Among the progressive allies, cautious hope blooms. For them, we represent more than a successful mission. We're validation.
The transport touches down with a gentle bump. I step forward, falling automatically into formal reporting stance.
"Mission parameters completed with unexpected outcomes," I announce, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline still surging through my system. "Border ward stabilized, hostile agents neutralized, evidence of coordinated conspiracy secured."
Twenty simple words that completely upend sanctuary politics.
Vulcan moves to stand beside me, his massive frame radiating heat against my side. Not touching—not quite—but close enough that my body hums with awareness. The fierce pride and barely restrained aggression radiating from him make the prisoner shift nervously, sensing the predator at my back.
Blaze steps forward, ancient eyes assessing our captive with cold calculation. "Take him to the interrogation chamber."
The interrogation chamber reeks of ancient purpose. Everything about this space was designed for a single function: extracting truth. The walls themselves seem to listen, crystal formations pulsing with subtle energy that suppresses draconic abilities.
I scan the room, cataloging every detail. Three exits. Seven guards. Containment field generators embedded in the ceiling. The strange silver inlay in the floor that makes my emerging dragon senses prickle uncomfortably.
The prisoner sits restrained in the chamber's center. The chair itself looks like it was grown rather than built—living crystal that shifts and adjusts to contain him perfectly. His hatred radiates like heat from a bonfire.
Blaze conducts the questioning with formal precision. His voice remains level, but silver energy simmers beneath his skin, betraying carefully controlled rage.
"You participated in a coordinated assault against authorized clan representatives," he states rather than asks. "You engaged in deliberate sabotage of critical sanctuary infrastructure."
The prisoner's yellow eyes narrow. The fanaticism in his expression sends ice down my spine despite the room's warmth. I've seen that look before—in the eyes of arsonists who believed the fire they set was purifying, necessary.
"I served the true protectors of our kind," he responds, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "We prevent catastrophe while you invite destruction through ignorant reconstruction of systems that nearly ended our existence."
My pulse quickens. This isn't a lone actor. This isn't even a small faction. His words—the tone, the certainty—suggest organized resistance with structure, leadership, and deeply held ideology.
A growl rumbles from Vulcan's chest. His temperature spikes, the air around him shimmering with heat. His fury crashes against my consciousness like storm waves against a cliff. My own anger rises to meet his, amplifying our shared emotions until electricity dances across my skin.
I press my hand against his forearm, feeling scales ripple beneath my touch.Not now. Information first.
He exhales slowly, nostrils flaring as he struggles for control. His eyes meet mine, vertical pupils fully dilated. Predator's eyes. The look sends a jolt of heat straight to my core despite the situation.
Blaze continues questioning, each precise inquiry designed to reveal more about the conspiracy's extent. I watch the prisoner's body language, catching micro-expressions that his words try to hide. He's protecting someone—eyes shifting slightly whenever Metu's name enters the conversation.
"You believe you're saving your people," I say suddenly, interrupting the formal flow. Both Blaze and the prisoner turn to me, surprised. "You're not acting out of hatred. You genuinely believe we're the threat."
The prisoner's jaw tightens, but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition. Someone sees his motivation, finally.
"The Ancestral Flame Protocol nearly destroyed us once," he says, words rushing out before he can stop them. "Tampering with powers we barely understand. The progressive faction brings us to the edge of extinction while patting themselves on the back for their enlightenment."
Vulcan steps forward, electricity dancing along his forearms. "And yet your 'traditional' approach has led to generations of declining flame strength, failing wards, and weakening bloodlines."
The prisoner bares teeth that momentarily sharpen to points. "Better a slow decline than instant annihilation."
The air charges between them, two predators squaring off. Vulcan's need to dominate, to protect what's his, radiates from him in waves of heat. My body responds instinctively to his display—heart racing, breath catching, thighs clenching with unwanted arousal. Fuck these dragon hormones. Even in this tense interrogation, my body can't help reacting to his display of power.
I catalog every word, every reaction. This isn't just political disagreement. This is existential conflict with both sides believing they're preventing extinction.
"The evidence establishes a conspiracy."
Raak's declaration hangs in the emergency council chamber as I conclude my presentation. The fragments of disruption technology from the border ward lie on the central table, damning in their deliberate design. The recorded testimony plays from a specialized crystal, capturing the lieutenant's every word with perfect fidelity—including his admission of Metu's involvement.
Most damning are the harmonic analysis results from both incidents—identical frequency signatures between the Solstice Gathering disruption and our border ward sabotage. Not similar. Identical.
The progressive councilors exchange glances of vindicated satisfaction. They've been warning about traditionalist extremism for months, only to have their concerns dismissed as paranoia.
My mind races ahead, identifying vulnerabilities, potential targets, defensive priorities. Every instinct honed through years of firefighting screams that we're in the path of an incoming firestorm.
