Page 12 of Ashfall (Firebound #1)

CHAPTER 11

EMBER

T he light coming through the tent canvas is barely gray when I wake, my skin damp with sweat and a chill clinging to my spine. My breath catches, a tight flutter in my chest like something inside me knew to brace for something I hadn’t seen coming. My body’s tense, strung tight like a wire stretched to its limit, and it takes effort to pry my hands from the blanket. I sit up slowly; the cot creaking beneath me, muscles aching in strange places, like I’d been fighting something in my sleep. I glance toward the tent flap.

It looks... wrong. Not open. Not obviously disturbed. Just different. A few inches misaligned from how I closed it last night. A subtle wrinkle in the fabric. A crease where there shouldn’t be. And something else—almost like the air inside the tent is heavier, still holding a breath that doesn’t belong to me. I stare at it for a second too long, that quiet tickle at the base of my spine refusing to go away. Like someone was here. Like I wasn’t alone.

I frown, but the unease keeps buzzing beneath my skin. Tell myself I’m being paranoid, that it’s just sleep fog and overwork playing tricks on my perception. But that doesn’t stop the icy knot forming in my gut—or the way I keep glancing over my shoulder like someone might still be here, just out of sight.

Still, I check my bag, moving slower than usual, as if expecting something to leap out at me. My laptop’s untouched. My notes and laptop are exactly where I left them, even the pen I dropped last night resting at the same odd angle. Nothing looks out of place—but the feeling lingers. Like someone slipped in and out without leaving a mark. I see nothing missing, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t take something. Maybe someone was looking for something I haven’t even found yet.

But the sense of being watched, of something lingering, won’t go away. It threads through the air like smoke, curling into my lungs, heavy and invisible. I keep looking over my shoulder, half-expecting the flap to rustle again, to catch a whisper of breath that isn’t mine. Like something came and stayed—just out of sight, just out of reach—but not gone. It’s the kind of sensation that sticks to your skin, that whispers through your hair even after you’ve checked every corner and turned on every light. A low hum in my bones that doesn’t fade with reason. It’s not just a feeling anymore. It’s a warning.

At breakfast, the sense only deepens. The mess tent buzzes with low conversation and the scrape of metal against tin plates, but it all seems to go still the moment I step in. The firefighters are unusually quiet this morning—too quiet. Nods are stiff, eyes slide past me too quickly, and whatever energy was in the room before seems to thin out around me. I try twice to spark a discussion—bring up the cluster patterns, the irregular wind anomalies, ask questions I know demand answers—but both times I’m met with polite non-answers. Shrugs. Deflections. As if they’re following a script that tells them to keep their mouths shut. It’s not indifference. It’s avoidance. Like they’re afraid of saying too much.

The third time, I don’t waste my breath on subtlety. I cross the space between us and plant myself squarely in front of the base commander, arms crossed, jaw set. His crew might look the other way, but I won’t let him. Not today. Not when I’m this close to something and he’s acting like I’m the one lighting matches.

"We’ve got accelerant traces with no origin points, ignition signatures that don’t match known patterns," I say. "This isn’t wildfire behavior—it’s controlled. Directed. Someone’s building something with these fires."

He barely glances at me. "My priority is the blaze. Not your conspiracy theory."

"It’s not a theory," I snap. “I’m not your problem—I’m your paperwork’s worst nightmare… and oh yeah, a trained investigator who has closed more cases than anyone else in the department.”

He lifts his coffee cup with infuriating calm. "Then prove it. Until then, I have smokejumpers in the air and a containment line on the brink. I don’t have time to babysit a Fed chasing ghosts."

Fine. I bite down on the rest of what I want to say, the sarcasm itching on my tongue like wildfire licking at dry brush. But what’s the point? His mind’s made up. So I spin on my heel before I say something that’ll get me booted from the base entirely.

I return to my tent, teeth clenched, still simmering from the dismissal. Every word the base commander said circles my thoughts like smoke, refusing to clear. I slam the flap shut harder than necessary, drop into the chair, and flip open my laptop. Might as well put my frustration to use.

I start filing the morning’s report—status notes, site updates, fire line progression. It’s mechanical. Pointless. Each keystroke feels disconnected, like I’m watching myself from a distance, going through the motions while something tighter, fiercer, coils in my chest. My fingers type, but my brain’s stuck in a loop of fury and unanswered questions. The commander’s dismissal. The silence at breakfast. The feeling that something—or someone—is actively trying to keep me in the dark. I’m not just frustrated. I’m done being handled.

Then, something strange catches my eye: a folder sitting in my downloads—Blackstrike Logs: Historical.I pause. I don’t remember downloading it. I don’t even remember seeing it.

Curious and suddenly uneasy, I open it. My pulse kicks up as the folder expands. Someone hid this; it wasn’t a standard data dump or oversight—they buried it deep, hoping it would never be found. Like it was left here… or planted. The filenames alone raise red flags: dates that don’t match deployment logs, operations tagged with strange identifiers. And deeper still? Dispatch entries I’ve never seen before. Some of them are marked as classified. Others... just blank. No timestamps. No authors. Just a date and a fire that shouldn’t have existed.

It’s a tangle of incident reports going back almost two decades. Someone filed, dated, and time-stamped some of them properly. But others—scanned copies of handwritten notes, brief summaries of unexplained hotspots—don’t match up. Fire zones logged without official fire start codes. Time gaps. The Blackstrike Unit’s deployments are documented in dispatches, but these lack corresponding events in federal fire records.

They're just missing... or erased... or hidden.

I don’t hesitate. I grab my field jacket, shove the laptop in my backpack, and head into the trees to find Dax. Every step out of camp feels like stepping off the edge of something I won’t be able to climb back from. But I need answers—and I’m done waiting for someone to hand them to me.

The sky is changing as I walk. It feels almost hushed and ancient. The scent of ash rides the breeze, mingling with the bite of pine. Dawn paints the sky in streaks of orange and smoke when I spot him near the far edge of camp. He stands like a statue cut from shadow, facing the ridge like he's waiting for something to rise out of it. Or someone.

Something in my chest kicks hard, sharp and sudden like a flare igniting behind my ribs. Because I think—deep down—I know what he’s waiting for. Not a signal. Not a threat. Not a sunrise. Me. He’s waiting for me. Like he felt me coming before I ever stepped into view. And now that I’m here, the air feels too thick, too charged, like every second between us is one spark away from catching fire.

"What aren’t you telling me?" I call out.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn. Just walks away.

"You shouldn’t be here," he says quietly.

I step closer. "Too bad. I am. Want to tell me about these missing and inconsistent reports from your unit?"

That stops him. He turns and tilts his head, his eyes finally meeting mine, and the air between us tightens. There’s something wild and sharp in them—something that flickers like restrained fire. Hunger. Fury. A knowing that cuts deep. It looks like it hurts to hold back, like every breath is a battle not to step forward, not to touch, not to claim. And I feel it. All of it.

"It’s not safe," he murmurs.

"Not good enough, Dax. I found inconsistencies in your files. Deployments without events. Reports that were never sent to D.C. What the hell is going on?"

He opens his mouth to answer—something close, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes—but then stiffens. Hard. Every muscle in his body locks, his head jerking slightly to the side like he’s heard something I haven’t. His nostrils flare. His entire stance morphs—from intense to alert, predator-silent. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue, replaced by something far older: instinct, warning, danger.

A second later, his hand wraps around my arm, firm but not rough—grounding, but urgent. His grip sends a jolt through me, not just from the shock of contact but from the way his entire body radiates tension, heat, purpose. "Run. Now," he says, his voice low and sharp. Not panic. Command. The kind that doesn’t beg questions. It demands obedience.

We sprint into the trees, the underbrush tearing at my pants as he pulls me deeper into the forest, away from camp. My heart pounds like a drumbeat in my throat, and branches claw at my arms as we weave through thick growth. I barely keep up with him—he moves like he knows every twist of the terrain, every dip in the forest floor.

There’s no time for questions. Just the sound of our footfalls, ragged breathing, and the ever-present sense that something massive and deadly is hunting the sky above us. Whatever he saw—whatever he sensed—has him running like the fire line’s at our heels. And I trust that. I trust him, even when I don’t understand why.

"What the..."

"Quiet," he hisses.

We stop only when he presses me back against a rock outcropping, shielding me with his body. My back hits the stone, but I hardly feel it—because all I can register is him. His body, his heat, his strength surrounding me like a shield forged from fire. My pulse thunders in my ears, adrenaline flooding every inch of me. But it’s not just fear.

I’m confused—every survival instinct telling me to stay still, stay hidden—yet my body reacts to his closeness like it’s the only safe place left. His breath brushes my cheek. The arm braced beside my head makes me feel caged, protected, wanted. And I hate that I feel it. I hate how my skin hums beneath his, how my hands ache to touch him back.

Because even now—especially now—I want him. And I don’t know what that means.

Overhead, something passes.

A shadow. Massive. Fast. Wings.

The shape tears across the sliver of sky above the trees like a living weapon, blotting out light, and I freeze. My breath seizes in my lungs, my skin tightening like it’s reacting to something more than wind or instinct. Every rational part of me screams it’s a low aircraft—a spotter chopper caught in the updrafts—but another part, deeper and older, howls in protest. Something primal recognizes the silhouette. The wingspan is too wide, the sound too silent, the speed too exact. Not metal. Not man-made.

My knees nearly buckle. Not from fear. Confusion swirls through me like smoke—thick, disorienting. Because I shouldn’t know what I just saw. And yet, some part of me does... and that terrifies me more than the shadow itself.

Dax locks his gaze upward, his body coiled like a predator poised to strike. He’s not surprised. He’s waiting. Not just for danger to pass, but for confirmation. For recognition. For the moment, the impossible becomes real. His posture isn’t tense with fear—it’s readiness. Like whatever is flying above us, he knows it intimately. And that realization crashes over me like cold water. Because he’s not afraid.

Whatever that is, it isn't an unknown to Dax. He recognizes it instantly. Not with fear, but with grim familiarity—like an old nightmare returned. And I know—I know—he’s seen it before. The look in his eyes isn’t just recognition; it’s personal. The kind of knowing that leaves scars. And suddenly, I’m not sure who or what I’ve aligned myself with, or whether I’m the one being protected… or kept in the dark.

I reach for him without thinking, fingers curling into his shirt, seeking something solid, something real in the chaos spinning around me. I don’t know if I’m trying to ground myself or pull him closer—or both. And then we’re kissing.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s raw, consuming, like striking a match in a room already filled with gas. His mouth crushes mine with a hunger that mirrors everything building in me—need, confusion, fear, fury. My fingers clutch at his chest like I could hold back the storm inside me if I just hang on tight enough.

And for a few impossibly hot, blinding seconds, we burn together.

No warning. No breath. Just an eruption of heat—scorching, urgent, alive. Desperation clings to every movement, every gasp. His mouth slants over mine, rough and claiming, and I meet him with equal fire. Teeth clash, tongues twist, and it’s messy, frantic, like we’re devouring something we can’t name. His hands slide into my hair, gripping, guiding, anchoring me against him. My fingers tangle in his shirt, fisting tight like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. The world falls away in a rush of blood, flame and need so raw it makes my knees shake. I don’t remember moving. I don’t remember who kissed who. Only the taste of him, the burn of us, and how I never want it to end.

All I know is we’re pressed together, lost in a moment so intense it feels like it could rip the sky open. The world narrows to the heat of his body, the grind of his mouth on mine, the fire licking beneath my skin that refuses to be ignored. There’s no thought, no doubt, just instinct and heat and the terrifying freedom of letting go.

Until it crashes over me.

Reality slams back like a slap of cold water. I recoil as if scorched, my breath shattering in my chest, and stumble back a step as if space will somehow clear the fog inside me. My lips tingle. My fingers are still curled. And all I can think is—what the hell just happened to me?

"I can’t…" I start, breathless. "I don’t…"

His eyes are dark. Blazing. The kind of heat that could consume, command, destroy—and rebuild. He looks at me like I’m already his, like the fight to let me go is a war waging behind his eyes. But he lets me go. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like releasing a lifeline.

"You’re not ready," he says softly. Not accusing. Just... knowing.

I leave him there in the trees, the press of his body and the memory of his mouth still seared into my skin like a second layer of heat. My legs feel shaky, untrustworthy, like they’re not entirely convinced we’re done yet. My thoughts spin—wild and fractured—each step away from him thick with static, like I’m wading through fog. My heart doesn’t just pound. It thunders, echoing with confusion, with something too fierce to name. Because something changed back there. And I don’t know how to come back from it.

Back at my tent, I finish my reports, but the numbers blur, melting into meaningless strings across the screen. No one else seems to care about the why behind these fires. About the pattern, the symbols, the purpose. The truth lies buried in ash and smoke. No one but me. It’s like I’m chasing ghosts while everyone else insists there’s nothing in the dark. I’m starting to wonder if that’s because I’m the only one who can—the only one willing to look deeper, to question what we’ve been told. Or maybe... maybe I’m the only one left who hasn't been silenced.

That night, I dream about fire. But not outside. Inside. It doesn’t roar or rage—it whispers. It slides under my skin like molten silk, curling through my chest, threading down my arms, spreading through my veins like liquid heat. It coils behind my ribs, a slow, sensuous burn that hums with power and something that feels disturbingly like recognition. It licks at my lungs with every breath, hot and strangely soothing. I’m burning but not breaking. Alive in a way I’ve never been before.

When I wake, the room is dark, the air cool against my overheated skin. I think, for a moment, the dream is still holding me—that sensation of fire beneath flesh is too real to simply vanish. But then I look down, and I see it. My skin glows—soft, ethereal, pulsing faintly like embers under the moonlight. A soft amber shimmer curls along the inside of my arms, tracing my veins like fire caught just beneath the surface. It moves subtly, like it’s alive, like it’s listening. I blink hard, rub at it, but it doesn’t disappear.

Not until I touch it—and it fades, reluctantly, as if reluctant to leave me. The light dims, retreating beneath my skin like an ember curling deeper into ash. Even then, I feel the heat linger beneath my fingertips, humming faintly, like it knows me. Like it chose me. A secret burned into my bones, etched in flame and blood and something I don’t understand yet. But it was there. And something in me knows—it still is.