Page 2

CHAPTER 1

EMBER

C oconino National Forest

Mogollon Rim, Arizona

Present Day

The truck hums beneath me, tires grinding over gravel as I wind up the narrow mountain road. Pines lean in close, their tops scorched and skeletal from the last burn. Smoke clings to the air like a warning.

I’ve got maybe three miles left before I hit base camp. My stomach’s already tight.

I adjust the rearview mirror. Catch my own eyes—tired, clear, unflinching. I look more like my dad every day.

The memory hits hard. Sharp and sudden.

We were in the garage. Late. The busted carburetor sat between us like a puzzle we both hated but refused to quit. He had grease up to his elbows. That quiet rumble in his voice meant he wasn’t just talking. He was teaching.

“You walk into that camp, any camp,” he'd said, “and they’re gonna look at you sideways. Not just because you’re a woman. Not just because you’re young. But because instead of soot in your lungs, you went to college and got a degree. You’ve got plenty of ash and soot in your veins as our family have been firefighters for generations.”

I remember how I crossed my arms, chin up, already defensive. He saw straight through it.

“They’ll think you haven’t earned it. Like book smarts make you soft. Like fire gives a damn where you learned to fight it.”

He wiped his hands, turned to face me square.

Locked eyes like he was handing me armor.

“But listen to me, Em. You have earned it. Every damn bit. Don’t let their resentment crawl inside your head. You’re not less than them. You’re not equal, either. On your worst day, you’re better.”

I blink, hard, snapping back to the road. A trailhead sign zips past. I’m almost there.

Camp’s gonna be tense. Crews overworked, air full of ash, nerves shot to hell. And here I come—clipboard, badge, the arson investigator no one asked for. They’ll see a college girl in clean boots and decide I’m dead weight before I even say a word.

But I hear him in my head, clear as anything.

'Don’t forget who you are.'

I don’t. Not for a second.

I press harder on the gas. Let them underestimate me. I may not breathe fire—yet—but I’ve got sparks to spare.

The air here smells like scorched earth and bullshit—hot pine sap gone acidic, charred ozone, and the subtle bite of ego-sweat from the command tent. It's the scent of disaster wearing aftershave and pretending it's under control.

"Vale," the base commander barks the second my boots hit gravel. His voice is all caffeine and contempt, the kind of tone that says he thinks my presence is both an inconvenience and a threat to his chain of command.

He's shorter than I expected, built like a bulldog in a uniform that's seen better days. Bloodshot eyes, red nose, and a permanent grimace that probably predates the wildfire season. "You're late."

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting—blame the wind.” I brush a few flakes of ash from my jacket and offer a small nod. “I’m here to investigate the cause of this fire and several others like it. I know I’m federal and not part of your chain of command, but I’d like to think we’re working toward the same goal.”

He grunts and hands over the clipboard like it weighs more than it should. “You’ll be shadowing the Blackstrike unit. They’re already mobilizing. Don’t slow them down.”

His tone makes it clear he expects me to be a problem. I keep my expression neutral, glancing at the clipboard before looking back at him.

“The smokejumpers?” I ask, more curious than combative. “You’re putting me with the team that jumps into wildfires for fun? That’s your idea of integration?”

I don’t mean it as a dig. Just trying to understand what I’m walking into—and maybe lighten the mood before it burns.

"They’re an elite unit—the best. You’ll like their team leader," he says, though there’s a flicker of something else under the words—something tight around the eyes. Respect, maybe, but the kind that’s edged with unease. "Blackstrike does things their own way. They get results, but they don’t always ask permission first. Fane especially. Damn good at his job, but not exactly a fan of protocol." He scratches at his jaw, then mutters, mostly to himself, "Whole damn unit gives off a vibe—like they know something the rest of us don’t."

Yeah, because that’s what people always say right before introducing me to someone who thinks rules from others are just polite suggestions and their rules and orders are to be obeyed without question. In my experience, men like Fane believe that teamwork means 'do what I say and don’t ask questions.'

Guys like that tend to bulldoze through a chain of command like it’s made of smoke and duct tape, leaving scorched policy and frazzled superiors in their wake.

I tuck the clipboard under my arm and scan the horizon, already bracing for whatever version of chaos this Fane guy brings with him.

The fire licks the edge of the ridge, a boiling, snarling line of orange swallowing trees like matchsticks. It doesn’t look random. It appears someone intentionally drew it on the terrain. The kind of fire that doesn’t just destroy—it carves. Like a message. Like a warning. I narrow my eyes and squint against the smoke. The wind changes direction just enough to let me glimpse a slope already devoured to black, the flames still crawling forward with surgical purpose. Someone lit this, and they knew exactly where it would go—and where they wanted it to touch.

I turn and start walking, boots grinding over brittle earth, toward the sound swelling in the distance. It’s not just noise—it’s a living thing. A deep, relentless roar that fills the hills like thunder caught in a loop, shaking the ground, pressing against my chest with every step. The fire isn’t just burning. It’s screaming.

The fire isn’t just noise—it’s a presence. A force that pulls at something deep in my chest. It doesn’t scare me. It dares me. Challenges me to come closer, to see what it’s hiding. Some people chase storms. Me? I chase the burn.

"You're not briefed yet," he snaps, stepping closer like proximity equals authority. His chest puffs out a little, shoulders squaring up. It's a classic move—trying to reassert dominance with posture and volume.

He might be the biggest voice at this base, but he knows he’s not the biggest presence anymore. Not with Blackstrike incoming. Still, he’s clinging to his scraps of control like they matter. Like he needs me to remember he runs this place, even if he’s not really the one calling the shots.

"Brief away, Commander," I say, keeping my tone neutral, flat. No heat, no challenge. Just enough compliance to keep him from puffing up any further. Let him have his moment. For now, I’ll play along. Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who actually has the authority here.

He grits his teeth, clearly resenting that he even has to explain this to me. "We’ve had six fires spark up across a hundred-mile radius in the last forty-eight hours. Too fast. Too exact. No lightning. No campers. No idiot kids with fireworks. Someone's starting these. And they know what they're doing."

He crosses his arms like he's bracing for my skepticism, but I just nod. He's not telling me anything I haven't already guessed. Still, he leans in slightly, like proximity can make him seem more important. "This isn’t some random nut job with a grudge. It feels calculated. Coordinated. And it’s making us all look like amateurs."

There it is. The crack beneath the command. He doesn’t like being out of control, and whatever’s out there lighting up the Rim has knocked him sideways. He’s used to being the one giving orders, the loudest voice in the room, the guy with the final say. But the Blackstrike Unit doesn't answer to him. And neither do I. That eats at him—not enough to show open disrespect, but just enough to make every word he spits feel like a warning. He’s trying to reassert control over a situation that’s already too big for his authority.

My pulse kicks, a beat of adrenaline riding up my spine. "Serial arson?" The question comes out low, measured, but my brain is already racing. Patterns. Targets. Intent. Someone is playing god with gasoline and topography—and doing it with a terrifying level of control.

"Feels like it. But no evidence. Nothing sticks... not until now. I’ve got half my crew running on fumes, three hot zones flaring up at once, and the damn governor breathing down my neck for answers I don’t have. Blackstrike’s the only unit that can hit drops this deep, this fast, but even they don’t loop me in. They operate on need-to-know—and apparently, I don’t. But I’m telling you, Vale, something’s off here. It’s too clean. Too coordinated. And it’s got me losing sleep and pulling favors I didn’t know I had."

"And what makes you so sure this one's different?" I ask, though I already suspect I won’t like the answer.

His jaw ticks. That flash of irritation again. Not at me this time, but at the situation—at being blindsided, outpaced, and forced to rely on people he can’t command. He opens his mouth, then hesitates. Whatever he wants to say, he doesn’t quite have the words for it. And that, more than anything, tells me how far out of his depth he really is.

Before he can answer, a roar splits the sky—deep and thunderous, too guttural for jet engines, too fluid for rotor blades. It hits my chest like a war drum made of bone and old gods. Primitive. Wrong. Heads jerk upward all around us.

Radios chirp to life, voices clipped and confused. Even the commander flinches like someone walked over his grave. For a half-second, he forgets to posture. And in that pause, I see it clearly: fear.

Not of the fire. That, he understands—knows how to contain, how to predict, how to survive. But what’s coming out of that sky? That’s different. That’s something older than fire, older than fear.

It’s not just a threat—it’s a reckoning. And even a man who runs a base like a fortress knows when he’s staring down something that doesn’t play by human rules.

He nods toward the sound and shakes his head. "I don't know what to think anymore, but Fane and his unit believe... hell, I don't know what that secretive group of arrogant... Forgive me. I've been under a lot of pressure. In any event, that's Dax Fane, leader of the Blackstrike Unit,. They call him the dragon."

I shade my eyes and look up just in time to see something black and massive banking through the smoke column. It moves like a predator in flight, every movement of its wings a calculated decision. Not just fast—precise. Lethal.

Whatever the aircraft is that he’s flying looks as if it was carved out of obsidian and nightmares, matte black with no markings, a sleek, impossible silhouette that seems to cut through both cloud and flame as if neither could touch it. It doesn't fly over us. It owns the sky.

Then a shape detaches from it—not ejected, not launched, just let go, like gravity answers to it. No parachute. No emergency gear. No hesitation.

Just a man—or something that looks so close, it almost passes for one. Broad-shouldered, dense with muscle, falling like a meteor with purpose. He doesn't brace. Doesn't scream. Just plummets through smoke and flame like the sky itself handed him over to the earth.

He doesn't just fall—he descends, like the world makes room for him. The wind curls around him, moving like smoke that knows who it belongs to. Fire pulls back, coiling in place as if reluctant to touch him. Trees groan in the distance, not from flame, but something older—a presence returning to ground not walked in centuries.

The whole damn forest seems to hold its breath. Not in fear, but in recognition.

At the last minute, some kind of chute—if you could even call it that—deploys in a sudden, controlled burst. Not nylon. Not standard issue. More like something engineered in a lab no one admits exists. It slows his descent just enough to keep the landing from being lethal, but not enough to dull the force.

He hits the earth like it owes him something. The impact rumbles through the soil and into my boots, vibrates in my bones, and sends a blast of scorched wind outward. Knees bent, one fist embedded in blackened dirt, his head is down like a predator taking a breath before the strike. Steam rises from the ground around him like the earth itself is exhaling in relief—or surrender.

When he moves, it's with the kind of deliberate power that says he's used to being obeyed—by people, by flame, maybe even by fate itself. Not cocky. Not performative. Just certain. Like gravity adjusts to him, not the other way around. There’s a stillness in him that speaks of ancient violence barely caged, and every movement says: obey or burn.

And then he stands. No gear. No burn marks. No blood. Just raw muscle wrapped in black tactical fabric molded to every lethal line of his body.

Of course, the walking inferno would look like sin on two legs.

His shoulders roll with a predator's grace, steam curling from him like he didn’t just fall from the sky—he claimed it. The way he moves, the way he exists, it all feels too big for one man. Like the ground should split open and offer something in return just for holding him upright.

I take a step back, heart thudding too fast. His presence doesn’t just press—it brands. Like heat off a forge, yes, but it sinks deeper. Into bone. Into instinct. My mouth goes dry, my fingers twitch like they want to reach for a weapon I don’t carry.

He’s tall, broad, and carved with the kind of presence that doesn’t walk into a room—it takes it. Dangerous in a way that doesn’t feel modern at all. Ancient. Like if he wanted to, he could unmake the world—and I wouldn’t stop him in time.

Then his eyes lock on mine. My breath catches for a heartbeat, like something primal in me just recognized something equally ancient in him. His irises flash—not just glow but burn for a second. Liquid amber. Molten. Impossible.

A blink later, it’s gone. Brown. Normal. My rational brain scrambles to explain it… a trick of the light, a flash reflection, an adrenaline-fueled hallucination. Pick your poison.

"Ember Vale?" he asks, voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in smoke and whiskey.

His gaze sweeps over me—quick, clinical, dismissive. Like he was expecting someone else: taller, meaner, definitely male. When I don’t match the picture in his head, it shows. He clocks me, files me under non-threat, and moves on like I’m part of the gear manifest.

I glance at the scorched ground between us, then back up at him with a crooked smile. “Not even a handshake? No brooding one-liner about destiny or danger?” I shoot a look at the base commander. “You guys really don’t go in for small talk or Hallmark movies, do you?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just radiates a kind of quiet command that skips right past reason and hits something primal. Some part of me wants to push back. Another, deeper part wants to drop to my knees in front of him without question.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice. Doesn’t need words. Everything about him is commanding .

He steps forward, gaze steady, voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "Dax Fane,” he says by way of introduction. “You're with me now."

It’s not a request. Not a greeting. It’s a declaration. Like he just claimed territory. Or me.

I square my shoulders. "Says who?"

"Says me," he replies. "Unless you’d rather chase the fire from behind a desk."

Smartass. Alpha. The kind of man who probably bench-presses fallen logs and thinks foreplay is issuing commands. And yet—damn it—he’s annoyingly hot. The kind of hot that makes you question your career choices and your moral compass all at once.

"Fine," I snap. "Lead the way, Smokey. But don’t think I’m following you anywhere without answers."

His lips twitch—not a smile, exactly. More like the barest ghost of satisfaction, as if he expected resistance and is pleased I didn’t disappoint. It’s the kind of reaction you’d expect from someone who enjoys being challenged just enough to keep things interesting. A flicker of something dark, patient, and quietly predatory that feels more intimate than a grin ever could—like he’s already ten steps ahead, just waiting for me to catch up.

And just like that, I’m in... or at least I think I am. Either way, I follow the dragon.