Page 32 of Fire's Storm
Now, my focus centers entirely on Phoenix—on being the partner she deserves, on ensuring her safety, on proving her trust justified.
The shift feels simultaneously foreign and natural. For a creature who has lived centuries in self-centered isolation, concern for another's well-being represents revolution rather than evolution.
When I finally rise, my movements flow with uncharacteristic grace—controlled power rather than barely contained chaos. My reflection shows midnight-blue scales forming precise patterns rather than random eruptions, eyes glowing steady blue rather than flickering with uncontrolled energy.
For the first time in centuries, I resemble the controlled warrior my bloodline should have produced rather than the chaotic destroyer I became.
A sharp knock announces the handlers' arrival. Nervousness and trepidation dominate their emotional state. They expected chaos, not the controlled power now manifesting in my form.
Their surprise registers in widened eyes and flared nostrils. The lead handler's pupils dilate as he takes in the room’s ruined state, contrasted with my current composure.
"The ceremonial chambers await, Vulcan Aetherion," the elder announces, using my formal name with reluctant respect.
I follow without argument—cooperation replacing my typical resistance. My dragon half remains alert but calm, focused entirely on Phoenix's well-being above my own pride.
The preparation chamber greets me with purified water infused with grounding minerals, ceremonial herbs burning in copper braziers, energy-absorption compounds. Crystal formations line the walls, their light shifting to match myelectrical signature. They pulse with a steady rhythm, reflecting my newfound stability.
The handlers exchange glances, confusion evident in their scents. This controlled dragon contradicts all historical precedent.
They direct me to the central pool—liquid darker than water, shimmering with particles that absorb rather than reflect light. Without hesitation, I strip and enter—the medium cool against my overheated skin.
I submerge completely, allowing the specialized medium to draw excess energy from my system. The sensation resembles pressure release—built-up power flowing outward in controlled streams rather than chaotic bursts.
When I emerge, my power levels have normalized—still immensely strong but controllable. Water streams down my form, tracing patterns over scales now visible across most of my skin.
The handlers approach with ceremonial attire—midnight-blue fabric embedded with silver threads to channel electrical discharge safely. Their movements remain cautious despite my demonstrated control.
Throughout the application of ceremonial markings, I maintain perfect composure. The lead handler applies silver-blue paste in ancient patterns across my chest and shoulders, hands steady despite proximity to a dragon historically known for unpredictable outbursts.
In the final moments before trial commencement, I wait in the preparation antechamber. I close my eyes and deliberately reach across the bond. I send not words but pure emotional content—confidence in her abilities, trust in our connection, certainty in our success.
The response arrives immediately—her emotional signature carries distinctive texture—copper, rain, thunderstorms, and soft warmth combined with unbending strength.
Most significantly, she returns something I didn't consciously send—a warmth that wasn't just desire, a connection that felt deeper than biological need. Affection. The concept is foreign, yet my dragon half recognizes it instantly, responding with a surge of protective instinct I've never experienced.
When the ceremonial horns sound, my heart hammers against my ribs like a fledgling's first flight. Three centuries of existence, and this moment reduces me to a novice again.
The grand amphitheater stretches before me, tiered seating filling rapidly with clan members. I stand motionless at the eastern entrance, every muscle locked tight. The scent of hundreds of dragons hits me—smoke and ash and ancient magic. I sort through them automatically, cataloging allies and enemies by their distinctive signatures.
Traditionalists cluster in the north section, their scales gleaming with polished perfection. I catch Metu Varadi's coal-black gaze. His lip curls, exposing a fang. The bastard hopes we'll fail spectacularly.
Progressives gather opposite, practically vibrating with anticipation. The undecided majority fills the remaining spaces, their expressions guarded.
My temperature rises involuntarily. Sweat beads at my temples, instantly evaporating in small wisps of steam. The air around me already tastes of ozone—my own electrical discharge seeping into the atmosphere despite the rigorous preparation rituals I performed at dawn.
Then I see her.
Phoenix waits at the western entrance, copper hair gleaming against ceremonial midnight-blue robes. The distance doesn't matter—my enhanced vision catches everything. The slightnervous shift of her weight from one foot to the other. The way her fingers twist the edge of her sleeve. The shimmer of electricity beneath her skin—blue-white current racing along pathways that didn't exist a week ago.
My nostrils flare, and impossibly, I catch her scent across the massive space—wild lightning, summer rain, and something uniquely female. My cock hardens instantly, pressing painfully against my ceremonial leathers. My fangs lengthen, pricking my lower lip.
Mine.
The thought isn't rational or civilized. It's pure, primal dragon instinct. Every scale beneath my skin burns with the need to cross the arena and claim her publicly, mark her as mine before the entire clan.
Elder Nyra rises from her seat on the elevated council platform, silver scales catching light with each deliberate movement. The weight of her age—nearly a thousand years—radiates from her like heat from banked coals.
"The Confirmation Trial commences," she announces. "Let the candidates approach the central platform."
