Page 50 of Storm

Except when it comes to her.

Storm. My Storm.

My wife.

Mine.

It’s a constantly spinning loop in my head. Colour is not something that greets us very often in Halo, but the day she fell at my feet, I found my first and only favourite hue—cobalt blue—so dazzling it bewitched me in every possible way.

Those depths of endlessness cast their hook and sank deep.

I was hers.

She was mine.

My Storm. And she’s having my baby.

Fucking hell. My dick is hard.

The boy swings, narrowly missing my jaw. He had the added benefit of my distraction. Besting me is another thing altogether. I’m taller, faster, and smarter than all these little assholes combined. They barely reach my shoulders. Must be all the fucking medically fortified inbred offspring bullshit they are currently using.

Each of these pitiful sacks of male specimens will meet their end against the magical creatures fighting for dominance where the tree line lies. The lands beyond are foreign to us. No Halo keepers or farmers ever return from past that point. No-man’s-land.

Sacriligious.

The war between Halo and the colourful creatures beyond is a folly. They constantly try to find ways to sneak beyond our borders. To trick us with their magic, to take our land and people. Our drones and cameras are always watching, and we are constantly waiting, with attacks that end up crippling both parties.

It’s a war we have been fighting for over a century. Sometimes, there are low points, where both parties retreat to recoup for a few years. Now is one such time. Scouting has proven that the beasts beyond the trees are potentially gearing up for another attack. And this is what I have to send them. Children.

I slam my fist into the face of the boy, barely above eighteen, charging my way. A crack vibrates through the atmosphere, everyone stops their fighting in various places within the sparring field to watch. The ‌young man embedded in my fist crumbles.

Scoffing, I unclench my fist, stretch it out, and walk away. I’ve had my fill. The keepers can pick up the pieces. They’ll see worse on a battlefield, especially when they are warring against the elements. They are lucky I left them alive. It would’ve been a mercy to kill them here. I’m not the sort of man to care for trivial concepts like mercy. No one has spared me the benefit of such grace. I’ve worked hard for everything I have achieved.

As much as we require chosen Halos to endure our way of life, we have been gradually supplementing with technological warfare, as depicted in the codex. The precious metals found in the mountains come in handy for more than pretty trinkets. It has come at a price. The Airiels want the solence saved, not drained on sight. Capturing live beasts in mass has proved difficult.

Scrubbing a hand over the scruff of hair I’ve allowed to linger on my jawline, I take measured steps towards the showers to cool off before heading home to her.

War and Storm.

Storm and war.

It’s one or the other. She doesn’t know the extent of Halo, of the fight against the creatures beyond the doomed line of greenery. Her countenance would suffer. I’ve allowed her to seclude herself away at the house because it’s the only rational option. If I could spend all my days within those four walls, basking in her pure effervescence, untainted by this life of derision, I would.

Stuck in the power of her blaring light, walking along in my illusion of her, I’m taken aback by the man who places himself in my path as I traverse the covered walkway to the bathing chambers.

“Good afternoon, Commander Abaddon.”

The words string together on thin, shrivelling lips, the tone grating on my nerves. Lord Azazel, one of the seven council members and original solence lines, has gone too long between rituals, judging from his diminishing exterior—or it’s the effects finally catching up to him. Magical solence from the “fairy” creatures only carries so far unless one drinks it daily, and we don’t have the reserves for that, as most ends up being rationed out to the empire.

Azazel is one of the oldest members, a firstborn, having witnessed the original settlement. Most men on the council have been succeeded by firstborn sons. I’m a third-generation, while most of the sitting Airiel Council members are second generation, having used the power of the magical creatures’ solence to keep them alive for longer than a normal human lifespan.

“Lord Azazel.” I shift my chin slightly as a sign of respect that is more for appearance’s sake. It’s been a long road, trying to outgrow the wounds my commander father has placed on my psyche. He trained me to be compliant, to follow the ways of Halo at all costs until death.

“I hear congratulations are in order.” His glassy, beady eyes are alight. “Your little serond slut has proved herself worthy.”

Tinder sets my skin aflame. RAGE. My knuckles crack. The clicking sound quakes the oxygen surrounding our bodies, trapping us in this place.

Jaw clenched, hands fisted, I speak with displeasure, imagining squashing the bug before me. “I would implore you, Lord Azazel, to refrain from calling my wife a slut unless you would like your face rearranged.” One warning. He doesn’t even deserve that.