The Sleeper and the Silverblood

Outside the library of AIDO headquarters, down a hall of marble columns and gilt scrollwork, past a statue of an angel brandishing a book aloft, and across a two-story lobby featuring spectacular crystal chandeliers and mezzanine balconies, dense clusters of whispering immortals lingered just outside the personal space of a silver-eyed angel studying the ceiling of headquarters’ recreational lounge.

Like he was the sun, and they planets in his orbit.

Hell, to some of them, he was their sun. Their shining star, their source of light.

But Storm Avensäel had no desire to be these immortals’ sun or anything else.

What he wanted was choice. The option to choose his own path, to dictate his own destiny, to have any kind of say over his own life.

Instead…

Denied. We’ve discussed this, Storm. Next time, I won’t give you the courtesy of a personal reply.

- Dad

Storm scowled at the ceiling, remembering the abrupt missive.

Denied, denied, denied.

Despite glowing recommendations from his commanding officers, his instructors, even the High Warrior himself, still his father refused to grant him a chance.

Every other Major in the Warrior profession commanded their own regiment. But not Storm. No, Storm’s hard-earned rank may as well have been ornamental.

Major Avensäel. Majorly useless. Good only for smiling and placating and “inspiring,” as his father would say.

An angel in a white t-shirt and camo tactical pants crossed the invisible barrier separating Storm from the other loitering immortals. Yawning, he flopped into a neighboring chair. “’Sup.”

“Hey, Declan.” Storm didn’t look away from his intense study of the ceiling.

“Did someone run over your dog?” Declan noted the silverblood’s surly expression.

“Dad vetoed my request for my own regiment,” Storm muttered. “Again.”

“Didn’t the High Warrior personally suggest you command one?” Declan asked, his brow furrowing.

“Yep. My Academy instructors too. He didn’t care.”

“That sucks man, sorry.”

Storm finally turned to face his friend and the closest thing he had to a brother. They had been almost inseparable since their days together in Valëtyria’s military Academy nearly three decades ago, when Declan became his temporary Guardian.

Guardians held a role similar to Warriors, except their role tended toward strictly defensive, not offensive, measures for the AIDO. Warriors sought out battle and made up the majority of the AIDO’s active military, constantly changing locales at the direction of their commanding officers, while Guardians remained at one post for years at a time.

In Declan’s case, he had been assigned to Storm during Storm’s years at the Academy. By the time Storm graduated, they’d developed a strong bond and stayed close. Now Declan headed a regiment responsible for protecting AIDO headquarters. It was a prestigious assignment: one Storm envied him.

“How is it you got to be a Captain at headquarters, but I’m still stuck placating the masses?”

Declan snorted. “I don’t go looking for fights, that’s how. You’re constantly itching for one.”

“I’m a Warrior,” Storm complained. “We’re supposed to look for fights.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Storm ran a frustrated hand through his ink-black hair. “Maybe I wouldn’t be itching for a fight if I had an appropriate outlet for my energy.”

“We could go for a duel,” Declan suggested. “I don’t mind helping you work off some frustration.”

“Don’t tell me you and Zayne want to keep being my pincushions every time I’m in a bad mood?”

“Dude, if you weren’t my friend, I’d tell you to fuck right off,” Declan retorted, but laughter sparkled in his eyes. “You’re not that good.”

He was, and they both knew it. These days, Declan and their other friend, Zayne, could only take him out if they faced him together, and even then, it wasn’t a guarantee. With excessive amounts of free time and access to a cutting-edge military gym, Storm had honed his skills to just shy of Sleeper-level proficiency. Declan and Zayne, however, had jobs and responsibilities.

Storm would have preferred the latter to the former.

“Maybe I should switch professions,” Storm muttered. “Become a Guardian. Then I might be allowed to do something.”

Declan snorted. “Not with that chip on your shoulder. I don’t think William would let you in.”

“Maybe Alasdair could put in a good word with him.”

“Maybe,” Declan conceded.

“Where is he, anyway?” Storm asked, glancing around.

The Guardian shrugged. “Dunno. Said something about a last-minute emergency.”

“That could mean one of his machines needs a reboot, or there’s a horde of Ostragonians bearing down on us,” Storm complained.

“Yep. And we won’t know till he’s done.”

Another friend who had a job and responsibilities, whose existence mattered beyond the circumstances of their birth.

Storm barely managed to suppress a bitter sigh. “I don’t know how to make my dad understand the color of my blood doesn’t matter. That the way I was born doesn’t matter. Not really. He and my mom had sex and I showed up, so what? Who cares?”

Declan sat back a little, like Storm had slapped him. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

Storm raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

His friend looked around at the loitering immortals and lowered his voice. “You are and you know it.”

Storm snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re in awe of my very existence too.”

“I won’t kiss your ass like the others do, if that’s what you mean, but yeah, man. Obviously.”

“Ugh.”

“You and Phoenix are the only recorded natural-born children of the Myragnar. That means something. Hell, even most Valëtyrian kids are test-tube babies these days.”

The ethereal Myragnar—his mother’s people—were considered some of Valëtyria’s strongest immortals, rumored to possess metaphysical abilities beyond those of other Valëtyrians. However, they’d hidden in their realm for so long, it wasn’t clear how much of that was truth or hyperbole.

“I think I’d prefer to be a test-tube baby.”

Declan frowned. “That’s asinine,” he admonished. “You were born with advantages and abilities none of us possess. People dream of being you.”

A flicker of guilt crossed Storm’s face. He hadn’t meant to hurt his friend, but his frustration ate at him, gnawing away whatever sense of decorum he had left.

“I don’t want them to dream of being me, Declan,” Storm said, quieter now. “I want them to see me.”

His words hung in the air, a palpable tension settling between them. The silence filled with the hum of the surrounding immortals and the distant echoes of headquarters.

Declan studied him for a long moment with bright blue eyes, brow furrowed. Finally, his expression softened. “Sometimes, I forget how much it bothers you.”

“Everyone does,” Storm muttered, “because it’s easier to forget.”

The recreational lounge buzzed with activity around them—immortals chatting quietly, book pages rustling, and the soft clink of spoons against coffee cups—but to Storm the world felt too quiet. Too distant. A sphere of existence that saw him and yet remained oblivious to who he truly was.

“You’re not just a silverblood,” Declan said finally. “You’re Storm Avensäel.” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “You’re my friend and my brother-in-arms. You’ve got your faults—stars, do you have your faults—but you’re more than what they see. It’s not about proving yourself to them or to your father.”

Storm sighed, sinking further into his chair. “I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore.”

Before Declan could reply, the comm unit on his wrist chirped in urgent staccato.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s my day off,” the Guardian complained, pulling out his phone. As he read the notification, his expression sobered. “Shit. I gotta go.”

“What happened?” Storm asked, straightening. “Can I help?”

“I don’t think so,” Declan said, standing and pocketing his phone again. “It’s something at the perimeter, maybe just a drill, but they need me up there.”

“All right.”

Declan clapped a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “Try to lighten up. Something’s gotta give eventually. He can’t keep you locked down forever.”

“Wanna bet?” Storm muttered.

“Just keep appeasing the masses and doing the mascot thing for a bit longer. You know who you are, what you’re capable of. Don’t let anyone—not even your father—tell you any differently.”

“I’ll try.”

Declan disappeared from the lounge, and Storm pointedly avoided the gaze of the nearby immortals hoping to catch his attention. The problem was, Storm lacked certainty in his own identity. He knew what people saw when they looked at him: a silverblood, a prize specimen of their kind, the natural-born son of a Myragnar, a miracle. But beyond that, how could he expect his father or the masses to see him as something more when such clarity eluded even himself?

“As a silverblood, you have a duty to embody the best of not just Valëtyria, but the Myragnar as well,” his father told him once. “To aspire to less dishonors your mother’s legacy.”

They’d stayed hidden in their citadel, Myragos, so long, sometimes Storm wondered if any of the Myragnar still lived, scarce as sightings of them were. The way Cornelius Avensäel talked about his wife sometimes, some might think she was already dead.

Not that the High Councilor spoke of his wife much anymore, and Storm found himself automatically following suit. Everyone else stopped asking about her years ago. Hell, maybe most of them did think of her as dead.

Maybe all the Myragnar were as good as dead in the minds of Valëtyrians, which led to Storm’s current predicament: symbolizing one of only two remnants of the Myragnar’s once-great people.

He clenched his fists over his jean-clad thighs. His honor-bound aspirations regarding his mother differed greatly from his father’s—he intended to do her legacy justice by following in her footsteps as a Warrior. A leader. Someone the masses respected for more than something so paltry as the color of her blood.

But he couldn’t become that great Warrior leader if his father shot down his every attempt to assume a commanding role. Almost as if the High Councilor couldn’t bear the similarities between them, the reminder of what led to his wife’s condition.

The people might see him as their sun, their beacon of hope…but his father saw him only as an extension of what he’d lost.

If Storm ever had the opportunity to face those responsible for shattering his family, no one—not Warriors, not Guardians—would deny him the true fight he’d desperately craved for so long.

No one.

Not even his father.

That one even escaped unscathed from that encounter had eaten Storm alive for nearly half a century.

And for her sake, she’d better pray Storm never found whatever dark, squalid corner of the cosmos the AIDO had stuck her in since then.