satchel. "We go as witnesses, not participants. The mountain sees all, but speaks only when asked."
She'd been quoting variations of traditional sayings since they'd left the Storm Court. The repetition suggested she needed the comfort of ancient words as much as any of them. Beside her, Therin stretched wings that caught the light like prisms, each crystalline scale a testament to centuries of storms weathered and wisdom earned.
Nevan finished checking his wind-dancer's tools—the curved implements that helped riders read air currents when dragon-sense wasn't enough. "The valley merchants spoke of heavy wagon trains moving west all through yesterday," he said, his tone careful. "Whatever the Guild seeks to accomplish, they pursue it with uncommon urgency."
"How many wagons?" Ryn asked.
"Twelve to the Seventh Formation alone, pulled by double teams." He glanced at Sitha, whose copper scales rippled with unease. "The road-watchers said they moved like people racing against storm-sign. As if time itself was precious."
Kael emerged from the storage chambers, his arms full of memory crystals and recording stones. Still learning the ways of proper scouting, he'd gathered enough equipment for a season-long expedition rather than a morning's observation. Whisper watched her young rider with the patience of a dragon who remembered her own early flights.
"Here," Ryn helped him sort through the collection, keeping only essentials. "Trust what your eyes see and what Whisper feels. The crystals only confirm what we already know to be true."
"Of course. Yes. The old ways first." Kael's nervous energy sparked like summer lightning. His first true scouting flight, and it had to be into the teeth of whatever wrongness the Guild had wrought.
He fears disappointing more than danger, Kivith observed, his mental touch carrying understanding. Young hearts know this weight.
Through their bond, Ryn felt the deeper meaning. Kivith, youngest dragon in their Circle, flew always in the shadow of ancients like Therin. He knew the burden of proving worth among those who measured years in centuries. The kinship with Kael's situation resonated between them.
"The morning thermals call," Lysa announced. "We follow the Crow's Path to the Seeing Stones, then drop through the Valley of Whispers for our final approach."
The air bit cold and clean as they took to the sky. Five dragons, five riders, moving in the organic pattern of long partnership. Not the rigid formations that lowland armies favored, but the fluid dance of those who'd learned to read each other's intentions in the tilt of a wing or shift of weight.
Below them, Stormcrest Holdings stirred to life. Hearth smoke rose from the breakfast fires, and early-working folk moved between the vertical gardens. Life continuing its ancient rhythms while they flew toward something that threatened to shatter those very patterns.
For the first hour, they followed the secret ways known only to weather-workers and scout-riders. The mountain clans had woven a tapestry of aerial paths over generations—merchant routes marked by carved stones, patrol circuits that traced the boundaries, practice runs where younglings learned their wings, and hidden ways that only storm-readers knew. This morning, they used paths that the first riders had found, routes that kept them high above common sight.
The air grew thin as they climbed, each breath requiring more effort. Kael faltered first, his body still learning the changes that came with the bond. Without words, Lysa shifted their pattern, positioning Therin's great bulk to break the worst of the wind. The Circle adjusted like water flowing around stone, each finding their place in the new formation.
Wisdom is knowing when to shelter the learning, Kivith reflected, his thought carrying approval beyond his years. Better to struggle among friends than fail when friendship is distant.
Such insights from one so young always surprised Ryn. Perhaps Kivith, unable to match the older dragons in size or strength, had cultivated understanding as his gift to the Circle.
Two hours into their journey, the signs began.
The old roads, usually empty save for seasonal traders, showed the deep ruts of overloaded wagons. Not the wooden wheels of mountain folk, but metal-rimmed Guild wheels that carved harsh marks in paths worn smooth by generations. Dragon-pairs that should have been flying lazy patrol patterns instead traced the tight circles of active watching. And beneath it all, subtle as a held breath, the wrongness in the very air.
"Do you taste it?" Nevan called, his voice carried on the same winds they rode.
They all did. A resistance in the atmosphere, as if the air itself had developed a grain like wood, and they flew against it. Nothing dangerous—not yet. But to those who'd spent their lives in conversation with wind and weather, it was like hearing a familiar song played in the wrong key.
Like swimming in honey-water, Kivith said, searching for understanding. The air wants to be thick when it should be thin. Wants to hold still when it should dance.
They descended as they neared the disputed lands, using the morning shadows that still filled the deep valleys. Here, far from common flight paths, they could move unseen. The sun hadn't yet found these depths, leaving them in the blue-grey light that comes before true day.
"There," Lysa pointed with a weather-reader's staff.
The Seventh Formation should have risen from the valley floor like the mountain's own fingers, stone shaped by wind and storm into natural beauty. Instead, Ryn saw wounds. Geometric cuts where the living rock had been carved away, replaced by structures that caught the light wrong, that made the eye want to look away.
They landed on the Watching Ridge, the place where storm-readers had observed weather patterns since before the clans had names. Close enough to see truth, far enough to avoid being seen in turn. As the dragons settled, Ryn drew out their far-sight glass, a crystal ground by patient hands to bring distant things near.
What they saw made their heart sink like stone in deep water.
The Guild hadn't simply claimed the Formation—they'd remade it. Where storm-crystals had grown over countless turnings of seasons, shaped by lightning and rain into perfect harmony, now stood constructions of metal and captured crystal. The formations that should have sung with one voice had been broken apart, rearranged into patterns that nature never intended.
"They're not mining," Ryn breathed. "They're... remaking. Like a child taking apart a water-clock to see how it works."
Workers moved among the structures with purpose. Not the careful steps of those who respected power, but the confident stride of people who believed they'd mastered something profound. They wore Guild colors with badges of rank—trained crafters, not common laborers.
One figure stood apart, directing the work with gestures that spoke of authority. Even at this distance, Ryn could read the satisfaction in their bearing. This wasn't greed or desperation at work. This was pride. Achievement. They believed they were creating something wonderful.
"Look how they've arranged the crystals," Lysa said softly, her own far-sight trained on the constructions. "They mimic the growth patterns, but..."
But wrong. Where nature created spirals that danced with the wind, the Guild imposed straight lines. Where crystals should flow together like water finding its path, these were separated into individual cases. Order imposed on what should be wild.
"They're trying to tame it," Nevan said, and his voice carried the horror of understanding. "Like putting a river in a pipe."
Cannot cage the storm-children, Kivith projected, distress coloring his thoughts. Cannot make lightning march in rows like wheat. They build pretty prisons for power that must run free.
Through their bond, Ryn felt the dragon's deeper knowledge. This wasn't mere foolishness. It was fundamental misunderstanding of how weather magic lived and breathed. The Guild saw reservoirs where they should see rivers. Saw tools where they should see partners.
"The memory crystals are capturing all of this," Kael said, his voice steadier now that he had work to focus on. The crystals in his hands glowed softly as they drank in images of what they witnessed.
More workers emerged from a wooden shelter, carrying crates marked with Guild symbols. As they opened them, Ryn saw more crystals, each cut to identical size and shape. Not grown but carved. Not unique but uniform. Ready to be placed in the expanding pattern.
"They mean to make more," Lysa observed. "This is just the beginning."
A team with measuring cords and marking stones began working beyond the current construction, laying out plans for expansion. Whatever they intended here, they were far from finished.
The rumble of wagon wheels on stone drew their attention eastward. Three more heavy loads approached, the wheels groaning protest at the weight they carried. Guards rode alongside—not many, but alert. They valued what they transported.
"Remember the wisdom," Lysa said again, though her knuckles had gone white where she gripped her staff. "We witness. We remember. We do not act in haste."
They watched as morning grew toward noon, memorizing every detail. The precision of the work. The confidence of the crafters. The way they handled storm-charged crystals with tools that kept the power at bay, showing they understood danger even if they missed the deeper truth.
Most telling was what was absent. No weather-workers among them. No one who could hear how the crystals cried out in their new arrangements. No one who could feel the growing wrongness in the wind itself.
They were like tone-deaf musicians trying to play a symphony, proud of the noise they made.
"Fresh workers arriving," Nevan observed.
Indeed, new Guild folk appeared on the eastern road, bright-faced and eager. Those who'd worked through the night gathered their belongings with the satisfied air of those who'd accomplished much. The changing of workers proceeded smoothly—reports given, tasks handed over, the work continuing without pause.
"How long have they labored without rest?" Kael wondered.
Too long, by the progress made. This wasn't sudden inspiration but sustained effort. Planned. Supported. Intended to last.
Weather gathers, Kivith announced suddenly, his great head turning westward.
Ryn followed his gaze and felt ice in their veins. Clouds were building on the horizon—not unusual in itself, but the pattern was wrong. The storm grew too fast, pulling water from air that shouldn't hold enough to feed such hunger. And its path...
"It comes here," Lysa said, understanding sharpening her voice.
Of course it did. Storms had grounded through the Seventh Formation for time beyond memory, following paths that wind and water had carved through repetition. But those paths assumed the natural crystal arrangements, not this maze of angles and edges the Guild had built.
"They don't know," Kael said, young voice cracking with the weight of realization. "They can't see what approaches."
"We should warn them," Ryn said, already half-rising.
Lysa's weathered hand on their shoulder held them still. "The old laws bind us. We observe. We don't interfere."
"But—"
"They have their own weather-seers," she said, though doubt threaded through her words. "Surely they've prepared for storms."
Through the far-sight glass, Ryn watched the Guild workers continue their tasks, unaware of the danger building like a held breath above them. The storm would arrive before the sun reached its peak. When it tried to ground through those unnatural patterns...
Storm expects the old paths, Kivith projected, certainty in his mental voice. Will find only closed doors and strange passages. Will rage. Will tear. Will break what binds it.
They needed to return. To carry word to those with authority to act before—
A bell rang in the valley below. Clear and bronze, its voice carrying to the ridges. Workers looked up from their tasks, then began moving with practiced purpose toward the shelters. They had seen the storm coming.
Relief flooded through Ryn until they saw what the Guild's storm-wisdom actually meant.
Workers emerged with more equipment—metal rods topped with crystal, arrangements designed to catch lightning and channel it safely away. They began placing these around their constructions, clearly believing they were creating protection.
"By the ancient winds," Lysa breathed.
They weren't preparing to cease their work and shelter. They were preparing to harness the storm. To force its power through their patterns. To make it serve their purpose.
"We leave," Lysa announced, her voice carrying the weight of command. "Now."
But as their Flight Circle prepared for sky, Ryn couldn't forget the image of those confident workers placing their lightning catchers. They truly believed their craft could contain forces that had shaped these mountains before the first dragon chose to carry a human. Believed their patterns could improve on nature's design.
Pride, Ryn thought. The dangerous kind that makes one deaf to wisdom.
As they took to the air, flying hard for home, the storm continued to build. Soon it would test the Guild's patterns. And when those patterns failed to provide the ancient paths the storm expected...
Change comes whether welcomed or not, Kivith said, his young voice carrying echoes of ancestral knowing. We have seen the egg. Soon comes the hatching.
They flew faster, racing to carry word of what they'd witnessed. Racing to find someone who could prevent what felt as inevitable as sunrise.
Behind them, the Seventh Formation waited under its geometric cage. The Guild's rigid order against the storm's wild need.
The mountain itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see which would break first.
-
to be continued…
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake. All rights reserved.