Page 47 of Fire's Storm
Clan preparations for the Solstice Gathering provide perfect operational cover—increased activity masking conspiracy movement, enhanced commotion concealing plot preparation.
Metu observes the young dragons decorating the grand cavern, their innocence both infuriating and motivating. They know nothing of The Sundering, nothing of the danger being awakened through these new bonds. Their elders have failed them by hiding the truth, by romanticizing apocalyptic weapon systems as spiritual salvation.
We protect them, even if they never know it.
With the council delegation gone, the last obstacle is finally out of the way. Raak’s absence removes the main threat of interference, and the departure of his human mate takes careof the secondary risk. From the shadows, Metu watches them board the transport bound for the eastern territories, personally confirming they are truly gone.
The conspirators keep in touch through secure channels, their crystalline network running on frequencies beyond standard surveillance. Sarla confirms that the vulnerable clan members will attend the gathering, while Elder Khorne secures the best vantage point for observation.
Metu finishes his final adjustments with a sense of predatory satisfaction. The ancient device thrums against his scales as he tests its frequency on a shard of crystal taken from Vulcan’s earlier trial. The result is immediate—clean, total shatter under the precise disruption.
The evening before the operation, he performs the old rites—ritual cleansing to mark the transition, meditation to sharpen his focus. That night, his dreams fill with visions of the Sundering, an apocalypse blazing across his sleeping mind. Instead of shaking him, the nightmares only steel his resolve.
At dawn, final coordination comes through the secure channel. Metu dresses for the Solstice Gathering, his formal robes concealing the disruption device pressed against his chest. Its weight against his scales feels inevitable. It feels like destiny.
Not revenge. Protection. Not jealousy. Salvation.
The grand cavern sparkles with Solstice decoration—crystal formations enhanced through magical illumination, stone surfaces adorned with traditional ornamentation. Dragon artisans have outdone themselves this year, creating elaborate light sculptures that dance across the massive space, casting rainbow patterns on gathered clan members.
The scent of celebration fills the air—ceremonial incense, traditional feast preparations, the distinctive musk of dragons in festive mood. Hundreds of clan members fill the massive space,scales glinting in the enhanced light, wings partially extended in relaxed posture.
Metu navigates the gathering with practiced social grace—pleasantries exchanged with convincing sincerity while his yellow eyes continuously scan for targets.
Patience. The predator waits for the perfect opportunity.
The disruption device rests against his chest, its weight both burden and promise. Ancient technology repurposed for modern necessity, salvation disguised as sabotage.
Vulcan appears with predictable punctuality—proper upbringing ensuring ceremonial adherence regardless of personal preference. His midnight-blue hair has been bound in traditional warrior knots, silver streaks catching the light. His electric blue eyes scan the gathering with obvious discomfort. The exiled dragon has never enjoyed these mandatory social functions.
The human female accompanies him, wearing ceremonial robes. Copper hair twisted into a formal dragon style, hazel eyes alert despite her attempt at casual demeanor. Her hand rests possessively on Vulcan's arm, steadying him amid the crowd's attention.
The sight sends a surge of rage through Metu's system. Scales threaten to emerge along his jawline. He forces them back with practiced discipline.
Control is everything.
Most significantly, their connection remains visible—electrical current occasionally arcing between them when proximity increases. Their fingers brush, and blue-white sparks dance between them. Vulcan's eyes darken with heat, her pupils dilating in response.
Disgusting. Unnatural. Dangerous.
The tests confirm what he needs to know—the harmonic disruption holds steady, the connection maintaining itsfrequency even with environmental shifts. The device pressed against his chest responds with a low hum, tuned to the exact resonance it was built to shatter.
Across the gathering, Sarla signals him with a casual, prearranged gesture. To anyone else, it means nothing, but to Metu, it carries the coded confirmation: the vulnerable clan members are in position. She lingers near a cluster of fledglings, their scales still soft, wings twitching in restless excitement.
From the council platform, Elder Khorne gives his own sign—the ritual begins. The ancient dragon’s ruby eyes glow with steady intensity as he prepares the recording crystal, ready to capture the demonstration for the archives and, more importantly, the evidence of instability.
Metu returns the signals in kind. His heartbeat quickens, scales shifting under the heavy ceremonial fabric. His dragon nature strains at the surface, impatient after so many days of restraint.
Not yet. The timing must be perfect. Precision will mean the difference between impact and failure.
The disruption device presses against him like a second heart. Light in weight, but heavy with meaning—it is the culmination of centuries of planning, decades of careful preparation, all narrowing into this single decisive moment.
With deliberate calm, Metu moves toward the activation point. The central crystal array towers above the cavern, built to amplify light and sound for celebration. Tonight, it will serve another purpose entirely.
The time arrives.
Vulcan and his human female stand directly beneath the primary crystal formation, surrounded by admiring clan members eager to witness more tricks from the newly bonded pair. The exiled dragon appears uncomfortable with the attention but allows the human to guide their interactions.
Metu's clawed hand moves to the device concealed beneath his robes. One twist activates the ancient technology. One moment changes the sanctuary's trajectory forever.
