I reach the aerie as the clan awakens, landing on my private balcony unseen. No sooner have I shifted back to human form than a knock sounds at my chamber door.
“Enter,” I call, quickly arranging myself to appear as though I’ve been awake for hours.
Viktor strides in, his gray eyes taking in every detail of my appearance. “Stormwright. The council awaits your presence. We’ve been discussing the next phase of resource acquisition.”
His tone suggests nothing unusual, but the predatory assessment in his gaze tells me everything. He knows I wasn’t meditating at the sacred pools. He knows something has changed.
“Of course,” I reply calmly. “I’ll join you shortly.”
He lingers, studying me with calculated intensity. “Strange weather last night. Lightning in clear skies, over the ground-dweller settlement.”
My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression neutral. “The storm follows its own patterns.”
“Indeed,” he agrees, moving toward the door. “But some say the storm responds to Stormwright magic. That it mirrors the leader’s heart.” His hand rests on the door frame. “I wonder what disturbance created such… unusual conditions.”
The threat in his words is barely veiled. I meet his gaze steadily, letting a hint of lightning flicker in my eyes—a reminder of the power at my command. “The weather is the least of your concerns, Viktor. Focus on your duties, not on reading omens.”
He bows, the gesture more mockery than respect. “Always, Stormwright. I live to serve the clan’s interests.”
After he leaves, I allow myself a moment of genuine concern. Viktor is many things—ambitious, ruthless, traditionalist—but never careless. If he’s openly hinting at my activities, he mustfeel secure in his position. Which means he’s gathering support among the elders, preparing for something beyond his usual political maneuvering.
I move to my private chamber, unlock the hidden compartment built into the stone wall, and remove an ancient text bound in leather that still bears the scent of storms from centuries past. The mate bond compendium, containing everything our people know about the rarest of connections.
Tonight, I’ll bring this to Elena. Tonight, we’ll begin to understand what forces have drawn us together despite every obstacle. Tonight, we’ll face the truth that neither of us is ready to accept.
We are enemies by circumstance, allies by necessity, and mates by a power older than our conflict.
And that recognition changes everything.
7
ELENA
The golden vial of blood sits on my workbench, catching the first light of dawn through the small lab window. I’ve spent all night analyzing it, running test after test, comparing it to every shifter blood sample in my database. I should be exhausted, but I’m electrified with discovery.
Kael’s blood is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. The genetic markers indicating storm magic are not just present but dominant, interwoven with his DNA in patterns so complex my equipment struggles to map them. This isn’t just a shapeshifter adaptation—it’s an entirely different category of being.
And most unsettling of all, there are unmistakable similarities to the anomalies in my own genetic profile.
I cross-check the results for the third time, hoping to find some error, some contamination that would explain away the frightening implications. But the data remains stubbornly consistent. The markers I’ve always dismissed as statistical anomalies in my own DNA match perfectly with the storm-touched sequences in Kael’s blood.
“This can’t be right,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair.
The quarantine room door slides open, and I quickly minimize the screen. Zara steps out, looking remarkably recovered. The silver line where her wound had been is barely visible now.
“Your brother isn’t back yet?” I ask, checking the time. It’s nearly 6 AM, and the medical staff will arrive soon.
“He’ll come,” Zara says confidently. “Viktor must have kept him longer than expected at some political meeting.” She approaches my workstation, glancing at the equipment with open curiosity. “What have you discovered about his blood?”
I hesitate, uncertain how much to share. “It’s… extraordinary. The genetic adaptations that allow Storm Eagles to channel lightning aren’t just physical—they’re encoded at the deepest level of your DNA.”
Zara smiles, unsurprised. “We’ve always known we’re not like other shifters. Our connection to the storm is older than our eagle forms.”
“That’s exactly what the data suggests,” I agree, excitement overcoming my caution. “Your ancestors weren’t eagles who developed storm magic—they were storm entities who took eagle form.”
“And somehow, you share this heritage,” she says, not a question but a statement.
I start to deny it, then stop myself. “How did you know?”
