Page 18 of Ashfall (Firebound #1)

CHAPTER 17

EMBER

P ower hums beneath my skin like a living current. And yeah, it’s kind of badass, but it also scares the crap out of me. What if I lose control? What if I can't go back? Confidence and panic chase each other around in circles, neither quite winning—but for now, I ride the high. Which, frankly, is both awe-inspiring and a little annoying—like my body installed an invisible espresso machine without asking. I feel like a walking caffeine overdose with wings and attitude.

I swear I could vibrate my way through granite. It hasn’t stopped since the shift. Since I became... more. Not just Ember Vale, Fire Investigator. Now I’m Ember Vale, newly made dragon-shifter. I haven’t found the words yet, but my body knows. The fire knows. It moves with me, inside me, through every breath and heartbeat. It’s terrifying. And exhilarating. And okay, more than just a little badass.

I stretch my wings testing the feel of air, weight, and balance. The ghost of flight still lingers in my bones, a memory my muscles haven’t fully shaken—an ache and a thrill that lingers like an aftershock. Just thinking about being airborne again sends a flutter of anticipation through me. There’s freedom in the sky—limitless and wild—that I’ve never felt anywhere else.

No expectations. No ground to tie me down. Just wind, fire, and the sheer wonder of what I’ve become. It clings to me like wind in my lungs, a silent rhythm beneath my skin that whispers of sky and freedom. I remember the weightless rush, the raw joy of breaking gravity’s hold. Nothing else compares.

I’m back in human form now, wrapped in one of Dax’s oversized thermal shirts, perched on a rocky outcrop near the canyon's edge. The sunrise paints the sky in shades of molten copper, setting the cliffs ablaze in light that mirrors the fire still simmering under my skin. And for the first time in days, I feel... alive. Not just breathing. Not just surviving. Burning.

Behind me, Dax clears his throat. "How’s the afterburn?"

"Like tequila and bad decisions," I say, rubbing my shoulder where the dragon mark still glows faintly under my skin. "Only hotter."

He chuckles, but there’s a reverent edge to his gaze. "You handled it better than anyone I’ve seen." He rubs the back of his neck, like he's not sure if he’s impressed or a little unnerved. "Most would’ve melted down. Literally."

"You mean I didn’t incinerate myself?"

Aside from singeing the edge of Dax’s favorite field pack, setting a patch of moss into a spontaneous barbecue, and accidentally torching a perfectly innocent log—which, in my defense, looked suspiciously smug—I came out more or less flame-retardant.

"Exactly." He steps closer. His heat always precedes him. It’s comforting now. Familiar. "Come on. You’ve got training."

Training, it turns out, means learning how not to crash into pine trees. Dax, of course, glides like a damn predator on thermals, all effortless grace and precision, while I’m over here flapping like a dragon-shaped lawn ornament in a windstorm. I, naturally, make it halfway through my first turn before smacking a branch with my tail, doing a midair corkscrew that ends in a not-so-graceful bush dive. I pop out covered in twigs and dignity loss. Dax doesn’t laugh—because he values his life—but I see the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Jerk.

We spend the next hour in the air. Dax teaches me how to bank, how to breathe fire better, how to sense wind currents. I flail, I overcorrect, I spiral once into what can only be described as a midair interpretive dance of disaster—but I’m learning.

Every time I falter, he’s there—calm, steady, quietly dominant in a way that pushes all my buttons and makes me want to punch him and pounce on him at the same time. Every time I do something right, he rewards me with a quiet, "Good girl," and damn if it doesn’t make my toes curl and my inner feminist throws up her hands in confused surrender.

Later, after we land, I pull out my laptop and connect to the encrypted files I took from Price’s drive. My dragon brain is still getting used to human thoughts again—like trying to reboot Windows on a lava flow with a cinnamon latte and a migraine—but something clicks.

The symbols, the spiral, the burn patterns—they’re following ley lines. At first glance, they’d looked like chaos. But now I see the pattern—the design hiding in the destruction. The rogue fires weren’t random. They were ritual. A fire map written in code and ash.

I swipe through seismic overlays, fault lines, geothermal activity charts—every tool in my analytical arsenal. And slowly, the picture sharpens. Every ignition point aligns with a volatile place—volcanic calderas, geothermal pockets, old lava tubes. Places where fire already sleeps under the surface, just waiting for a push.

Malek isn’t just burning things. He’s feeding something ancient, deliberate. Building a fuse line across the spine of the west like a dragon carving its path with flame.

"Holy shit," I whisper. "He’s going to trigger a mass ignition. Something on a scale no one's ready for."

"What kind of scale?" Dax asks, crouched beside me.

"Dragon fire," I say. "He’s using fault zones and ley energy to amplify ignition. If he uploads these last sequences, it’ll detonate half the western fire zones like dominos."

Dax’s jaw tightens. "Then we stop it."

We plan fast, adrenaline already coiling in my gut like a live wire.

"This is going to be insane," I mutter, scrolling through the relay schematics.

"You’ve seen me fly through a firestorm," Dax replies, already pulling on his gear. "I specialize in insane."

"Yeah, well, if we die doing this, I’m haunting you first.". The ignition codes are set to upload from a secure federal relay station buried deep in the national fire grid. No one outside Blackstrike—or Oren—knows how deep this goes. No clearance. No allies. No second chances. Which means no backup. No time. Just us, a single helicopter, and the last line of defense between annihilation and ignition.

Oh, and a bunch of firefighting, smokejumping, fire-breathing dragons.

We take the chopper. It’s a fast, tense flight—wind slicing past us, tension strung between our bodies like a live wire. The silence says everything we aren’t ready to. At one point, Dax’s hand brushes mine on the seat between us, and my breath catches. He glances over, eyes burning with something that could scorch me from the inside out. For a heartbeat, I swear he’s going to kiss me. I lean in a fraction—just enough not to fall if he doesn’t catch me. My chest tightens, breath held like a secret I’m afraid to speak aloud. The need to close the distance is maddening, like gravity pulling at my ribs. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Not until we’re on the ground. Even then, we hesitate—standing there for a breath too long, the helicopter’s rotors still whirling behind us like a ticking clock. Heat ripples off the engines, the scent of scorched metal and pine thick in the air. We land in a remote clearing near the relay site; the trees closing in around us like sentinels. The ground is damp with ash and old fire. It feels like we’re stepping into the mouth of something that’s been waiting to bite.

My boots hit the dirt first, but it’s Dax’s presence that anchors me. One glance, one silent agreement, and then we move. Fast. Determined. But not before the space between us ignites in a way that feels like a promise—one we both know we’re about to break open.

Before we make our move, I reach for him—because I need to. Because if this ends tonight, I want to have touched something real. Because this thing between us has been burning since the second we met, and I’m tired of pretending it’s just heat and not gravity.

His mouth claims mine like fire meeting gasoline—hungry and shocking in its intensity. It’s so full of need it rattles something deep in my chest, cracking open a part of me I didn’t know was locked tight. I feel like I’m finally exhaling after holding my breath for weeks. It’s heat, yes—but it’s also relief. Belonging. unyielding, full of heat and promise. His hands grip my hips, pulling me close. My fingers slide into his hair, tugging, needing. It’s not just lust. It’s survival. It’s home.

"I will let nothing happen to you," he growls against my lips.

"Then stop wasting time and kiss me again."

We would’ve gone further. Right there. And honestly, I was more than ready to let the world burn for another ten minutes. My hands are already tangled in his shirt, my mouth halfway to saying something I’d either regret or double down on. But Kade, the absolute king of timing—and apparently the official ruiner of epic make-out sessions—bursts through the tree line like a wet blanket with boots and zero shame.

"We’ve got a problem," he says. “Malek has abandoned his lair.”

Dax lifts his head, the kiss still lingering between us like an unfinished sentence. His expression darkens, the heat in his eyes replaced by something colder—calculating, furious. His jaw tightens as if bracing against the weight of what’s coming. The soldier in him resurfaces, shoulders squared, fire banked behind steel.

"Which means he’s ready," I whisper.

And I knowthe real firestorm is just beginning.