Page 21 of Where Lightning Strikes Twice (Fated Mates, Stubborn Hearts #2)

KAEL

T he 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 thirteen years.

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—watch with 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.”

“Not a threat. A promise.”

Elder Talon raises his staff, thumping it against the stone floor. “There will be order in this council!” He turns to Elena, curiosity evident beneath his stern expression. “Healer, you claim our bloodline is weakening. Explain.”

Viktor protests, but Elder Talon silences him with a gesture. The council leans forward, their collective attention focused on Elena. Despite everything, I feel a surge of pride as she stands straighter, shifting effortlessly into the role of scientific educator.

“Storm Eagle genetics contain unique markers for elemental manipulation,” she explains, her voice gaining confidence.

“These markers require specific complementary genes to remain stable across generations. Without new genetic input, these markers become increasingly unstable—leading to weakened abilities, physical problems, and eventually sterility.”

She speaks clearly, translating complex genetic theory into terms they can understand. Elder Tempest, always the most traditional council member, frowns in concentration.

“You’re suggesting we need to… breed… with other clans?” she asks, the distaste evident in her voice.

“I’m suggesting that genetic diversity strengthens, not weakens,” Elena corrects. “Your ancestors understood this. The oldest Storm Eagles formed alliances with ground clans that had complementary magical abilities. It wasn’t contamination—it was survival.”

“Lies and manipulation!” Viktor shouts. “She twists ancient knowledge to serve Haven’s Heart’s agenda!”

“If that were true,” I interject, “why would she have risked her life to save mine in the canyon? Why would Haven’s Heart consider her a traitor for helping me?”

The council chambers fall silent as this information registers. Elder Talon’s gaze sharpens.

“Is this true, healer? Your people consider you a traitor?”

Elena nods. “I violated direct orders when I left to find Kael. They captured me when I was healing him.” Her eyes find mine briefly. “I chose to help him despite knowing the consequences.”

“Why?” Elder Tempest asks, genuine confusion in her voice. “Why betray your people for an enemy?”

Elena hesitates, and I can see her weighing her words carefully.

“Because I believe in truth over politics. Kael’s death would benefit no one except those who profit from conflict.

And because…” she pauses, then continues with quiet conviction, “because what’s happening between our peoples is more important than old hatreds. ”

Viktor snorts derisively. “Sentiment. Weakness. The very corruption I warned against.” He turns to the council. “We’ve heard enough. The penalty for contamination is death for both parties. I call for immediate execution.”

“You call for immediate execution because you fear what she might reveal about your own plans,” I challenge. “Tell them, Viktor. Tell them about your alliance with the Dire Wolves.”

Shock ripples through the council chamber. Alliance with Dire Wolves—our ancient enemies—is unthinkable.

“More desperate lies,” Viktor dismisses, but I notice the slight tension in his shoulders.

“Not lies,” Elena interjects. “I found communications in his private quarters while being held. He’s promised the wolves access to southern hunting grounds in exchange for ground support against Haven’s Heart.”

Viktor moves with explosive speed, backhanding Elena with enough force to send her stumbling. “Silence, ground-dweller!”

I lunge forward, but the guards restrain me as lightning crackles involuntarily around my bound wrists. The suppression runes should prevent this, but something has changed in me since Elena’s healing in the canyon. My storm magic responds differently now, stronger, more focused.

“She speaks truth,” comes a voice from the chamber entrance. Zara stands there, her bronze hair disheveled, her expression fierce. “I found the same evidence in Viktor’s quarters.”

“The Stormwright’s sister,” Viktor sneers. “Hardly an impartial witness.”

Zara steps fully into the chamber, unrolling a parchment. “This bears your seal, Viktor. A treaty with Alpha Fenris of the Dire Wolves, promising territorial concessions in exchange for military support.”

The council erupts in outrage. Dire Wolves are considered dishonorable even among ground clans—known for breaking treaties when convenient and slaughtering innocents without remorse.

Viktor’s composure fractures. “Sometimes necessary evils serve the greater good! The prophecy must be fulfilled!”

“The prophecy speaks of uniting, not conquering,” I say, watching as Viktor’s carefully constructed facade begins to crumble. “You’ve twisted ancient words to serve your ambition.”

Elder Talon takes the parchment from Zara, studying it with increasing concern. “This appears authentic. Stormwarden, explain yourself.”

Viktor’s gaze darts around the chamber, calculating. I recognize the look—he’s searching for escape routes, assessing threats. Whatever plan he had is unraveling, and Viktor has never responded well to failure.