Page 21 of Fire's Storm
The clinical discussion helps distract from the constant, pulsing awareness of Vulcan just beyond the examination chamber.
"The bond is an ancient connection between compatible storm dragons," Kellamir explains, setting aside the holographic display. "A magical, biological, and psychological linking that?—"
"The better question," interrupts a new voice from the chamber entrance, "is why your dragon heritage remained dormant until now."
A gaunt elder with amber eyes enters, his attention fixing on me with the intensity of a predator sizing up prey. His silver-streaked hair falls in a single braid down his back. Scales cover more of his visible skin than the other dragons I've encountered.
“Councilmember Metu,” Kellamir says with a bow. “Who do we owe for your honorable presence?”
Instant wariness prickles my skin. Something about his intense interest makes my flesh crawl—like being watched through rifle sights before the shot. Static electricity dances along my fingertips, tiny blue sparks crackling in my peripheral vision. The air pressure in the room drops slightly in reaction to my emotional state.
The dragon's nostrils flare as he scents the energy discharge. His eyes narrow, interest visibly intensifying. But not in a good way.
"The Tempest lineage was believed extinct." Metu circles my examination table, each step calculated. My training recognizes the maneuver—he's blocking the primary exit. "Hunted specifically during the Third Purge for abilities that threatened Purity technology." His eyes rake over me. "Yet here you are—carrying dormant genes that somehow escaped detection."
"I guess so,” I reply, shifting to maintain visual contact as he circles.
Don't show weakness. He'll pounce on it like any predator.
I've faced down arsonists and territorial fire captains twice my size. One dragon with boundary issues doesn't intimidate me, no matter how foreign the territory.
"I guess so," Metu repeats, amber eyes calculating. "And suddenly active after encountering Vulcan Aetherion. Most convenient timing."
The implication in his tone sends a surge of anger through me. I stand from the examination table, refusing to remain in a physically disadvantaged position. At 5'6", I barely reach his chest, but posture and presence matter more than physical size—a lesson hammered into me through years commanding men who outweighed me by a hundred pounds.
"If you have questions about my genetic makeup, ask directly," I challenge, chin lifting. "I don't appreciate being circled like a science experiment or a suspect."
Metu’s eyebrows rise slightly, surprise flickering across his features before disappearing behind calculated neutrality. Dragons, I'm learning, don't expect defiance from humans—a misconception I have no intention of reinforcing.
"The bond is extremely rare," he continues, his circling halted though his positioning still blocks the primary exit. "Second element of the Ancestral Flame Protocol. Guardian protects, Tempest harnesses and redirects wild magic." His eyes narrow. "Your emergence coincides precisely with increasing magical instability at the boundaries. Statistical improbability suggests deliberate intervention."
The unspoken accusation hangs in the air—that my existence, my connection to Vulcan, is manipulation rather than coincidence. Though the specifics remain unclear, the political implications feel familiar. I've navigated enough departmental politics to recognize a power play.
"I assure you, Councilor," Kellamir interjects, clearly uncomfortable with the crackling tension, "the genetic markers are authentic. My tests confirm Tempest lineage without question. The bond formation appears entirely natural, if unusually strong for initial stages."
"Naturally occurring anomalies make convenient weapons," Metu responds cryptically, attention never leaving my face. "Particularly when wielded by those with existing grievances against current leadership."
As Kellamir launches into a detailed explanation of elemental bonds, I become increasingly aware of the changes in my body.
Blue-white scales shimmer beneath my skin when emotions run high, visible along my forearms where sleeves have been pushed up for examination. My temperature fluctuates unpredictably. I strip off the outer layer of borrowed clothing, leaving me in a thin undershirt.
Most alarming, small weather systems form indoors when my emotions fluctuate—tiny rain clouds gathering at ceiling level during moments of uncertainty, miniature lightning dancing between my fingertips when frustration peaks.
My skin feels too tight, hypersensitive. Every nerve ending processes sensory input with supernatural acuity. The sound of Kellamir's voice feels like sandpaper against my eardrums. The crystal light pulses painfully against my retinas.
But worst of all is the constant pull toward the doorway—toward Vulcan. My body continuously orients in his direction, like a compass needle finding north. The longer we remain separated, the more insistent the pull becomes, until I find myself taking small, unconscious steps toward the exit.
"The sensory enhancement will stabilize," Kellamir explains when I wince at a particularly loud equipment sound. "Initial transition often includes hypersensitivity as your system calibrates to new input thresholds."
"Transition to what, exactly?" I demand, watching with horrified fascination as small scales temporarily form along my knuckles during a spike of frustration, then recede as I consciously rein in my emotions. "Am I becoming... like you?"
Are you becoming a monster? A myth? Something that shouldn't exist?
"Not entirely," Kellamir assures me, though his enthusiasm for the subject does little to comfort me. "Hybrid physiology has typically stabilized at approximately thirty to forty percent draconic manifestation, depending on genetic dominancefactors. You'll retain primarily human appearance with enhanced capabilities and some physical markers."
During one particularly detailed explanation of cellular restructuring that sounds like pseudoscientific nonsense, my frustration peaks.
The constant clinical examination, the political undercurrents I don't fully understand, the physical separation from the one person who can regulate my energy—it all becomes temporarily overwhelming.
