Page 2 of Breaking Storm

Two Luminary guards hauled a wheeled iron cage through the gates. Inside, a purple-clad prisoner clung to the bars until they dragged him out and threw him at Daven’s feet.

The man’s prison uniform stuck to his skin, dark with sweat from the day’s heat. His face filled the holo screens above, bright with tears and wild with panic.

“You’re too kind,” Daven said, smiling as he watched the prisoner crumple in front of him.

“Please.” The man looked up, eyes wide. “I’ll do anything. Please, l-let me live.”

Daven circled him slowly, pretending to consider it. “Hm. What do you think? Should I keep this man?” He glanced at the stands. “Should I let him live, despite his crimes against my family? Or should I sentence him to slavery for the rest of his miserable life?”

The crowd laughed.

“Should I fuck him?” He grabbed the man’s hair and wrenched his head back, inspecting him. “Nah.”

Letting go of the prisoner, he strode away. The wind picked up across the arena, brushing the sand into restless curls. The crowd leaned forward.

Run, the air whispered against the prisoner’s skin.

“Please,” the man wheezed. But it was already too late. His fate was sealed. His sister still clung to the front railing, crying for mercy, and it changed nothing.

You’re mine, Daven thought.

He exhaled, and the air responded. The prisoner’s breath snagged. The pressure tightened behind his ribs, squeezing until every inhale turned ragged.

Daven lifted one hand. “Move.”

The prisoner bolted. He staggered on the first stride but ran harder, his gasps tearing out in panicked bursts that vanished into the wind.

Daven followed at a lazy stroll. He let the sand, the heat, and the thousands of eyes shape him into exactly what they’d come to see. The air stirred at his ankles, chasing ahead of him.

Good Light, his Aureate was even better than he’d imagined. Every stumble ahead of him sent a sharp thrill through his body. The need tightened low in his chest, hot and mean and impossible to ignore.

Daven could see the prisoner’s throat working where he’d fallen, could see his lungs fighting for a breath Daven already owned. “Go on, keep running.”

“I c-can’t…” the man wheezed.

“Yes, you can.”

The man tried anyway. Such a good sport.

“Show them how long you believe you can last.” Daven lifted his hand, and the wind carried his voice to the farthest row.

The man reached toward the stands for a mercy that didn’t exist.

Daven flicked his wrist, and the air hardened in front of him. The prisoner slammed into the invisible wall full-force, his head snapping back on impact. He slid down it, palms scraping through the grit.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, no.”

Daven stepped closer, boots pressing into the sand with slow certainty. “You wanted mercy?” His voice was almost kind. “That’s not what they came for. They came for spectacle. Didn’t you?”

He turned his hand. Pressure cracked against the ground, sending sand leaping in sharp arcs.

The crowd howled. “Daven. Daven. Daven.”

Pressure rolled and pinned the man by the chest. For a second, their eyes met. Whatever plea he had left died in his throat.

Daven closed his hand, and the air compressed. The man’s lungs collapsed with a wet crack. Sand flashed white at the point of impact, a sharp pulse that lit the arena for a single beat and caught in Daven’s amber eyes.

The prisoner let out one final pitiful whine. Then he went still.