They fall upon us like wolves, separating us with brutal efficiency. Kael roars in fury as three Storm Eagles drag him away, his weakened body unable to resist despite his rage. I struggle against the soldiers who grip my arms, but my strength is still depleted from healing Kael.
Our eyes lock one last time across the growing distance between us. In that moment, I make him a silent promise: This isn’t over. What we’ve discovered, what we’ve become to each other—it’s bigger than clan politics or Haven’s Heart security protocols.
The soldiers force me toward their transport vehicle. The Storm Eagles drag Kael in the opposite direction, toward the canyon wall where they can launch into flight. Our hands, reaching toward each other, are the last points of contact before they pull us apart completely.
As they push me into the transport, I catch a final glimpse of Kael being forced into eagle form for the journey back to the aerie. His golden feathers catch the sunlight, brilliant even in defeat.
Then the transport doors slam shut, and all I can see is darkness.
12
KAEL
The holding cell they’ve placed me in is ancient, carved deep into the aerie’s core where storm energy cannot penetrate. Runes of containment mark every surface, their faded glyphs still potent enough to suppress my magic. Four stone walls, a narrow pallet, and a small aperture high above that lets in just enough light to mark the passage of days. Two so far. Maybe three.
Time blurs when you’re waiting to die.
Footsteps approach—the heavy tread of Viktor’s personal guards. The iron door creaks open, and two warriors enter, their faces impassive beneath ceremonial masks. Without speaking, they haul me to my feet and bind my wrists with a cord woven from the fibers of lightning-resistant mountain hemp.
“The Stormwarden requires your presence,” one says flatly.
Stormwarden. Viktor has already taken my title.
They march me through narrow tunnels carved millennia ago, passages used only for prisoners and secrets. The stone here is raw, unpolished, bearing witness to generations of Storm Eagle history that the elders prefer to forget. I’ve never seen these chambers before, despite leading the clan for thirteenyears. Strange how a place I’ve called home my entire life still holds mysteries.
We emerge into the council chamber. Sunlight streams through crystal apertures, filling the space with fractured rainbows that dance across the stone floor. The familiar circular table is surrounded by elders, their expressions ranging from grim satisfaction to uncomfortable uncertainty. Viktor stands at what was once my place, dressed in the ceremonial leathers of leadership that he had no right to claim.
Behind him, bound between two warriors, stands Elena.
My heart lurches at the sight of her. Her face bears a bruise along one cheekbone, but her eyes—those intelligent brown eyes that first captured my attention—remain defiant. Even surrounded by enemies in a foreign place, she holds herself with dignity.
“The ground-dweller healer,” Viktor announces to the gathered council, “and the fallen Stormwright who betrayed our people for her.”
I maintain my composure despite the fury boiling inside me. “You found only what you wanted to find, Viktor. Not the truth.”
“The truth?” Viktor laughs, the sound echoing harshly off the chamber walls. “The truth is written in blood samples freely given to our enemy. The truth is in secret meetings while our people starved. The truth is in your weakness for this ground-dweller female.”
Elder Talon rises from his seat, his ancient face weathered by centuries of leadership. “Kael Stormwright, you stand accused of contamination by ground-dweller influence. The evidence presented by Stormwarden Viktor indicates a relationship beyond tactical necessity.”
“If by relationship you mean learning from each other, then yes,” I respond, scanning the faces of the council. Some avoid my gaze, but others—particularly the younger members—watchwith interest. “Elena Ashford is a genetic researcher. Her work confirms what some of us have suspected for generations—our isolation is killing us.”
Viktor slams his fist against the stone table. “Lies! Our bloodline is the purest, the strongest!”
“Our bloodline is becoming dangerously limited,” I counter. “Look around you. When was the last time a Storm Eagle child was born without defects? When was the last time a mate bond formed spontaneously within the clan?”
A murmur ripples through the council. I’ve touched on a truth they all know but refuse to acknowledge. For three generations, our numbers have dwindled. Fertility rates have fallen. Children born with weakened wings or diminished storm affinity have become increasingly common.
Viktor’s face darkens. “You would blame our sacred bloodline rather than admit your own corruption.”
“I would face reality rather than cling to comfortable myths.” I turn to address the elders directly. “Ask yourselves why the ancient texts speak of storm-touched alliances with ground clans. Why do our oldest stories mention golden eagles mating with silver healers? These weren’t cautionary tales—they were historical records.”
“Enough!” Viktor gestures to the guards. “Your treason only compounds with every word.”
Elena steps forward, straining against her captors. “Your genetics are failing because of isolation!” Her voice, clear and authoritative, cuts through the tension. “I’ve analyzed blood samples from multiple Storm Eagles. The markers for storm magic are weakening with each generation because you lack genetic diversity.”
Viktor moves toward her with dangerous speed, but I lunge forward, blocking his path despite my bound hands. “Touch her and I’ll kill you, Viktor,” I say quietly. “Magic or no magic.”
The air between us crackles with tension. Viktor’s gray eyes, always cold, now burn with hatred. “You’re in no position to make threats, fallen one.”
