Page 1 of Breaking Storm

PROLOGUE

The Celebration of the Dead.

It was the only event that still filled the arena at the heart of Helion.

It had outlived reform, outlived protest, outlived the memory of the first blood spilled to justify it. Tonight was no exception.

Helion called itself the greenest planet in its galaxy. The safest. Order was its pride, sold beside medicine and technology from the white inner districts to the storm-facing outer ring, while the cost never made it into the records.

Tonight, the glass dome sealed shut beneath the stars. Merchants closed early. Families arrived together, lifting children onto their shoulders so they could see the promised spectacle.

This was tradition. And tonight, Imperial Milanov Zephyranth would give Helion what it had come for.

He would let Helion’s newest princely weapon off the leash.

The arena throbbed with life. The stands overflowed, packed tight with bodies and sound. Laughter collided with grief. Wine sloshed. Hands clapped.

Coins flashed between fingers as bets changed hands. Someone hurled a half-eaten tigano crust into the sand below, and the row around him laughed.

In the front row, a woman gripped the railing while the crowd beside her leaned in to watch. They always did. The front rows were reserved for those invited to witness their loved ones die.

Helion called it closure.

The families called it the second sentence.

“Long live Helion!”

Someone broke from the stands and sprinted for the heart of the arena, arms lifted in a wild wave. The Luminary intercepted him before he made it three steps onto the sand, dragging him out so quickly the crowd barely had time to laugh.

Fool.

Tonight, the center of the arena belonged to death. Below, black-and-gold uniforms reset into formation, precise as clockwork.

When the national hymn ended, a metallic voice rolled across the holo screens unfolded beneath the dome.

“Fellow Helions. Tonight, we celebrate the first Aureate of my nephew and your prince, Daven Caelith.”

The crowd erupted.

The screen sharpened into the face of the Imperial, Milanov Zephyranth. He looked ageless, platinum-haired and pale, his amethyst eyes bright with danger. Then the image froze. A murmur rippled through the stands. For one suspended beat, the arena held its breath.

The double doors shuddered open, and Daven stepped onto the sand.

The roar that followed rattled the dome.

“Daven Caelith!”

Daven smiled like the arena had always been his. Dressed in ceremonial red, he crossed onto the sand, the gold at his collar catching the lights. Pale blond hair streaked with silver fell loose around his ears.

Tonight was his first Aureate. His first public proving.

Daven gave the crowd an elegant bow, then turned and gestured toward the gates.

It was time.

Drums pounded through the arena. The stands answered with a roar.

“Celebrate the death!” they chanted.