Page 57 of Fire's Storm
The implications ripple instantly through the witnesses. Whispers spread as they grasp the potential—uses that go far beyond this demonstration, applications that extend well past display into practical reality.
Metu steps back from the barrier, rage briefly flashing across his features before controlled neutrality returns.
Suddenly, from the edge of the gathering, a sharp crack echoes through the courtyard. A projectile streaks toward us—fast, deadly, aimed directly at my chest.
Time seems to slow. My body tenses, preparing for impact. But before I can react, Vulcan moves with blinding speed.
His massive body blocks mine. A roar of pain and rage erupts from his chest as the projectile strikes him instead of me. Blue-black blood splatters across the pristine stone floor.
"Vulcan!" My scream tears from my throat as he staggers, clutching his shoulder where a crystalline dart protrudes, its shaft glowing with sickly green energy.
Chaos erupts in the courtyard. Dragons scatter in panic. Guards rush toward the source of the attack. Raak bellows orders, his military training taking over instantly.
But I'm focused only on Vulcan, who drops to one knee, his face contorted in pain. His agony slams into my mind.
"Poison," he gasps, his eyes meeting mine with grim understanding. "Dragon-specific. Designed to disrupt... our bond."
Something snaps inside me. Something primal, protective, and utterly inhuman.
The thought that fills me isn't words but raw, primal instinct. My vision narrows, focusing only on him, on the blood seeping from his wound. Everything else—the crowd, the sanctuary, the world—fades away. There is only Vulcan. Only us.
My vision sharpens, the world suddenly crystal clear. I can see every detail, sense every energy signature in the courtyard. I feel the scales rippling across my skin, spreading down my arms, across my shoulders, along my spine.
"Get back," I order the gathering crowd, my voice carrying a harmonics I've never heard before. "ALL OF YOU. NOW."
The air around me crackles with visible electricity, blue-white current forming a cocoon around Vulcan and me. Above us, our carefully controlled weather system transforms, responding to my rage—clouds darkening to near-black,lightning turning from silver-blue to white-hot, wind beginning to howl in tight, controlled spirals.
My firefighter training kicks in automatically. Assess the threat. Secure the perimeter. Stabilize the victim. Treat for shock.
Even as inhuman power courses through my veins, my mind falls into the familiar patterns of emergency response. I mentally calculate evacuation routes, identify potential secondary threats, estimate response times for medical intervention. The human part of me—the captain who never lost a crew member—uses the structure of procedure to channel the wild dragon energy surging through my body.
"Phoenix." Vulcan's voice is strained but steady. "Control. Don't lose... what we've proven."
His words penetrate my rage. He's right. This is exactly what they want—to provoke another apparent loss of control. To validate their claims that we're dangerous, unpredictable, unworthy of trust.
I take a deep breath, fighting for balance between the burning need to protect and the disciplined focus needed to maintain control.
"Kellamir!" I shout, scanning the crowd for the scholarly dragon. "Antidote! NOW!"
The auburn-haired dragon pushes through the crowd, his expression grim. "Bringing it! Hold the poison in place if you can!"
Understanding flashes between Vulcan and me. I place my hands on either side of the crystalline dart, focusing my electrical field to contain the poison's spread. The energy forms a visible barrier within his body, a blue-white line halting the sickly green progression through his veins.
Kellamir arrives, vial in hand. "Extract the dart while I prepare the counteragent," he instructs, his scholarly demeanor replaced by emergency focus.
With steady hands, I grasp the dart, careful not to disrupt my electrical containment field. One swift pull removes it from Vulcan's shoulder, bringing a fresh gush of blue-black blood and a barely suppressed growl of pain.
Kellamir applies the antidote directly to the wound, the liquid sizzling as it contacts both blood and my electrical field. "The electrical containment was... inspired," he murmurs. "You likely saved his life. The poison was designed to travel straight to the heart."
Vulcan's eyes meet mine, pain evident but consciousness clear. "Knew you'd save me, female," he manages, the ghost of a smile touching his lips despite the obvious agony.
Meanwhile, Raak's security team has apprehended someone at the courtyard's edge—a younger dragon with scales the color of ash, wearing the insignia of Metu's security division.
"Take him to isolation," Raak orders, silver eyes cold with fury. "Full protocol. No contact with anyone until I personally authorize it."
Blaze strides to the center of the courtyard, his golden eyes blazing with barely contained rage. "This emergency session is now adjourned," he announces, voice carrying to every corner. "The council will convene immediately. Attempted assassination of a bonded pair is an act of treason against the clan itself."
Metu's face has gone carefully blank, though I note the slight tremor in his hands—fear rather than outrage at the attack. Sarla has already disappeared from the gathering, conspicuously absent following the violence.
