Page 46 of Fire's Storm
After the others depart through separate passages, Metu remains alone in the hidden chamber, eyes fixed on the carvedimages of The Sundering. His partially shifted form casts monstrous shadows on the ancient walls—wings half-formed from his shoulders, obsidian scales covering much of his upper body.
He doesn't fight the shift. Not here where no one can witness his temporary loss of control.
His mind drifts to a memory he's carried for three centuries—the day that cemented his hatred for Vulcan Aetherion.
They were youths, powers relatively new to them. The assessment challenge was to create a lightning pattern striking specific targets in sequence while maintaining perfect control.
Metu had trained for months, perfecting his precision. His father had drilled him relentlessly, accepting nothing less than perfection. Countless nights spent in isolated practice chambers, working until his scales bled, until he collapsed from exhaustion.
"Control is everything,"his father's voice echoes in his memory."Without control, power is just destruction."
He went first, executing the pattern flawlessly—hitting each target in exact sequence, controlling every electrical arc with disciplined precision. Not a single wasted spark, not a degree of deviation from the prescribed pattern.
The instructors nodded with approval but without excitement. Expected excellence from an expected source. Good little soldier, following orders precisely.
Then came Vulcan's turn.
He approached with casual confidence despite his history of control failures. Rumors whispered he hadn't practiced at all.
His first few strikes were surprisingly accurate—hitting initial targets with unexpected precision. Then came the familiar shift—his excitement building, his control slipping.
Lightning exploded outward, striking everywhere at once—targets, walls, ceiling. Raw power beyond anything Metu could generate, elemental force exceeding academic parameters.Three students were injured, the training arena partially collapsed.
And yet, amid the chaos and destruction, Metu saw the instructors' faces.
Not just disapproval—but awe.
Hidden beneath their official reprimands was unmistakable wonder at Vulcan's raw power, whispered comments about "bloodline potential" despite the disaster.
Metu had executed perfectly and earned polite nods.
Vulcan had failed catastrophically and inspired reverent whispers.
"Control means nothing when measured against power," one instructor murmured to another, not realizing Metu could hear. "He'll learn discipline eventually, but that kind of natural capacity can't be taught."
Metu’s family left the clan and went to Emberhold shortly after that. The injustice burned into Metu's soul—perfect execution dismissed while destructive failure was secretly admired. Three centuries later, the memory still sends obsidian scales rippling across his skin.
A growl builds in his chest, then emerges as a roar that cracks the crystal formations nearest him. His wings extend fully, knocking ancient scrolls from their shelves. Claws gouge deep furrows in the stone floor as he fights for control.
This isn't about him. This isn't about jealousy. This is about protecting the clan.
The mantra feels hollow even as he repeats it. The conspiracy serves a necessary purpose beyond personal motivation—clan protection requiring decisive action. Yet Metu cannot deny the private satisfaction that accompanies public service.
The end justifies the means when survival hangs in the balance—species preservation warranting extreme measures.
At least that's what Metu tells himself as he extinguishes the hidden chamber lights, leaving behind the evidence of his momentary loss of control.
Three days pass with agonizing slowness.
Metu uses the delay productively—analyzing crystal array harmonics, identifying Tempest Bond frequency, calibrating disruption targeting.
The technical work provides a welcome distraction from the roiling emotions beneath his disciplined exterior. His dragon half grows increasingly restless as the operation approaches, demanding action, demanding vindication.
Night brings dreams filled with lightning and vindication. He wakes each morning with scales spread across his entire body, evidence of his dragon half's dominance during sleep. It takes longer each day to regain human form, to force the obsidian scales to recede.
Control is everything. Without control, power is just destruction.
The irony doesn't escape him—using Vulcan's lack of control to discredit him while fighting his own slipping discipline.
