Page 49 of Fire's Storm
Metu moves through gathered witnesses with practiced social grace, expression showing appropriate concern despite inner satisfaction. "Exactly as predicted," he murmurs with carefully calculated volume, ensuring nearby listeners. "The Tempest Bond contains inherent instability regardless of temporary harmony."
The whispered assessment spreads through gathered witnesses with viral efficiency. Dragons exchange worried glances, fearful whispers, concerned evaluations. The perception has shifted, the narrative has changed, exactly as the operation intended.
Not for revenge.
For protection.
The conspirators gather within the hidden chamber following the operation’s conclusion. The scent of success fills the space—distinctive pheromones of satisfaction, accomplishment, vindication. Their dragon halves respond with primal pleasure, scales gleaming in the crystal light.
“The operation is a complete success,” Metu declares, letting his control slip at last. His eyes burn with fierce light as obsidian scales spread across his chest and shoulders, no longer hidden. His dragon half rumbles with satisfaction, no longer forced into silence.
Sarla prowls the chamber with predatory ease, amber eyes glinting. “The reaction of the clans shows a shift greater than expected,” she reports, her tone sharp and analytical. “Their response suggests an opinion change beyond our original projection.”
“Council discussions confirm the shift,” Metu replies. “Old alliances grow stronger as progressive support weakens.”
“History will remember this night,” Elder Khorne adds, his ruby eyes catching the glow of the crystals as he places the recordings into ancient containers. “The archives will preserve the lesson long after memory fades.”
“Most importantly,” Metu concludes, his fangs flashing in triumph, “the path of hybrid integration shifts—from acceleration to caution. What was once celebration has turned to suspicion.”
He circles the chamber, restless energy spilling from him. His dragon half strains against his control, wings half-forming from his shoulders, claws fully extended. The victory is too intoxicating to contain.
“Vulcan’s loss of control provided perfect proof,” Sarla says, her own scales shimmering with satisfaction. “The chaos made the danger undeniable, no matter the moments of harmony.”
“And the human’s failure to guide him proves the weakness of their bond,” Metu adds. “Precision alone cannot withstand true crisis.”
“Most of all,” Elder Khorne rumbles, voice heavy with vindication, “the demonstration revealed catastrophe itself. The threat is no longer theory—it has been witnessed.”
“Our purpose was always protection, even if it required deception,” Metu declares, raising his clawed hands in a ceremonial gesture. “Our objective was always salvation, even if it demanded manipulation.”
The chamber hums with dragon-scented satisfaction—instinctive, primal joy at a hunt well-executed, a trap perfectly sprung.
“What happens when Raak returns?” Sarla asks, ever practical, her thoughts already turning to the next challenge.
Metu bares his teeth in a predator’s smile. “His authority cannot undo what the clans have seen. The evidence speaks louder than any decree.”
“And the reformists lose ground,” Sarla notes. “Their momentum slows, their passion cools into caution.”
“We remain vigilant,” Metu answers with disciplined resolve, forcing his wings to fold back, his scales to recede. “Even in victory, we watch. We prepare. We wait.”
The words resonate in the hidden chamber with the force of belief—shared conviction binding them in purpose.
They do not see themselves as villains. They call themselves protectors. Patriots. That conviction holds, no matter if their methods trespass on morality or their tactics violate principle.
Not monsters. Saviors.
Hours after the others have departed, Metu remains alone in his private quarters, unable to sleep despite the operation's success. His mind should be at ease—the demonstrationachieved exactly what they'd planned, public opinion shifting precisely as predicted.
He paces the perimeter of his spartan quarters, obsidian scales rippling across his chest with each agitated breath. His dragon half refuses to settle, refuses to accept the complete victory their operation achieved.
Something in Elder Khorne's expression during their aftermath assessment has planted an unwelcome thought. The ancient dragon's ruby eyes had briefly flickered with... was it uncertainty? Concern? Something beyond the unified conviction that had driven their conspiracy.
"Ridiculous," Metu mutters, claws clicking against stone flooring. The thought itself feels like betrayal—doubt has no place in necessary action, hesitation has no role in species salvation.
He pauses before a small, ornate box on his otherwise unadorned shelf. The container seems out of place among his utilitarian possessions—intricate carvings covering its surface, ancient script spelling warnings and protections around its lock.
Clawed fingers trace the patterns with unusual gentleness before opening the box. Inside rests a fragment of crystal recovered from The Sundering—a historical relic Elder Khorne had gifted him when he joined their cause decades ago. Its surface still bears scorch marks from elemental chaos unleashed during that catastrophic event.
He lifts the fragment, feeling its residual energy vibrate against his scales. Physical evidence. Tangible proof. Not just texts that could be misinterpreted or histories that might be distorted.
