Page 22 of Fire's Storm
A miniature thunderstorm forms above my head, lightning striking a nearby crystal formation. It shatters with a crack that reverberates through the medical chamber. Dragons scatter in alarm as crystal shards rain down, some shifting partially in instinctive response to perceived threat.
"Sorry," I mutter as alarm systems activate, emergency containment fields shimmering into existence. My cheeks burn with embarrassment at the loss of control—I, who pride myself on iron discipline in crisis situations, reduced to tantrum-level emotional outbursts.
"Don't apologize."
The deep voice from the doorway sends an electric current racing along my spine before I even turn to look. My body sways toward him automatically, tension immediately easing at his presence.
Vulcan stands with arms crossed over his massive chest, midnight-blue scales rippling beneath skin pulled tight over powerful muscles. His electric blue eyes lock with mine across the chamber. The air charges instantly between us, visible current arcing the distance.
"They're afraid because you're powerful," he continues, his gaze traveling over my body with an intensity that makes the storm energy beneath my skin surge in response. "That's their problem, not yours."
He steps farther into the room, positioning himself between me and the councilor, his larger frame effectively shielding me from the elder dragon's view. The protective stance should irritate me—I've spent my career fighting men who thought I needed protection—but instead, it triggers a wave of relief. For once, I don't have to face every battle alone.
Metu observes our interaction with calculating eyes, attention shifting between us as if cataloging every reaction, every micro-expression, every involuntary response.
"Fascinating response patterns," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Bond progression accelerated beyond typical parameters."
I've never felt more like a laboratory specimen, my most intimate reactions displayed for clinical observation. Anger flares, accompanied by another electrical discharge that sends small lightning bolts dancing across my skin.
"I think," Vulcan states, voice deceptively calm though scales ripple beneath his skin in response to my distress, "the examination is concluded for today."
The statement leaves no room for argument, though Metu’s expression suggests this conversation is far from over. His eyes narrow as he watches Vulcan's hand come to rest on the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit.
"Focus on the energy within you," Vulcan instructs, standing behind me in a relatively isolated section of the Storm Chamber. His massive frame towers over my smaller form, close enough that I feel his heat against my back without actually touching—a proximity that makes concentration nearly impossible.
He smells like ozone and midnight and raw power. Like danger wrapped in barely contained restraint.
"Visualize it gathering in your core, then extending through your arm, to your fingertips."
I try to follow his instructions, concentrating on the strange tingling sensation that's become my constant companion since our first meeting. The feeling intensifies when I focus on it, electrical current becoming more pronounced, gathering as directed in my central body, then flowing outward through my right arm as I extend it toward the practice target—a simple metal rod designed to attract and harmlessly disperse electrical discharges.
Nothing happens.
"I feel it moving," I report with frustration, "but nothing's happening externally."
Performance anxiety. Just what I needed. Can't even make a spark when it counts.
"You're blocking the final release," Vulcan analyzes, his deep voice sending vibrations through my body despite the small space separating us. "Your human instincts resist projecting electricity from your body—it contradicts everything you've been taught about safety, about normal physical limitations."
He's not wrong. Years of firefighter training have ingrained electrical safety protocols into my muscle memory. Deliberately channeling electricity through my body feels fundamentally wrong, dangerous, contrary to survival instincts.
"Try again," he encourages, moving closer until his chest nearly touches my back. "This time, I'll guide the energy flow."
Before I can question his method, his large hands come to rest on my shoulders, fingers wrapping partially around my upper arms. Immediate, intense electricity flows between us at the contact, visible current racing across my skin from his touch, gathering in my chest as heat and energy that demands release.
"Direct it," he instructs, voice dropping lower, rougher as the contact affects him similarly. His breath brushes my ear, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to dowith temperature. "Follow the pathway. Arm, hand, fingertips, target."
The combined energy builds beyond my capacity to contain it, seeking escape with increasing urgency. Following his guidance becomes instinctive, self-preservation rather than conscious choice as I extend my arm, palm facing the target, fingers spread as energy races through my system.
Lightning erupts from my fingertips—not the small sparks of my previous manifestations but a concentrated bolt that strikes the metal rod with precision, the discharge powerful enough to momentarily illuminate the entire section of the training chamber.
The rod glows red-hot at the point of impact, designed conductivity barely sufficient to handle the unexpected power level.
"Holy shit," I gasp, staring at my hand in disbelief as residual electricity dances between my fingers. The discharge should have injured me, should have left burn damage consistent with a lightning strike. Instead, I feel exhilarated, powerful, more alive than I can remember feeling in my exclusively human existence.
"Perfect," Vulcan praises, hands still resting on my shoulders, thumbs tracing small circles against my skin that send fresh electrical currents racing through my system. "Your natural affinity is even stronger than I suspected. Most new manifestations require weeks to achieve directed strikes."
His pride in my accomplishment feels unexpectedly validating, his acknowledgment of my ability unmarred by surprise at female competence—a refreshing contrast to my professional experiences with male colleagues.
