Page 4 of Ashfall (Firebound #1)

CHAPTER 3

EMBER

T he ground still vibrates under my boots long after Dax vanishes over the ridge. The sound of his retreat—all raw power and fury—echoes in my bones.

Arrogant bastard. Gorgeous? Yes. Intense? Absolutely. But the way he just barked at me like I was one of his grunts? Oh, hell to the no!

Still, I get it. Fire doesn’t wait for feelings. Timing matters. Precision matters. Every second counts when the wind turns and the trees go up like matchsticks. Fine—he had a point. I lacked the equipment needed for what he was doing and charging after him in a fire zone would have been suicide.

But that doesn’t mean I enjoy being ordered around like some rookie who doesn’t know how to read a fire line. I’ve made my career standing toe-to-toe with infernos and bureaucrats alike. Being told to stay put? That burns worse than the smoke.

So okay, he had a point. Doesn’t mean I’m not planning to make one of my own.

Back at the base camp, the air hits like a wall—thick with smoke, sweat, and a kind of aggressive energy that makes my skin itch. Testosterone clings to every square inch like it's been baked into the dirt. Radios crackle. Boots crunch over gravel. Someone barks a report and gets barked at in return. The tension here isn’t just because of the fire. It’s something else. Deeper. Like everyone’s waiting for the next command or the next explosion, whichever comes first.

And I’m supposed to play nice in the middle of it.

The base commander stomps past me, muttering just loud enough for me to hear. "Supposed to be Fane's problem." He stops short, catching himself. “I’m sorry. Fane was supposed to be working with you…”

“No need to apologize. You have a lot on your plate, but I’m supposed to be here as part of the solution. I’m here to try to stop whoever or whatever is turning the Rim into a testing ground.”

“So you’re sure it’s arson?” he asks.

“Aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Too many similarities between too many fires.”

“Exactly. I really don’t want to be the source of any concern for you or the rogue leader of Blackstrike.”

“Rogue?” the commander chuckles. “Sounds about right. He’s abrasive and a pain in the ass, but nobody is better at what they do.”

“Agreed. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll get what I need without risking anyone.”

The commander nods before turning to stride away. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve walked into hostile situations before—federal briefings, courtroom depositions, post-incident reviews where everyone wants someone to blame. But out here, it’s different. Here, very few see me as an authority. Most see me as a disruption or an outsider. I’m not, but I understand where they’re coming from.

I take a deep breath before heading toward the first teams to respond. I pick the group that looks the least annoyed by my presence and the most likely to give me more than grunts and blank stares. As I approach, they fidget—uncertain whether to salute or pretend I’m not there.

"Ember Vale," I say, keeping my voice cool. "I’m the arson investigator assigned to the fire. I just need a few minutes of your time. It would really help. You guys were the first ones to respond?"

One of them nods. He’s tall, lean, maybe mid-thirties, and his eyes flick to my badge, then back to my face. "Yeah. We came in from the ridge. The smoke was already curling in patterns we didn’t like."

I bring my clipboard up and jot it down, but my attention moves from his words to the posture of the others—shoulders tight, jawlines hard. They’re alert. Guarded. And not just from the fire. They’ve seen something, or at least think they have. Or they’re hiding something. Maybe both.

I press them for more by weaving questions between small talk and field data, probing for cracks in the wall they’ve clearly been taught to maintain. One guy hesitates for just a second too long when I ask about the ignition point timing. Another keeps his gaze too carefully on his boots. There’s a rhythm to field interviews—you can tell when answers are honest, when they’re filtered, and when they’re rehearsed. These are filtered.

By the time I move on to the next group, I can feel a certain level of resentment that I’m poking around their turf or worse, looking for someone to blame. But layered under that? I sense a certain level of respect—the kind men show a storm cloud they’re not sure will break or blow past.

Most of the next crew is as tight-lipped as the first. One guy—tall, lean, with a scar that says he’s danced with flame and survived—gives me a bit more. "The burn's wrong," he says. "We felt it as soon as we got here. It's like it was waiting for us."

Interesting. Not just the words—they spark something deeper, a low hum in my chest I can’t explain. That kind of phrasing—waiting for us—isn’t casual. It's not something a firefighter says unless he feels it in his gut. And I’ve felt that before, in other cases that never added up. Flames behaving like they had intent. Like they weren’t just burning—they were watching. A setup. A snare. A test.

After gathering what info I can, I head inside the ops tent; I spread the topographic maps across the table and overlay the fire progression reports. The familiar sound of static and hushed comms chatter fills the space, grounding me. This is where I do my best work—not in front of cameras or in courtrooms, but here, elbow-deep in data, watching fire reveal its secrets.

The patterns jump out at me like a slap to the face: mirrored flares, unnatural arcs, skipped fuel zones. Fire rarely moves like this. It consumes. It spreads. But this—this feels guided. Intelligent. Strategic. Like someone mapped this fire on a board and made sure it hit exactly where it would hurt the most.

Either the forest spontaneously combusted with GPS precision, or someone’s got a real thing for chaos. I suspect it’s the latter.

I’ve seen fires behave with intelligence before—but only once. And that case never left me.

In the foothills just outside Denver three years ago, the blaze had moved like it had eyes, bypassing open fuel to circle an old ranger outpost. No change in direction of the wind had explained it. No lightning, no humans, no equipment failure. Just fire that knew.

We couldn’t prove anything. No cause had been found. No suspect. The investigation had disappeared into red tape. But I remember the look on my supervisor's face when I brought him the early report. Not shock. Not disbelief. Recognition.

That same feeling creeps up my spine. But this? This feels like the same signature. It’s almost a perfect match.

I trace the looping path across the map with my finger, connecting arcs and flares like points in a hellish constellation. It’s not random—it’s deliberate. Someone’s painting with fire, and every burn scar is a signature. A pattern ripples outward, destruction pulsing from a single source. This isn’t just arson—it’s evolution. Precision. Whoever’s behind it is learning, refining their reach with each new blaze.

The real question isn’t how. It’s why.

Why this place? Why now? Who has the knowledge—and the patience—to wield wildfire like a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer? It’s not chance. Someone orchestrated this, a controlled chaos.

Fire as a message. Fire as a weapon.

And the deeper I look, the clearer it becomes—this isn’t about destruction alone.

Someone’s guiding the flame.

I feel him before I see him.Dax doesn’t announce himself. Just steps into the tent like he owns the air I’m breathing. I don’t have to turn to know it’s him—the room changes. The temperature, the weight of the silence, the pull on the back of my neck like a current sliding under my skin. He stops a few feet behind me, and I swear I can feel his eyes tracing every inch of my spine.

Of course, he shows up like Batman, minus the cape, but fully armed with a broody glower and a healthy dose of sex appeal. God, I need to get a grip… or get laid. Probably both.

"You always sneak up on women working?" I ask, not looking up from the maps, though my pulse has already noticed him. "Or is this some alpha male dominance thing, where startling your federal liaison counts as foreplay?"

"Didn’t realize you needed warning," he says, voice low. Rough. A little too close. But there's a flicker in his eyes—amusement, like he finds my snark more entertaining than irritating. The corner of his mouth quirks upward—not quite a smile, but close enough to rattle me. He looks like he’s holding back something sharp and amused, like a man who just discovered his favorite game has unexpected teeth.

I glance over my shoulder, arching an eyebrow. He’s shirtless and damp from whatever hell he launched himself into and got out of. "You radiate ten feet of male dominance. Pretty sure it counts as a warning."

His lips twitch, like he wants to smile, but doesn’t trust himself with it. "You didn’t flinch."

"I don’t flinch," I shoot back. "Especially not for smokejumpers who drop out of the sky and play classified with arson data."

He steps around the table slowly, gaze flicking from the maps to me. Closer now. Too close. "You left out data," I say, tapping a section of the map. "Here, and here. Four ignition points in a triangle. That’s not wind. That’s math."

He doesn’t blink. "Not everything makes it into the report."

"Yeah? And what makes the cut? Whatever you feel like sharing?"

"Some things are off paper for a reason."

"You mean you don’t trust me.”

He lets out a quick breath, almost a scoff. “Trust isn’t the point,” he said. “You’re here to observe, not to receive briefings like my teammembers. I don’t know or trust you, but I trust fire. And it's telling me we're in deep."

I cross my arms, heart pounding even though I refuse to show it. "Then maybe it’s time you stop hiding what you know," I say, more measured now, less challenge and more invitation. "You and your team clearly know more than you’re saying. I’m not here to step on toes or undermine your command—but if we’re not sharing intel, we’re wasting time. We need to work together on this, not circle each other like rival packs. Because if what I’m seeing is even half right, we’re already behind."

His voice drops. "You’re hunting something bigger than you think, Ember. You just don’t see it yet."

My name on his tongue does strange things to my insides. But I hold my ground. "Then show me. Stop talking in riddles and show me what the hell we’re actually up against."

He holds my gaze for a beat longer, like he’s weighing something heavy. Then, just as suddenly, he steps back. "Soon."His eyes—dark, hooded, gleaming like he knows something I don’t. He pulls back, turns on his heel. "I'm heading back to our base. I'll see you in the morning. try to get some sleep."

By the time I reach my assigned tent, the sun is setting low, and my nerves are shot. I haven’t eaten, haven’t rested, and my brain is buzzing.

Laptop open, I pull old case files—arsons logged across five states, some officially closed, others marked unexplained or unsolved. I flip through report after report, my eyes scanning for anything that even remotely mirrors what I saw on that ridge.

And then I find it. Thepattern.Not just similar. Identical. Same heat bloom configuration. Same ignition geometry. A triangle that shouldn’t exist in natural fire spread. It shows up in Oregon, then Colorado, then Idaho. Two years ago, Montana. Last year, northern California.

Different forests. Different crews. But the same eerie surgical spread. The same refusal of the flames to follow wind logic or terrain. Controlled chaos.And in every case, the local authorities brushed it off as an anomaly or blamed a lightning strike with no obvious point of origin. Convenient. Clean. Too clean.

I lean back and stare at the screen, the pit in my stomach deepening. This isn’t just one arsonist.It’s a strategy.And whoever’s behind it has been testing us for years.

I think of Dax. Of his silence. The data missing from the Blackstrike reports. That kind of tight, practiced restraint doesn’t come from confusion. It comes from experience. From exposure. They know more about these fires than they’re letting on. They are deeply involved in something I haven’t been allowed to see. They’re hiding or protecting something. The more I see, the more I’m thinking it’s not just classified—it’s dangerous.

The Blackstrike Unit is famous or infamous, depending upon who you ask. They're secretive but effective.And I don’t know which one scares me more.

I rub my eyes, exhausted, when a knock at the tent pole startles me.

A volunteer from the kitchen pokes her head in. "Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but Commander Fane said to make sure you ate."

She sets the tray down—sandwich, fruit, protein bar—and something else. A small piece of polished amber rests on the napkin, catching the light like frozen sunlight. I stare at it, a strange prickle working its way up my spine.

“He said to tell you it helps with grounding,” she murmurs, already stepping back.

Grounding? What does that even mean—emotionally steady? Spiritually anchored? I have no idea. But the weight of it feels deliberate, like it’s meant to hold something in place. Maybe even me.

I eat the food. I don’t want to, but I do. And after, I lie back on the cot, the piece of amber still clutched in one hand.

Sleep comes fast. Andso do the dreams.

Fire.It crackles in a rhythm that shouldn't be natural, moving like it breathes—inhaling, exhaling, watching.

The flames dance in patterns, spiraling outward from my feet like they're drawing runes in ash.

Wings cut through the smoke above, massive and impossible, shadowing everything in gold and crimson. They beat once, slow and soundless, stirring the surrounding haze in a vortex of heat.

The fire parts in their wake, revealing flashes of shape and muscle and scale too vast to comprehend. It isn't just fire I'm dreaming of. It's something inside it. Something alive. And it knows me.

I stand in the middle of the blaze, unburned but surrounded, the heat kissing my skin instead of consuming it. The fire glides over my arms like silk made of sunlight, warming me from the inside out. There’s no sky. No ground. Just the flame that wraps around me like a lover’s hands—curious, reverent, possessive.

The scent of charred cedar mixes with something darker, muskier, ancient and intimate, like the memory of skin against skin in the dark. My breath hitches, not from fear, but from anticipation. I should feel terror. But all I feel is the pull—deep, elemental, inevitable.

A voice stirs—not in words, but like thunder in my blood, velvet and flame intertwined. It coils low in my belly, warm and pulsing, brushing against the inside of my skin as if it knows every secret I’ve buried. It feels like breath on my neck, lips at my ear.

“You already know,” it whispers.

Then come the eyes. Molten gold locked on me through the smoke, glowing with heat and something more primal. They don’t blink. They don’t look away. They burn into me—through me—like they know every secret I’ve never spoken aloud. There’s no malice in them, no threat. Just certainty. Claiming. Like they’ve stared into me before and memorized every line. Like they’ve been waiting for me to return.

I reach forward—and wake up gasping. My skin is damp with sweat and my heart's racing. No reason. No logic. Just a dream.Except it doesn’t feel like a dream.It feels like a warning or a promise or maybe amemory... one I haven’t made yet.