Page 66 of Fire's Storm
"This confirms what we've suspected," a silver-scaled elder says, tapping a clawed finger against the disruption device. "The traditionalist faction has moved beyond political opposition to active subversion."
I scan the council chamber, suddenly noticing what I should have seen immediately. "Where are they?"
All heads turn toward the empty section of the chamber—a conspicuous vacancy where the traditionalist representatives should be sitting. Metu's ceremonial chair stands prominently empty.
Raak follows my gaze, centuries of council experience registering in his grim expression. "This is not good."
Blaze studies the vacant section, his ancient face grave. "Deliberate absence during an emergency session constitutes a formal declaration of authority rejection. They probably have abandoned Emberhold, if they know what’s best for them."
The implications crush down with physical weight. This isn't just factional squabbling anymore. The traditional wing of dragon society is making a stand—rejecting established authority structures and protocols.
This is the beginning of civil war.
My pulse quickens, adrenaline flooding my system—the familiar rush before action. "We need immediate security enhancement," I state, years of command experience sharpening my voice. "Their absence doesn't represent retreat. It indicates preparation."
Vulcan moves to stand behind me, his massive frame radiating heat against my back. I sense his agreement, his readiness. The dragon part of me—the part that grows stronger each day—preens at having such a powerful mate at my back.
We face this together.
His thought slides into my mind, smooth as silk and hot as fire. The intimacy of it still startles me—this sharing of consciousness that transcends words.
Together,I agree, letting him sense my determination, my strength. No longer just Phoenix the human firefighter, nor merely Vulcan's mate. Something new, something powerful—forged in fire and storm.
The sanctuary's strategic chamber transforms into an impromptu command center. Organized chaos that reminds me painfully of wildfire base camps—purposeful urgency, controlled panic, structured crisis response.
Progressive leaders gather around the central table, many looking uncomfortably out of their element. These are politicians and scholars suddenly thrust into war council roles.
Vulcan stands at my side, his presence radiating danger. The diplomatic restraint he's shown in council meetings has vanished, replaced by the focused alertness of a warrior preparing for battle. Blue-silver patterns shift along his forearms, emerging unbidden with his emotions.
Every time he moves, his scent washes over me—smoke and ozone and raw masculine power that makes my mouth water despite the crisis. Even now, with civil conflict looming, my body aches for his touch, his claim.
"Traditionalist faction controls approximately forty percent of active warriors," Raak explains, dragging a clawed finger across a map of the sanctuary. "Their structural knowledge creates vulnerability despite numerical disadvantage."
I study the layout, identifying choke points, defensible positions, vulnerable access ways. The principles transfer perfectly from wildfire command to paranormal conflict—protect life first, contain the threat, establish defensible perimeters.
"Traditional military response proves ineffective against insurgency operations," I observe, drawing on hard lessons learned in the field. "We need focused protection of critical infrastructure rather than dispersed force deployment."
The council members exchange surprised glances. I catch whispered translations of military terms between elders who've clearly never considered sanctuary defense in these terms.
"Concentrate defensive forces at these junction points," I continue, indicating key intersections on the map. "Establish layered security with multiple fallback positions. Create redundant communications systems independent of the main crystal network."
My finger traces along a critical corridor, and static electricity follows the path, blue sparks illuminating the route. My emerging dragon abilities manifest more each day, responding to emotion and intent rather than conscious control.
Blaze studies me with ancient eyes that have seen centuries of conflict. "You speak from experience beyond your years."
"Wildfire tactical command isn't so different," I explain, surprising myself with how easily human emergency protocols translate to supernatural conflict. "Protect lives first, critical resources second, contain the threat, establish defensible perimeters, maintain communication lines."
Vulcan places his hand on the map, blue energy dancing from his fingertips to highlight specific areas. "Phoenix is right. Traditional dragon defense relies on overwhelming force in frontal confrontation. The traditionalists will expect this and plan accordingly."
His support spills into me, hot and electric. My skin prickles. My core clenches. Fuck. Not just approval, but something deeper—respect, partnership, desire all tangled together.
"Implement the recommendations immediately," Blaze orders, authority resonating in his voice. "Raak, coordinate with your Guardian Bond mate to establish secondary security protocols."
As council members disperse to their assignments, Vulcan's fingers brush against the small of my back. Blue sparks dance between us, visible to everyone nearby. A public claim, a declaration of unity. My breath catches at the contact.
"War strategist wasn't in your job description," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a rumble that only I can hear.
"Neither was dragon wrangling, yet here we are," I reply, surprised by the ease of our banter despite the crisis. Our rapport grows stronger each day—understanding, communication, trust deepening with each challenge we face.
