Ashwind huffed softly, her nostrils flaring as Rhiannon ran a hand along her neck. The great horse shifted, hooves sinking into the mossy ground. Growing more restless and uneasy as evening fell, Rhiannon's skin prickled as she peered into the dark corners beyond the fire's glow. Her little sanctuary beneath the banyans was quiet—too quiet.

Nowhere to be seen was her supposed guardian-slash-minder, but she knew better than to call out for the Shy.

"Easy, girl," she murmured to the horse, brushing out Ashwind's mane with her fingers. "It's nothing. Just nerves."

But her own heart was tapping a rapid rhythm in her chest. She could feel it, the faintest tremor of a presence wafting through the air. Was that the whisper of a breeze or a breath? Something was out there, watching from beyond the trees.

Rhiannon eased away from the fire, her movements growing more cautious. She approached the edge of the valley where it led into the woods, squinting into the gloom.

"Hey, Shy… person?" she whispered, not expecting an answer. "You out there? I have a feeling we're not alone anymore."

There was rustling in the undergrowth, followed by the glint of a metal-tipped spear, then the Shy scout darted into view, No taller than her calf, his slim frame coiled tight, ready for a confrontation.

"You sensed it too?" she asked under her breath.

Alvon gave a curt nod, his hand already resting on the shard affixed to his weapon. "Someone's coming. But they're... not human."

The leaves and vines rustled again, this time suggesting creatures much larger than the scout.

Instinctively, Rhiannon's hand went to her belt. Before she could draw either a shard or weapon, their visitors emerged from the shadows.

Three figures stepped forward, the tallest barely coming up to Rhiannon's hip. Their scales glimmered where they caught the firelight, their eyes flashing amber around slitted pupils. Leading them was a regal-looking kobold, staff in hand, who walked up to the human calmly but without hesitation.

Rhiannon blinked, her tension easing by a hair. She relaxed her stance, studying the kobolds with wary curiosity. She felt out of place, towering over everyone else in the clearing save for the horse snorting nervously behind her.

The kobold spoke carefully, elaborating on her words with graceful gestures to help bridge understanding. Alvon replied in rough kobold-speech, cobbling together meaning from the scraps of phrases Vikka and her kin had taught him. The words flowed between them in a halting, guarded exchange.

Alvon used his whole body to approximate how kobolds communicate, straining from the exertion. "Her name is… Mirys," he panted. "They know Vikka, our kobold ally."

Rhiannon's fingers, which had been reaching for her dagger, eased away from the hilt. She took in the scene carefully. The other kobold behind Mirys stood slightly shorter but thicker-set, his spear angled protectively to shield his mate. Behind both adults, a much smaller shape peeked out—a kobold child, only knee-high to her, his delicate scales iridescent as lit by the moon and fire.

The two larger kobolds relaxed as they interacted with the Shy. But the child's tail and ears kept twitching with restless energy. His big, shiny eyes took up most of his rounded face, staring intently at the big human.

Left out of the conversation, Rhiannon looked around, feeling aimless. Mindful of how her towering frame may set them on edge, she carefully knelt then sat on her feet. Remembering the old folk tales about how these creatures were attracted to shiny objects, she dug into her pouch and drew out a few items she figured may catch their eye: a handful of gold and silver coins, the key to her bedroom, several pieces of jewelry, and a sliver of arclith that Veyran had stowed in her bag as a backup. She gently laid them out on her hands in front of her lap.

The littlest kobold's tongue flicked in and out as he sniffed the air, his gaze settling on the trinkets. He crept forward on dainty claws, fascinated by the offerings.

Rhiannon smiled despite herself. "Hello, little one," she murmured softly, holding out one of her earrings, glancing at Alvon for a name.

"Nisik," the Shy scout supplied.

"Nice to meet you, Nisik. Want to play with my baubles? How I wish I knew how to speak even just a bit of your language…"

The kobold child eagerly stepped closer but ignored the jewelry entirely. Instead, his little fingers reached out for the arclith, still cradled in Rhiannon's other palm.

"Oh, be careful with that! I'm not sure how it works with kobo—" Rhiannon put her hand on the soft-scaled claw just as it touched the shard.

The moment their skin and scales made contact, a pulse of warmth surged through them both.

Rhiannon gasped, feeling a sudden rush of... raw delight... poking into her mind. She blinked, her vision swimming for a moment. Then she heard it as clear as a bell.

Hi! Friend?

The words weren't spoken, but bubbled into her thoughts with happy enthusiasm.

Rhiannon found herself gawking at Nisik. He chirped and chattered excitedly, clearly realizing the same thing, his small body practically vibrating with the wonder of the moment.

This is so cool! I've never talked to a hoo-man before!

"I… I can hear him… He's in my head!" Rhiannon babbled, one emotional beat away from laughing hysterically. She looked over at Alvon, who was watching with furrowed brows, clearly trying to puzzle out what had just happened.

The other kobold, who had been silent so far, surged forward, teeth and claws bared in alarm. But Mirys raised a hand, her voice measured, cutting through the tension.

"Keep calm, Rukrin. It… isn't a bond of control," Mirys explained, eyes darting to the Shy then the human. "Neither dominates the other. They are... sharing."

Still half-stunned, Rhiannon crouched lower, letting Nisik's small, curious hands patter over the shard and her fingers. She could feel it—the thread binding her to the eager kobold hatchling. She could sense his emotions, the stray thoughts he didn't mind sharing, even his rapid little heartbeat.

Mirys nodded her head. "This is a sign."

Alvon translated best he could as Mirys continued: "She says the Veilwoods drew her here to us. She thought we were lost, but now believes we were meant to… connect."

Rhiannon's mouth was dry. She sank deeper into the moss, resting her hand gently on Nisik's shoulder, soothed by the pulse of his bright, open mind dancing against hers.

She looked up, meeting Mirys's steady gaze. "Tell your mother," she said directly to Nisik. "That we'd welcome your family's company."

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Rhiannon then realized: she might have ended up here not to serve as bait, but as a bridge. This wondrous link to the innocent kobold stirred something new in her, beyond even her budding grasp of the arcane.

Alvon's brow knitted tighter and he threw up his arms. "This… complicates things," he muttered, massaging his temples.

As the night deepened, the strange little circle drew closer, a human and her mare, a Sunshy, and three kobolds, forging more bonds in the heart of the Veilwoods.

The first pale wash of morning light started peeking out from where the river waters fed the horizon, but the group of Shy, kobolds, plus one human and donkey, were already fully awake and bustling.

Mara perched on Garrett's shoulder, her eyes scanning across the different teams at work, assessing every aspect of the preparations. She and Vikka decided on assigning at least one kobold to each crew, helping speed up any tasks that needed a bit more heft than a few Shy could easily muster.

The cave mouth flickered with shard-light as the Sunbraves checked the charge levels of their arclith-enhanced gear. The gifted tamers among the Shy circulated around their new companions, checking harnesses and giving last minute crash courses on commands and maneuvers to the menagerie of mounts. River toads croaked while being fitted for saddles, snapping their tongues at the flies attracted to the food stores. Bluejays flitted around, helping tug knots tight and affording a literal bird's-eye view to the lookouts. A pair of squirrels were adding their nut hoards to the baskets.

Garret finished loading up Gertie the donkey, making sure every strap was secure. The sturdy beast stood patiently as Shy darted up and down its flanks, tying on baskets and bundles of gear, food, water skins, and medicine. The smallest Shy children were carefully secured inside the newly-padded interior of the expedition riverboat slung across Gertie's back. Two Shy toddlers peeked out over the rim, eyes shining as they clutched each other, marveling at how high up they were. At the prow of the vessel, their nurse Eryl was strapped onto her own faithful mount, Nib the mouse. The easygoing rodent could quickly scurry across the length of the boat and donkey, conveying the peg-legged Shy to wherever she was most needed, faster than even those with both legs.

Mara called out to the assembled Sunbraves, handing out a few extra shards and final reminders to the warriors. "Those on fast mounts should serve as forward scouts. Those who can keep pace with the donkey will be our flankers. Slower mounts will be our rearguards. For the unmounted, partner up with a kobold and don't be shy to ask them to lift you up if necessary."

Brynnal added to the directives. "Don't be stingy with your shard charges, there's plenty more where they came from! Right, Veyran?" he asked, looking up at the vessel strapped to the beast's side.

The Deepshy leaned out from his tented corner in the river-turned-donkeyboat, looking down from the edge to reply to the Shy on the ground.

"No, no, no! We need to be reasonable about our arclith use. It's not an infinite resource!"

To emphasize his point, he draped a blanket and sat down on top of the lode, which had been stowed inside his tent.

"Fine, Deepshy! We'll try to save it for when we're really in a bind," Brynnal shouted back up at the tent, whose opening was slowly being laced up closed.

"Sunbraves, we all move steadily together. Avoid disturbing the undergrowth as much as possible. And keep track of each other!" Brynnal bellowed.

Vikka moved among her kin one by one, checking on how they were getting along with their Shy teams as she passed. Uiska took it upon himself to do a circuit of all the new mounts, reassuring them that the Shy would take care of them and let them choose to go free if they wanted at the culmination of the journey.

Up on a branch, Callan was working his hands over the glossy plumage of a blue jay, buckling extra spears and quivers to the parts of its harness he could easily reach. The bird shifted impatiently, looking down curiously at the Shy scurrying below. Sunna leaned against a river toad, its damp, warty skin shining back the light from the shard in its new saddle.

From the riverbank, Jerrik watched his sleek catfish mount weave through the shallow eddies, its dorsal fin cutting smooth lines in the water. He called it back ashore to loop reins around its two nasal whiskers. Once they moved, he'd parallel the main group from the water, scouting the banks until they reconnected at the rest stop.

Sylven crossed briskly to Mara's side. "We'll have Callan and Niva on their jays leading the way forward, then Brynnal and Sunna with Vikka and the kobolds bringing up the rear," he reported. "If anything moves ahead or behind us, we'll know. Jerrik says he'll keep a lookout from the river."

"Stay sharp," Mara charged him. "I want you and Uiska circulating, helping to keep spirits up."

Sylven's gaze swept across the group: the mounted scouts, the kobold-led clusters, Garret guiding the donkey's gentle stride.

"I'll keep Gertie moving at the pace you set," the human reassured them. "And keep an eye out for stragglers."

Callan, perched on his jay, gave him a thumbs-up; Sunna flashed a quick grin from where she sat atop her toad, the saddle pivoting to give her a 180 degree view of their rear. Jerrik was already at the riverbank, whistling his readiness as he tugged on his watertight frogskin suit before straddling his catfish.

Mara stood up on the leather shoulder pad the Shy sewed onto Garret's shirt, hooking her feet into the loops stitched into the material. "Positions!" she called out.

Sylven slipped back onto Uiksa, their eyes and whiskers trained on the veil of trees ahead.

With a glance at the lightening sky, Mara pointed north. "Let's move out!"

Griff cursed, shoving a branch aside as its prickly leaves raked across his arm. The undergrowth snagged at his worn boots as he trudged forward.

Behind him, three Greyhold guards clambered awkwardly over a fallen log, grumbling under their breath about blisters and rations.

"I thought you said they were heading upstream," one snapped, wiping sweat from his brow. "We should've caught a whiff of them by now."

"They were," Griff growled, scowling at the faint traces along the forest floor. "See the prints? They obviously rode the horse up to this point."

Another guard snorted. "Those prints look at least a couple days old, Griff. You sure you're reading this right? Or are your eyes going along with your mind?"

Griff shot him a withering glare, his fingers twitching toward his knife hilt. "Insult me again, and your gut won't get back to Greyhold in one piece," he snarled.

The other men fell quiet. Truth was, the signs were unclear, the tracks shallow and muddied up. Still, something tugged at Griff's gut.

By midday, the small band stumbled upon the remains of a small, abandoned camp. There was a pile of ashes long gone cold, along with the lingering smell of horse dung.

One of Ruth's men crouched, poking at the remnants. "The overseer… I mean Rhiannon…" he muttered. "She was here."

Griff's lip curled. "Left in a hurry," he guessed. His eyes swept north, up the rising slope toward the cliffs. "Looks like they may have climbed higher."

It took them the rest of the afternoon to navigate the rough path leading up to the cave— slipping on damp rocks, scrambling over narrow ledges. More than once, either a piece of gear or one of the men took a tumble back down, forcing them to restart the struggle upwards.

By the time they reached the mouth of the cave, the sun hung low and heavy behind the treetops, casting the cliffs into long shadow.

Griff halted at the entrance, untrimmed nails digging into his palms as he surveyed the scene. "They were here," he insisted. "Look at the broken-up earth, all the little bits and scraps tossed about." He crouched, clawing at the Shy's miniscule leavings, until he picked up the heavier tracks left by the donkey's hooves. "But we missed them… again!"

He straightened up, cracking his knuckles. "We'll camp here for the night, then follow their trail at dawn." His eyes glinted under his brows, a predator's patience in his gaze. "They can't keep running forever."

Wyatt hopped down from the wagon, landing hard on the dirt. The old farmer tipped his hat, and with a snap of his reins the mule cart creaked onward, leaving the boy standing alone by the side of the Grey Road.

He shifted his pack, freshly loaded from his quick stop at home with spare rations, a flask of water, and his father's old knife. The note he'd left on the kitchen table had been scrawled in haste, little more than Left Greyhold, don't worry, but there was no need for a longer explanation.

Now, the road bent away from the familiar farmlands, veering toward the river where the old stone bridge crossed. Wyatt trudged on, grateful for the ride shaving hours off his journey, but feeling the distance weighing more heavily with each step. This was the farthest he had ever been from home.

Dusk was falling as he reached the riverbank, painting the water in smudged streaks of gold and violet. He got his bearings, eyes narrowing at the ground near the bridge, noting the trail of hoof prints leading upstream. As he followed the trail to what appeared to be a dismantled camp, a heavy sense of foreboding urged him to more closely examine the scuffed footprints marking the area.

Wyatt traced a finger along the telltale imprint of Rhiannon's distinct boot soles, with the starburst design he'd often glimpsed on the ground whenever she'd paced the Greyhold yard. Nearby were tiny, pointy-toed impressions that could only belong to Veyran.

But it wasn't just the footprints that told the story of what had happened. Torn tent fabric, the splintered remains of a crate or stool, littered the reeds along the banks. And half-buried in the mud was a Greyhold guard's armband, its clasp snapped, the fabric smeared with blood.

Wyatt's breath hitched in his throat, If the guards had turned on the overseer here—and he hadn't noticed them returning to Greyhold—then they could still be somewhere around the woods. That meant his father, the Shy, the kobolds… they might be their next target.

A cold knot twisted in his gut. This was no longer just about getting help for Greyhold anymore. This was about warning those he cared for in time—maybe even saving them.

Wyatt rose, tightening the straps on his pack with shaking fingers. Without a backward glance, he kept following the broken trail deep into the gathering dusk, his mind fixed on one thought: I have to reach them before it's too late.

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