Page 14 of Where Lightning Strikes Twice
“Put her on the table,” she instructs, already gathering supplies, activating equipment I don’t recognize.
I lay Zara down as gently as possible, reluctant to release her even now. “Save her,” I say, the words somewhere between command and plea. “Whatever it costs, whatever you require in return—save her.”
Elena looks up from her preparations, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected steadiness. In this moment of crisis, the fear I glimpsed earlier has vanished, replaced by professional focus and something else—compassion, perhaps.
“I’ll do everything I can,” she promises, moving to examine Zara’s wounds. “But you need to understand—I don’t know if your physiology will respond to our treatments. I’ve never treated a Storm Eagle before.”
“No one has,” I say grimly. “Those who fall in battle, we recover. Those we cannot recover, we do not permit to be taken alive.”
She absorbs this information with a slight nod, then turns her full attention to Zara. Her hands move with precise efficiency, cutting away the blood-soaked bandages, assessing the damage beneath.
“The wound is deep, with significant tissue and nerve damage,” she says. “She’s lost a dangerous amount of blood. I need to start fluids immediately and prepare for surgery.”
I watch as she inserts needles into Zara’s arm, connecting tubes that carry clear liquid from hanging bags. Medical technology we’ve observed but never experienced firsthand.
“Will she fly again?” I ask the question that matters most to any Storm Eagle.
Elena’s hands pause briefly. “I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “But without intervention, she’ll die within hours.”
I nod, appreciating her directness. “Then do what you must.”
As she works, I stand guard by the door, alert for any sound that might indicate discovery. I’ve placed us both in terrible danger—Zara at the mercy of ground-dweller medicine, myself in violation of our most sacred laws. If we’re discovered, death might be the kindest outcome.
“Why did you come to me?” Elena asks as she prepares surgical instruments. “Why risk everything to seek help from an enemy?”
I consider lying, creating some strategic explanation, but exhaustion strips away pretense.
“Because when I saw you during the raid, I recognized something in you. Something different from the others.” I meet her gaze directly. “And because she’s my sister. I would break every law, violate every tradition, to save her.”
Something shifts in Elena’s expression—respect, perhaps, or recognition of a shared value. Whatever calculations she’s making behind those intelligent eyes, she reaches some conclusion that seems to satisfy her.
“I’m going to need your help,” she says. “Your sister’s anatomy is similar to humans’, but with significant differences. You’ll need to guide me through the surgery.”
I step closer to the table where Zara lies unconscious. “Tell me what to do.”
As Elena begins the delicate work of repairing my sister’s shattered wing-arm, I find myself in the unprecedented position of collaborating with a ground-dweller healer. Our enemies, our prey, the beings we’ve dismissed as inferior for generations. Yet here, in this sterile room with Zara’s life hanging in the balance, none of that matters.
Only later will I fully comprehend how this night changes everything—for me, for Elena, for the future of our peoples. For now, there is only the desperate hope that my sister will live to fly again, and the strange sense that I’ve found something I didn’t know I was seeking.
5
ELENA
The midnight quiet of the medical facility wraps around me like a familiar blanket. Most of the staff retired hours ago, but I prefer these solitary shifts. The low hum of equipment, the soft blue glow of monitors, the orderly arrangement of supplies—it’s the closest thing to peace I’ve found since arriving at this frontier outpost.
I check the vitals of our last remaining patient, a young man whose leg was crushed during yesterday’s raid. The bone regeneration therapy is working well; he’ll walk again within weeks. I adjust his medication drip and move to my makeshift lab in the corner of the facility.
My research notes lie spread across the desk—observations on Storm Eagle attack patterns, genetic analyses, tissue samples—a scientific puzzle I can’t stop trying to solve. My fingers absently trace the diagram of wing musculature I sketched from memory. The severed wing Commander Walsh brought me three days ago revealed anatomical adaptations I never imagined possible.
A soft ping from my tablet interrupts my thoughts. A security alert—motion detected at the facility’s rear entrance. Probablyanother stray animal triggering the sensors. It’s happened three times this week already.
I tap the security feed and frown. The camera shows nothing but darkness. Either it’s malfunctioning, or something has deliberately disabled it. My heart rate quickens as I reach for the emergency alarm button beneath my desk.
Before my fingers touch it, the hair on my arms stands on end. An electric charge fills the air, like the moment before lightning strikes. I freeze, instinct warning me not to move.
The rear door swings open silently.
A tall figure steps into the dim light of the medical facility, and my breath catches in my throat. A man—no, not just a man. His presence fills the room, radiating power and tension. He cradles something in his arms, a bundle wrapped in what appears to be a leather cloak.
