Page 15

KADE

S moke still hangs over camp like a bad secret when I slip between cargo pallets behind the supply tent.

Defying orders, Liv’s down by the rigs, directing rookies to triple-check hose seals—a task she performs with calm precision, even if her eyes flick constantly toward the tree line.

Her spine stays straight, voice clipped, but I don’t miss the way her fingers flex between commands or how her shoulders are too tight for this early in the shift.

She's trying to look unshaken, unreadable.

I know the storm still simmers under her skin—because it simmers under mine, too. Her pendant’s soft glow marks her safe; the brighter flare on my handheld tracker, not so much.

I lever the lid with a crowbar. The metal groans in protest, hot to the touch even through my gloves. A faint, acrid heat leaks out, singeing the inside of my nose with a tang like scorched battery acid and overcooked iron. Definitely not diesel. The crate practically sweats malice.

Inside, slim canisters gleam dull silver, each stamped with a phoenix symbol.

Cute. I wrap the whole crate in Nomex blankets, lash it to an ATV trailer, and tow it across camp under the pre-dawn haze.

Nobody looks twice; everyone’s busy re-stretching hose after last night’s flare. Good. Let them stay busy.

The abandoned quartz mine sits a quarter mile upslope, hidden by scrub oak and rockfall.

I drag the crate inside, past rotten timber struts and rail carts frozen in rust. Far back, where no human flashlight’s reached in decades, dragon sigils glow faint gold along the walls—wards carved by an ancestor who remembered when this mountain still answered to scales.

I set the thermite on the bare stone floor, activate the sigils with a breath of heat only a dragon can give.

The shift pulls harder than usual tonight.

I feel it building in my bones as the sun dips low, the wind rising in short, stuttering bursts. There’s tension in the camp. Sabotage tightening its noose. The rookies don’t see it, but I do. It slithers at the edges of shadows, waiting.

I strip off my field gear—shirt, boots, pants—folding them fast and neat on a dry rock just inside the shaft entrance. I feel my dragon rising, scales prickling beneath the surface, pushing upward.

The change begins—a ripple of fire through my chest, down my arms, my hands distorting, talons pressing through skin with a shimmer of molten gold. I clench my jaw against the growl clawing its way up my throat.

"Sir?"

Shit.

Diaz.

His voice is hesitant, but too close.

I force the dragon down.

“What is it?” I manage to snarl.

"Sir, you dropped your radio," he says, closer now. I hear the sounds of his boot steps right outside the cave.

I force air through my nose. Slowly. “Just leave it and get back to the line.”

"Uh… okay, I’ll just set it down here," Diaz mutters. He turns, footsteps retreating.

I hold my breath for five more seconds. The mine breathes cold air against my bare skin, raising gooseflesh. One calm inhale, then I let the dragon rise.

Fire erupts around me in a spiraling vortex, wrapping my limbs in heat and light until skin gives way to scale, muscle thickens, and wings flare wide enough to stir the cavern dust into eddies.

The change isn’t violent—it’s exultant. Every joint realigns with purpose, every breath deepens with strength as I expand into my true form.

The mine shrinks around me, the ceiling suddenly closer, the air sharper with quartz dust and ancient mineral scents.

Power courses through every fiber of me—primal, unshakable.

I lower my horned head, open my jaws, and release a single precise stream of white-hot flame.

The heat licks across the warding sigils etched into the floor and walls, igniting them in a searing golden blaze.

The runes blaze like miniature suns, their light dancing over the walls in molten waves as they seal the crate with fire no human—no Ignis mercenary—could cross or corrupt.

When the wards settle into a steady glow, I tuck wings tight, breathe out ember, and pull the fire back inside. Scales relent to skin; the cave’s chill kisses me fully human again, naked and steaming. I dress in the clothes I stashed, tug boots on, and shoulder my pack. Mission forward.

Outside, my sat-link pings: DAX—PRIORITY. I duck behind a boulder and tap the earpiece.

“Talk,” I whisper.

“Intel split,” Dax says, voice wrapped in encryption fuzz. “Ignis hired a shooter—suppressed .338 Lapua, polymer rounds. Thermal-invisible, same as those foam rifles. Location unknown.”

“Sniper plus thermite,” I mutter. “They’re layering disasters.”

“And Liv?”

“Still breathing. I’m not letting that change.”

“Watch your six, brother. Storm’s tightening.”

The line dies. Storm—that’s polite. It’s a damn vise.

Camp settles into uneasy silence just before dawn.

Pine needles whisper overhead as a breeze threads through the grove, breath held too long.

Distant generators murmur low, the scent of charred resin and damp soil clinging to the stillness.

I crouch low, every sense on edge—not just listening, but feeling for trouble.

Magic hangs on me, thick as smoke, warning in every pore.

Liv’s trailer sits alone at the edge of the grove, one weak porch light casting a pale glow into the dark.

I stay hidden in the shadow of a pine, eyes locked on that trailer.

The pendant’s signal holds steady from inside—she’s moving around.

Maybe packing for a drill she hasn’t even been cleared to join.

Stubborn woman.

Above, a drone hums—a high-pitched, mosquito whine that rasps along my nerves.

Its black chassis glints in the pre-dawn murk, gimbal-mounted lens sweeping in slow, deliberate arcs as it scans for heat.

Greer’s toy. A predatory little bastard built to find the warmest target in camp—and Liv’s heartbeat burns hotter than most, fire pulsing beneath her skin, a secret on the verge of combustion.

She’s inside, pacing probably, shedding sparks without knowing it.

The drone dips lower, angling to feed, and the instinct rises in my chest—protect, defend, destroy.

I strip my shirt, letting the air sting against sweat-slick skin, every nerve waking under its bite.

Gooseflesh ripples across my shoulders as I ease a Mylar sheet into place, its metallic surface crackling faintly as it settles.

The drone hesitates, lens angling down. It sees a muted signature—barely human, just a flicker in the dark.

That’s right. Look at me. Follow the decoy.

Transformer box twenty yards away ticks as camp power reroutes to early-shift gear. I pad over, yank the maintenance panel, and snap a jumper cable across two relays. Sparks spit, rising ozone—no, electrical tang—into the air. The drone hovers closer, sensors fixed on the sudden spike.

Time to give it something real—heat, flame, purpose.

I brace, heart hammering as I summon the fire from deep within.

It rises sharp and hot, a torrent roaring up through bone and breath until power blooms in my chest, aching to be unleashed.

I ditch the Mylar, kicking free of boots and trousers in a single practiced motion—no fabric survives the shift.

The drone’s whine circles overhead, lens adjusting.

My skin tingles, the air thickening with charge, and the drone’s lens glints—a target already marked for ruin.

I drop to a crouch behind the transformer, heart pounding, and draw a breath so deep it scrapes through my lungs like steel against flint.

The fire comes—not slowly, not gently—but in a flash-flood surge that claims me whole.

Heat races through every nerve as skin dissolves into scale, spine lengthening, limbs thickening, and wings bursting outward with a snap that rattles the air.

My senses ignite—sight sharpens, scent floods with copper and ozone, and the world shrinks to the glinting drone above.

One clean pivot and I exhale. A thread of white-hot flame, tight as a wire, lashes up through the dark and sears straight through the drone’s rotor array.

The machine jerks, whines, then pops in a shower of sparks.

In that same instant, the transformer blows—detonating with a thunderous crack that masks my dragon’s bellow beneath the shattering boom.

Ash and heat billow around me, cloaking everything in fire’s breath

I pull the fire back, body folding inward as bone and sinew collapse to human form, bare skin stinging in the heat’s wake. I shrug on my half-melted Mylar, jam my feet into boots, and drag my shirt over my head just as the drone’s wreckage scatters in molten shards that sizzle against damp soil.

From the engine bays, shouts erupt:

“Transformer blew!”

“Grid’s down!”

Good. Exactly the cover I need.

I spend the next hour laying thermal blankets over empty cots, tucking battery hand-warmers beneath tool racks, and hiding heat pads inside trash cans—false signatures for the next drone Ignis sends.

By the next day, the campground burns bright on infrared—each trailer reflecting a glow like an ember, each staged rig radiating phantom heat.

But it’s more than tech sleight of hand.

There’s purpose in every placement, strategy woven into each decoy.

As I crouch behind a stacked pump rig, watching false thermal signatures shimmer in the dark, grim satisfaction coils in my gut.

This is a dragon’s minefield—every beacon a trap, every flicker a calculated misdirect.

Still, beneath the relief, a low thrum of foreboding hums through me, sharp and steady. The opening move has landed. Let them chase shadows.

A utility truck rolls into camp with its hazard strobes flashing but no sirens—quiet urgency.

Two techs in high-visibility vests climb out, flashing crisp federal IDs that catch and reflect the sunlight like signal flares.

Their posture screams authority, the kind that trails bureaucracy and consequences.

I duck behind a nearby water tender, ears sharp, breath held and listen as their boots move over gravel toward the still-smoking transformer hub.

“Arc-flash registered point-zero-three seconds before total failure,” one tech says. “Logs flagged sabotage.”

Terrific. Now we’ll have federal watchdogs sniffing around with clipboards and questions I can’t afford to answer.

I duck away before they spot me and head for Liv’s trailer, weaving between shadows cast by the sun.

The scorched air is still thick with static from the blown transformer, and my nerves haven’t quit buzzing.

Liv meets me at the door, eyes fierce, helmet slung low in one hand, the other resting on the frame like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her jaw’s tight, like she’s bracing for more bad news, but the fire in her eyes says she’s ready to fight anyway.

“What did you break now?” she asks.

“Transformer,” I admit. “Paid the drone back for spying.”

“Utility boys are pissed.”

“They’ll live.” I tap the pendant resting against her throat. “You will too.”

A flush crawls up her neck, equal parts annoyance and something hotter. “You keep playing guardian angel, people are going to notice.”

“Let them.”

She steps forward till our chests almost touch. “Explain later?”

“Promise.”

Her lips tilt— not a smirk, never that—just the curve of a dare, slow and deliberate, like she’s offering me a lit match and daring me to strike. Her breath comes shallow, pupils blown, and for a heartbeat, the air between us burns with something unsaid, unspent.

“Good. Because I don’t like debts.”

We part as duty calls—she toward the staging rigs she’s forbidden to join, me toward the mine shaft, thinking of thermite and snipers and how many ways a day can go wrong.

Utility crews swarm the blown transformer by noon, stringing caution tape and cursing paperwork. Engineers argue about vaporized circuitry nobody can explain. Over their radios I catch snippets: ‘ thermal overload ,’ ‘ unauthorized load spike ,’ ‘ possible electromagnetic event .’ Close enough.

Liv’s pendant jolts—double ping. Sniper lock—north ridge.

The alert blinks crimson on my handheld, the screen pulsing.

It isn’t just proximity—it’s targeting. A sniper has Liv’s position lined up from the north ridge, likely with thermal-invisible rounds.

My stomach knots. The kill shot could already be on its way.

I wheel toward the slope, breath icing despite the heat.

Branches snap above the ridge line—then a muzzle flash only dragon eyes can see.

One shot, polymer round, silent, invisible.

Unless I’m faster. I leap forward, letting the fire claw free even as I pray I’m not too late to intercept the bullet meant for her heart.

The fire inside me surges—raw, blinding, inevitable. I rip off my boots mid-sprint, shuck my shirt in one fluid motion, and feel the air scrape across my bare skin as I dive behind a berm. My pants tangle around my ankles, but I don’t stop. I tear free, heart pounding, breath burning.

Then I let go.

The dragon takes me in a rush of searing heat, fire erupting from my spine—sunburst force detonating beneath my skin. My body is no longer bound by human fragility—now it’s forged for speed, for war.

I launch from the slope, hurling my mass between the sniper’s muzzle and the heat-blip he’s targeting. My wings beat once, sending a gale through the trees, and I twist midair to intercept the invisible death meant for her.

If I’m right, I’ll take the hit. If I’m wrong, she dies. There’s no time to think.