Page 33 of Fire's Storm
With her words, the invisible chain of protocol snaps taut, pulling me forward. Each step toward the platform center intensifies the electricity around me. Visible currents extend outward from my skin, seeking connection like desperate fingers. The ceremonial stone beneath my boots grows hot, leaving smoking footprints in my wake.
Phoenix approaches from the opposite side, her movements precise and measured. She walks like a warrior, not a human—balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to react. The copper fire of her hair seems to burn brighter under the crystal-amplified light pouring through the amphitheater's open ceiling.
As the distance between us narrows to twenty feet, electrical current arcs visibly between our bodies—blue-white energybridging the gap without conscious direction. The crowd's collective intake of breath echoes through the space.
I want to touch her. Need to touch her. My hands ache with the effort of remaining at my sides. Protocol demands separation during this approach. I meet her eyes instead, finding cool assessment already in progress. She scans the council members, the audience, the architecture of the space itself—gathering data, formulating strategy. This is what drew me to her first—not just her beauty, but the fierce intelligence behind it.
"I invoke the Right of Challenge."
Councilor Metu’s voice cuts through the humming tension. He stands from his ceremonial seat, obsidian black scales visible against ceremonial white robes. He looks like a corpse dressed for burial—pale garment, dead eyes.
"The bond presented for confirmation is fundamentally flawed," he continues, voice carrying throughout the amphitheater, "resting on two disqualifying factors: Vulcan Aetherion’s documented history of destructive instability and the female's contaminated human blood."
Heat surges through my system. Actual flames erupt between my clenched fingers. The temperature around me spikes so dramatically that the air shimmers. How dare he call her contaminated. How fucking dare he.
Phoenix's steadying presence flows into me. No emotional message, just pure calm—her firefighter's discipline tamping down my volcanic rage. She doesn't take her eyes off Metu, assessing him like she would a volatile fire front.
He wants you angry. Don't give him what he wants.
Her thought forms in my mind with surprising clarity, our mental connection strengthening in response to the threat.
Elder Nyra raises a scaled hand, silencing the murmurs rippling through the assembled witnesses. "The Right ofChallenge is acknowledged," she pronounces, amber eyes shifting between Metu and us. "The Trial of Storms will determine validity through demonstration rather than debate."
I catch Metu’s thin smile. The smug satisfaction in it confirms my suspicion—the challenge wasn't meant to prevent the trial but to elevate its difficulty. The bastard doesn't want to block our attempt. He wants us to fail spectacularly, publicly.
"Prepare the Vortex of Discord," Elder Nyra commands.
Four council members positioned around the central platform extend their clawed hands simultaneously. The air between Phoenix and me distorts, thickens. Power flows visibly from the elders' hands—red, black, silver, and gold energy streams converging at the center point.
The magic collides with a soundless impact that I feel in my bones. Within seconds, a miniature tempest forms—chaotic winds spiraling upward, unpredictable lightning arcing between layers. The vortex stands seven feet tall, spinning with enough force to tear flesh from bone. Only the elders' continuous control prevents it from expanding and destroying everything in the amphitheater.
"The Confirmation Trial requires harmony from chaos," Nyra announces formally. "Demonstrate your bond's strength by transforming discord into balance."
I study the chaotic vortex, drawing on centuries of storm manipulation experience. The energy structure appears deliberately unstable—wild lightning following no predictable sequence, wind currents shifting direction without warning, power fluctuations designed to resist external control.
Phoenix's eyes narrow as she conducts her own assessment. Her gaze tracks energy movements with firefighter precision, identifying structural weaknesses, formulating a strategy. Without speaking, we move simultaneously toward oppositesides of the vortex, establishing balance points around the chaotic energy.
I extend my hands toward the swirling tempest. The familiar sensation of drawing power rushes through me—heat gathering in my core, electricity flooding my limbs, storm energy surging from that deep well inside that's always been too vast, too dangerous to fully tap.
My first energy pulse enters the vortex with precision born from centuries of practice. I seek the eye where control can be established, the still center point of any storm.
The vortex absorbs my power and grows more violent.
It expands outward, lightning strikes intensifying, wind velocity accelerating. Across the platform, Phoenix's precisely structured energy formations shatter upon contact with the chaotic system. Her control techniques prove insufficient against the deliberately destabilized power.
The crowd's expectant silence shifts to disappointed murmurs. I see Metu’s triumphant expression, the slight forward tilt of his body as he anticipates our failure. Sweat pours down my back, soaking through my ceremonial tunic. My breathing comes faster, harder. Centuries of solitary practice proving ineffective. Individual mastery demonstrating inadequacy. Personal power showing insufficiency.
Desperation claws at my throat. I increase power output, pushing more raw energy into the vortex. It only feeds the chaos, making the tempest spin faster, strike harder, expand wider.
Then Phoenix's essence reaches me with unexpected clarity.
This isn't working. We're fighting separately, not together.
I withdraw my energy from the vortex, turning fully toward her despite protocol demanding continued focus on the trial challenge. Our eyes lock across the swirling chaos between us. Physical distance means nothing as our bond connectionstrengthens—emotional link deepening to cognitive sharing, energetic alignment expanding to mental synchronization.
Let me guide you.Her mental voice carries the same steady authority she uses with her firefighting team.Trust me.
Trust. Such a simple word for something I've never done. Years of existence, and I've never relinquished control to another being—my power too dangerous, my nature too volatile, my abilities too destructive for others to direct.
