Page 20

Ruiz’s jaw is locked, lips pressed in a grim slash of fury, and the clipboard she wields in one shaking hand looks like it’s about to snap under the strain.

Its plastic edge flashes, sharp and sudden, but against the memory of dragon fire and collapsing walls, it’s less a threat and more a flimsy token of authority.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but the pressure threading through my shoulders strangles the impulse.

Ruiz isn’t just angry—she’s on the edge of unraveling, and I can feel it pulsing off her skin like static heat before a lightning strike.

This isn’t over. Not even close.

“Monroe, where the hell were you during the ridge assault?” she demands.

“Putting out ambushes,” I say, voice flat. “And saving what’s left of the convoy.”

“You were ordered to remain in camp.”

“You benched me for ‘instability.’ Apparently the Ignis Syndicate didn’t get the memo.”

She opens her mouth—another reprimand loaded on her tongue—when the low growl of an engine cuts through, gravel grinding beneath heavy tires.

A black SUV rolls into camp, sun glinting off its polished hood, federal plates gleaming like brass threats.

The air thickens. Tension coils tight as every head turns toward the arrival.

The SUV idles too long. Its engine rumbles low, like something woken too early and already irritated.

Sunlight flashes off its glossy shell—predator-sleek against a field dusted in ash.

Dust kicks up around the tires as the vehicle creeps to a stop just inside the cleared perimeter.

For a beat, no one moves. The camp holds its breath.

Doors open—front first, then rear—each one snapping like a trigger pull.

A suited figure steps out, jacket smooth, shoes untouched by soot.

Then another—taller, leaner, already in sunglasses despite the haze.

They look too clean. Too precise. Like they were sealed in sterile containment and released just for this moment.

A murmur spreads—boots shuffle, radios hiss—like even the atmosphere’s struggling to recalibrate. A federal badge catches the sun, scattering sharp flashes across the ground—bright, cold, and threaded with threat.

I square my shoulders as the heat of the sigil flares to life—sharp and fast—anchoring me to the moment. The taller agent steps forward, name badge catching the light.

Special Agent Shaw.

His charcoal suit is immaculate, untouched by the soot-laced wind, crisp like it belongs in a courtroom, not a fireground.

Smoke curls around him, catching on the silver thread in his tie and the edge of his scowl.

The sun glints off his badge, casting molten flashes across the gravel.

He moves with purpose, each step deliberate, like he expects the terrain to yield—and for a breath, maybe it does.

“Olivia Monroe,” he says. “You’re wanted for questioning regarding missing evidence.”

Ruiz folds her arms. “We’ll cooperate. She’s under camp authority.”

“Agent Shaw,” I say, voice taut, “Ignis has thermite, snipers, and inside intel on tomorrow’s supply convoy. That missing evidence confirms sabotage. Detain me, and you lose your only witness—and the convoy.”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies me with a courtroom gaze, but there’s something beneath it—sharper, more concealed. I don’t know if it’s tension, deception, or just the finely tuned pressure of a man who thrives on secrets.

“You violated evidence protocols,” he snaps.

“Emergency Fireground Override Directive,” I shoot back, matching his tone. “If firefighter safety demands immediate action, field agents can bypass the chain of command. I’m invoking it. I stay until threat mitigation is complete.”

Ruiz blinks. Shaw’s jaw ticks. He taps his phone.

“You have until nightfall to produce proof. Fail, and federal custody’s next.”

“Nightfall,” I repeat, heat rising in my veins. “You’ll have all the proof you can handle.”

They turn away and Kade materializes from the smoke, eyes bright.

“You just painted a target on your back.”

“We get that evidence, or I’m in cuffs by sunset.”

His hand settles over mine, steady and warm. “Then we hunt.”

A pulse hits first—subtle to anyone else, but it strikes through my bones like a tuning fork. The ground doesn’t shake, but the air thickens and lifts—heat rising in a vertical shaft, alive and urgent, like the breath of something colossal released skyward.

I know that feeling. I see it without seeing—heat erupting crimson-gold along the south ridge, etching itself into my mind like a flare map. My mark blazes hot, no longer just pain—it’s a signal.

I spin toward the southern perimeter, heart slamming against my ribs. “They lit it,” I breathe—just before a distant siren screams confirmation.

Ruiz’s radio crackles to life: “Flare ignition, south perimeter—confirming earlier intel from Blackstrike Unit. Flames advancing toward the pump rig. Repeat, south perimeter.”

My lungs seize. Kade’s earlier warning flashes through my mind—the direction, the timing—exact.

Another Ignis trap. The fire doesn’t just burn.

It lunges, rising in a feral pillar of gold and scarlet, seething with intent.

The heat smashes into my face, and the sigil ignites, pulling every nerve in my body into singular alignment.

Like gravity reversed. Like true north just shifted beneath my skin.

I stagger a step. Teeth clenched. Ears roaring.

And then I bare my teeth—not a smile. A challenge.

“The fire’s calling. Let’s answer.”

We run.

Smoke whips past in sharp bursts, heat biting at our heels. The air thickens with diesel and thermite, twining with the scent of scorched cedar. All of it proof—Ignis has started their trap, just as predicted.

The sun is still climbing—hours before nightfall.

By the time it sets, I’ll either have the evidence to bury Shaw’s accusations… or I’ll burn with everything I swore to protect.