The Violet Storm
Victor's fingers cramped, and he shook as he blew out a long, shuddering breath that held both fear and thin hope. The lightning arcs around him hung suspended in mid-air, as if measuring his worth, challenging his courage. For an instant—a held breath—añ there was no crackling energy burning or menacing but rather a sort of. awareness, a sort of patience, moving around him like water round a recalcitrant rock: giving way, impossible to hold.
He raised his head, violet eyes wide, the storm reflected in the whirlpool of his stare. The lightning flickered across his pupils in small, captivating flashes, a mirror of the raw, uncombed power he was just starting to control. It was frightening. It was lovely. It was alive—and Victor felt a spark of connection, a strand of command weaving through the turmoil for the first time.
