Page 3 of Fire's Storm
The Fire Clan of Emberhold extends this formal announcement regarding the Recognition Ceremony of the Guardian Bond between Raak Stormclaw and his mate within our clan.
The Ancestral Flame Protocol has begun. We wish to draw the attention of all dragonkind to the existence of a second bond—theTempest Bond—which may emerge among any clan, without limitation.
We respectfully request that any who hold knowledge or insight concerning this bond make their way to Emberhold at the earliest opportunity.
The letter is a knife disguised as an invitation.
A growl rumbles up from my chest, low and thunderous. My wings twitch, scattering embers into the night air.
Tempest.The word stings like an old scar. It was the name they branded me with when they cast me out—volatile, unstable, dangerous. A storm given flesh. Too chaotic to be trusted.
And now? Now Emberhold dares to dress the word in reverence, to summon all dragonkind to honor the very chaos they damned me for.
My claws curl tighter.
“They cast me out for being the storm,” I snarl to the empty sky, “and now they would worship it.”
Fire licks at my teeth as I pace the rocky edge of my exile. Rage boils hotter than my breath, sharper than their decree. The truth sears through me: when the tempest boremyname, it was shame. Now that it serves them, it is honor.
That is the fury that burns in me—an old wound torn open, raw once more.
The blood-heat rises within me, a surge of molten rage that starts in my core and radiates outward. My storm energy surges toward the atmosphere, chaotic and wild, seeking release without direction or purpose. Blue-white scales erupt beneath my skin in the distinctive storm pattern unique to my lineage—jagged lightning bolts that trace my spine, forked branches that spread across my shoulders.
Dragon fire erupts from my clenched fists, spraying outward in an arc of destruction that ignites another section of forest. The fire responds to my emotions rather than my will—always has, always fucking will. Lightning follows, striking from clear skies to ignite several trees simultaneously as my control slips further.
"FUCK!"
My roar splits the air, more dragon than human. Trees actually bend away from the force of it, not just from the sound but from the concussive wave of atmospheric pressure thataccompanies my fury. The flames pulse in synchronization with my heartbeat, expanding outward in a circular blast that topples several massive pines. Storm clouds form directly overhead, responding to my emotional state rather than natural weather patterns.
This is why they sent me away. Why they keep me on the fringes of dragon territory like an embarrassing secret. My power had always been chaos incarnate—storm and lightning and destructive force—but in the presence of others, it became truly dangerous.
I inhale deeply, attempting to center myself with techniques taught since hatchlinghood. Control your breath, control your flame. The mantra worked for every other dragon in clan history. Never for me. The superheated air scorches my lungs, but I welcome the burn. Physical pain provides focus, something to concentrate on besides the rage and bitterness that fuel this wildfire.
I should have contained this blaze hours ago, but it refuses to obey me—almost as if it has a mind of its own. I extend my hands, channeling my will into the surrounding inferno, attempting to draw it back, to reduce its intensity.
For a moment, the flames seem to respond, curling toward my outstretched palms like obedient pets. Then they rebel, splitting into multiple fronts that race away from me in different directions. My control shatters as completely as it did when I accidentally destroyed the ceremonial gathering hall as a juvenile, the event that sealed my fate as the clan outcast.
Something's different this time, though. The fire isn't just chaotic—it's purposeful. The realization hits me suddenly, stopping my breath in my lungs.
The fire is searching for something. For someone.
That's impossible. Fire doesn't search. It doesn't have a purpose beyond consumption. Even dragonfire, responsive to its creator's will, doesn't act independently.
Yet this fire moves with deliberate patterns. It forms spirals, helices, geometric shapes that echo knowledge from ancient texts I smuggled out when I was exiled. I'd been fascinated by forgotten lore even as a hatchling, spending more time in the forbidden archives than the training grounds. That scholarly bent didn't save me when my control slipped, but the texts I managed to take have been my only companions for umpteen years.
My fingers trace the fragile pages of my oldest volume in my mind, recalling the precise wording of passages I've read thousands of times during my isolation.When the Tempest seeks its other half, the elements themselves will serve as messengers, seeking completion of what was sundered.
I shake off the academic thought, another peculiarity that made me an outsider among dragons who valued physical prowess over intellectual pursuits. The flames stretch toward the west, where human firefighters have established their defensive line. I can sense them—dozens of mortals attempting to control what can't be controlled, to fight what they don't understand.
The fire reaches for them hungrily, almost eagerly, though I attempt to pull it back.
"STOP!" I command, voice layered with dragon resonance that should bend any flame to my will.
For the first time in my life, my fire doesn't just ignore me—it actively defies me. The flames accelerate toward the human line, splitting into precise formations that shouldn't be possible without conscious direction.
Something is very wrong here. Very fucking wrong.
A shape moves through the wall of fire ahead.
