//------------------------------//
// Chapter 5: Broken 
// Story: Tales from the Second Age of Magic 
// by VeganSpyro97 
//------------------------------//

Tempest stared at the armour that clung to her body. It was an adapted version of what her fellow soldiers wore, though she was not fooled by her King’s explanation for why she deserved it. After all, she was still being trained. She was not a great leader or a warrior yet. So a set of custom armour did not seem justified, considering just how much trouble the King went through to make sure it fit her properly. 
Capturing a pony armoursmith just to make her a set of armour, since his own armourers were unable to adjust their designs to suit her quadrupedal body, was not an action taken for a lowly student- even if she were central to his plans. 
No. This was not a gift for her hard work, nor her progress. 
The blood seeping from her neck was testament to that. 
The armour fit perfectly everywhere else, but at her neck, the collar bit into her skin. It was just enough to only be agitated by quick movements and tensed muscles, but she could see what it really was. A reminder as to who was in charge.
Bastard.
Tempest turned away from the mirror she had been staring into, and walked away, her new hoof coverings clacking against the stone floor of the Storm King’s Citadel. She gritted her teeth at the sound. She always hated how noisy the Storm Guards were, and now she was being lumped in with the brutes. 
Every day was a slog here. In Equestria, at the hooves of insensitive children who had demeaned her for years, then moved on to assault and bone breaking as they grew up, she had at least had her parents to go to. Here, in the citadel, a massive building built in mid air over a huge canyon, there was only one person she could trust aside from herself, and he was just as miserable and unable to reassure her as she was able to reassure him. 
She stomped angrily through the halls, making her way to the throne room, as was customary for her to do each day since she had joined the fold. Her thoughts drifted to the day her life became hell, and her irritation only grew, sparks leaping from her shattered horn.
The Storm King had found her as a young mare, she having run away from the endless torment of the peers who made fun of her disability. Angry and scared, she’d fled from the arms of one torment and jumped headlong into the arms of another, simply because he’s said exactly what she’d wanted to hear. Vengeance. Claiming what was rightfully hers. Becoming strong. 
Yes, he kept banging on about strength, and it did her head in to constantly hear him go on about it. So it being one of his major selling points for recruitment for his army annoyed her now more than ever. 
It had been so much easier when she had just been running from the ones who had hurt her, looking for a way to heal herself.
But now she was surrounded by them every day, with no hope of escape. 
The Commander snarled, grinding her teeth together in rage. She’d been a stupid, self-obsessed little foal. Too blind to see the truth before it was too late. 
She missed what she’d left behind. Her friends. Her family. 
She stamped into the throne room, holding her head high and lifting her knees to make it look like she was strutting, as if she didn’t get what her armour represented, as if she didn’t realize the design choices had all been deliberate.
The only way she could survive, or even contemplate escape: Play the ignorant stooge.
So the ignorant stooge, she would play. 
“My King. I thank you for this mighty gift!” She called, upon reaching the foot of the tyrant’s overly large throne. She hated the stupid thing. It represented everything wrong with him. It was large, overly decorated in depictions of conquests and wars fought and battles past, and seemed to perfectly capture the over inflated ego that sat upon it.
“I acknowledge your thanks.” The Storm King said, with a slight nod. While she hated him and everything he stood for, the moment she stood in his presence, she was reminded why she was so terrified of openly defying him. 
At twelve feet tall, with dark armour designed from the start to add significant intimidation to his appearance, and those piercing, intelligent blue eyes, the Storm King looked as fearsome as his reputation for brutality and power plays. Every word he said was calculated. It made her blood run cold.
“I would ask, my King, what you would have me do now?” Tempest said, making sure not to rise from her bow just yet. She needed to regain her composure first.
“You will go to Abyssinia. Once you are there, you will remind the steward of Klugetown that his shipment of arms is behind schedule. And impose upon him the seriousness of this delay. Panthera must fall before the year is out if my plans are to go ahead, and to do that, we need those weapons and ammunition.” The Storm King’s voice was not loud or obnoxious. He instead radiated a quiet and eerie calm that kept most guessing as to his true feelings on a matter, hiding the stormy and explosive rage that he displayed on only the rarest of occasions, reserving his ire for traitors, cowards and rebels. “And Commander?”
Tempest raised her head to look at him, finally managing to get her emotions back under control. “Yes, my Liege?”
“If he attempts to negotiate for more time, break something.” The King was gazing out of one of the windows on either side of the throne room, not interested in continuing the conversation longer than necessary. “Preferably something painful that takes a long time to heal. I want to make sure he gets the message.”
Tempest’s eye twitched, and her lips curls down ever so slightly. “As you wish, my King.” With that, she turned and started to trot away.
“And get someone to clean up the blood you’ve left on the floor.”
Tempest’s ears splayed back. Damnit. She recognized the subtle message in that command. 'Nice try.'
Her mask slipping from her face as left, Tempest bit her lip in frustration, her horn sparking once again. Damn him. 


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