Page 62 of Fire's Storm
"We'll need synchronized application," she says, her voice all business despite the electrical tension crackling between us. "If I read the flow patterns correctly, we need to target these three junction points simultaneously." She indicates specific locations on the ward's structure with precise gestures.
We position ourselves around the ward's primary access point, Phoenix taking position at my side rather than opposite, as would be traditional. Her tactical assessment has identified the optimal configuration, and I defer to her judgment without hesitation. Her scent fills my lungs with each breath, providing an anchor for my concentration.
My dragon half purrs in satisfaction at her proximity, at the way she naturally complements my movements without subservience. A true partner, not a subordinate. The distinction matters more than I would have believed possible before meeting her.
I generate energy, drawing from the storm around us to supplement my own reserves. Raw electrical current fills my body, crackling beneath my skin, demanding release. Blue-white energy surrounds my hands as I channel it toward the ward's primary nexus.
Phoenix's eyes reflect the light as she calculates, measures, directs. "Thirty percent more power to the eastern junction," she instructs, her hands moving in precise patterns that shape and guide my raw energy. "Reduce flow to the central nexus by fifteen percent. Redirect to stabilize the foundation ring."
The ward responds to our efforts. Crystalline structure absorbs energy. Ancient technology accepts power. Stabilization indicators flicker to life, struggling against the deliberate sabotage that created this crisis.
For a moment, satisfaction rumbles in my chest. Working with Phoenix feels right in a way nothing else ever has. The seamless integration of her tactical precision with my raw power creates results neither of us could achieve alone. This is what the Tempest Bond was designed for—perfect complementary function between partners with contrasting strengths.
Then everything goes to shit.
The stabilization progresses with encouraging effectiveness. The ward's functions improve with steady advancement, its operational capacity enhancing with gradual progression. The erratic lighting stabilizes into a consistent blue-white glow that illuminates the surrounding area with steady radiance.
"Power levels approaching normal parameters," Phoenix reports, her voice tight with concentration. Sweat beads on her forehead despite the cold rain, evidence of the mental exertion required to maintain such precise control. "Estimated completion in three minutes if current progression holds."
Too easy. The thought forms unbidden in my mind. If Metu's faction went to such lengths to create this trap, they wouldn't allow success without interference.
Then it happens. A sudden frequency introduction corrupts our synchronized application. An abrupt harmonic interference disrupts our unified approach. An unexpected energy pattern interrupts our coordinated method with surgical precision.
I recognize the interference immediately. Identical signature to the Solstice Gathering disruption. Matching frequency to celebration sabotage. Corresponding pattern to the previous attack despite a different delivery method.
The harmonic disruption targets our mental link directly. Energy seeking to tear us apart. Frequency pursuing severance. Pattern attempting to sever our communication with calculated effectiveness.
Phoenix's presence in my mind flickers like a candle in a strong wind. Her tactical guidance falters, mental voice becoming distant, distorted. Her control wavers as the disruptor fractures our mental link.
"They're using the same technology," she gasps, voice fighting through static both mental and physical. Her fingers grasp her temple as pain lances through our connection. "Same frequency disruptor from the gathering."
I fight to maintain our connection. The effort requires complete focus despite the movement I detect at the periphery of my vision. Something—someone—moving through the storm with deliberate stealth.
My suspicions prove correct as six warriors emerge from the chaos. Obsidian scales identify clear faction alignment—Metu's personal guard, the elite enforcers who answer only to him. Yellow eyes indicate an obvious loyalty connection to the traditionalist faction. Ceremonial markings reveal unmistakable allegiance to the old ways despite their mission's dishonorable nature.
Metu's elite fighters position themselves in tactical formation. Strategic arrangement indicating professional training. Methodical organization demonstrating military experience..
"Maintain ward connection," Phoenix commands through gritted teeth, her captain's assessment identifying our critical priority despite the emerging threat. Her hands continue their precise movements despite the warriors' approach, refusing to abandon the ward stabilization despite personal danger.
I comply despite every protective instinct screaming to shield her. Duty overriding defensive impulse. Responsibility superseding safeguarding inclination. I trust her judgment even when it contradicts my primal urges. This, perhaps, is the truest test of our connection—my willingness to respect her tactical decisions even when they place her at risk.
The warriors show their strategy the moment they close in, splitting into two groups with practiced precision. Four move on me, weapons ready but not yet striking—meant to distract, to hold my focus. Two peel off toward Phoenix, circling to flank her with predatory intent.
It’s too clean to be chance. This isn’t a random clash—it’s a coordinated operation. And the tactic is obvious: they’re aiming for psychological pressure, not just combat. They want to provoke me by targeting her, to trigger my instinct to protect.
One of them carries specialized gear—crystal-tipped projectiles, tools built for capture, not killing. Their mission isn’t elimination. It’s manipulation. They want us alive but broken. They want me to snap, to lose control in front of everyone, to prove every accusation of instability true.
“They want you to lose control,” Phoenix’s voice pushes through our bond, strained and muffled by interference but still reaching me. “Don’t give them what they want.”
Easier said than done—when every instinct in me is howling to tear them apart for daring to touch what’s mine.
The warriors attacking Phoenix use excessive force. Brutal techniques. Vicious methods. Their objective becomes clear—provoke me by threatening my female.
Phoenix responds with surprising effectiveness. Her firefighter combat training translates to supernatural confrontation. She evades one attacker with practiced agility and lands a precisely aimed kick that sends the other staggering backward.
Small electrical discharges spark from her fingertips, disrupting her attackers' coordination. Minor currents interfere with their movement precision.
Pride swells in my chest as I watch her. My female. So fucking magnificent.
