Page 22

LIV

T he air brushes my cheeks with unnatural heat—dry, vibrating faintly, like the whole canyon's holding its breath. I blink against a shimmer of distortion, vision momentarily warped by invisible waves that ripple the horizon.

The canyon drill should feel routine—hose lays, spot-fire knock-downs, rookies sweating in neat little pairs—but the air tastes electric, braided with diesel and dread. Somewhere behind me, pumps stutter like metal lungs, and the faint tang of scorched steel clings to the back of my throat.

Boots scuff near my flank, and I register the distant, steady thump of pressure valves cycling.

It's not just heat—it's warning. Something is off.

The rookies sense it too. Around me, the line buzzes with barely restrained nerves—rookies hunched but alert, fingers twitching on couplings, boots grinding into grit.

The rhythmic chuff of water slapping canvas hoses blends with the dry shuffle of movement.

Canyon walls magnify every noise: clipped commands, static-laced radio chatter, even the distant screech of a hawk tracing slow circles overhead.

Dust motes float like ash in angled sun, each one catching gold light before vanishing.

A bead of sweat slides into my collar. Somewhere behind me, a hose coupling clicks, followed by the faint hiss of repressurizing line. The hawk overhead lets out a shrill cry, and for just a moment, everything feels suspended—poised on the knife-edge before it breaks.

It’s a moment of uneasy stillness—the quiet before a scream. My sigil beats in sync with the pump engine, a low, urgent rhythm only I can feel, warning me that something’s coming.

“Eyes up, Diaz,” I snap, fingers flashing in front of his mask. “You watch the slope, not your boots.”

He startles, eyes wide and breath catching—green, but responsive. His hands shake as he adjusts the nozzle, finally angling it toward a scrub cluster smoldering twenty yards uphill. New heat flares there—too intense for a training line, an unnatural bloom that lights every nerve in warning.

I flick my radio. “Command, confirm flare temperature on Bravo flank.”

Static. Then Ruiz’s clipped reply. “Reading eighty-five Celsius. Within parameters.”

“Negative—my visor shows one-ten and climbing.”

Another pause. “Hold position.”

Another voice crackles in—tech, probably logistics. “Command, external temps might be skewed—uh, canyon bounce. Readings could be thermal echo.”

“Confirmed echo,” Ruiz snaps. “Monroe, maintain drill discipline.”

I grind my molars. “Or you could come down here and taste-test the air.”

Pause. “Hold position.”

Translation: quit questioning her numbers.

The rookies shuffle, restless, their boots scuffing dry grit in uneven rhythm.

One fidgets with a nozzle, another adjusts their pack straps for the third time in a minute.

Sweat beads on their brows beneath soot-smudged helmets, shoulders tight with anticipation.

The air is too quiet now, every shallow breath edged with static tension—as if the canyon itself waits for something to break.

Diaz’s voice cracks as he whispers, “We’re trapped.” His gloved hands tremble visibly on the coupling, knuckles paling. I catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes—the same doubt I buried deep in my own when I was first out here.

Jo’s gloved hands tremble on the coupling; Ramirez stands rigid, mouthing something—maybe a prayer—beneath his mask.

I clock them both in a second: tells I know too well.

I used to be that kid, eyes too wide, knuckles too white.

Every instinct in me sharpens—because they’re mine to protect.

I watch shimmering waves crawl up dead grass, licking toward the slot cut we’ll use to exit when the exercise ends.

If that slot burns shut, we’re boxed in.

My mark ignites—sharp, urgent. It burns hotter than flame, a searing brand just beneath the skin, vibrating in short, furious bursts that hammer through my chest. The rhythm isn't mine—it's his. And I know that cadence. I felt it first in the claiming—Kade’s fire wrapping around me, his breath fusing with mine, our heartbeats slamming into unison in the blinding instant the flame took us.

Heat surging behind my ribs, pressure crowding my skull, our bodies drawn into the same molten current.

Now, the force of it slams back into me, a siren shrieking through bone.

Kade. Every signal in the bond detonates—sharp, searing bursts syncing with his pain.

I feel the spike tearing through my system, lightning stitched into every nerve, heart jackknifing with the force of it.

The air tilts. My knees stiffen. And I feel it all.

Pain and stubborn fury tear through the bond like shrapnel, splintering beneath my ribs and stealing my breath.

His agony flares bright and jagged, a primal scream carried on wings I can almost feel beating through the sky.

He's wounded. Still airborne. Still chasing death.

I brace against the pull, lungs tight, heart hammering as I force my vision back to the ridge, anchoring myself in the present before the bond can drag me under.

“Ramirez,” I call, jerking my chin toward the slope. “Take Jo, flank left, scratch a break line. Everyone else, anchor hose here.”

They move. Good. Muscle memory keeps them from asking why I’m overriding Command. I clock their discipline, the precision beneath the fear—Diaz’s grip steadies, Ramirez checks Jo’s footing without needing a word. They’re scared, but they’re mine.

And I remember my last canyon drill as a trainee—heat biting at my boots, my captain’s voice cutting through the smoke as he shouted over a sudden gust, the air thick with panic and char.

A rookie crumpled beside a live ember, sobbing so hard her breaths came in hiccups.

I could still feel the grit in my teeth, the sear of radiant heat on my thighs, the stench of melted Nomex.

We walked out charred but alive, every step a battle.

And I swore then—if I ever wore command’s badge, I’d be the kind of leader who didn't leave anyone behind.

Who turned fear into fight. Who made sure her team did better.

A crack—soft, almost polite—ripples across rock.

My breath catches. For a split second, the canyon holds still—heat tense, dust suspended, even time itself pausing on a blade’s edge. Then the world tips red.

Light detonates across my vision as a thunderclap of fire erupts along the ridge—molten arcs trailing behind, painting the air in blinding streaks. The sudden heat slams into my chest, every nerve flaring with white-hot warning.

Thermite bursts from three stumps along the ridge, molten ribbons cascading downhill.

The heat hits with the force of a forge flung open; hose jackets shrivel on contact, couplings explode.

Within seconds, a wall of liquid fire races toward us, devouring cheatgrass and dead juniper, sealing off the escape route behind a veil of white-hot flame.

The eruption isn’t quiet—it arrives with a waxy splatter, a monstrous candle cracked wide, followed by the hiss of sap boiling and spitting from dry bark.

Static prickles along my arms, lifting the tiny hairs even under Nomex. Somewhere to the left, a rookie screams. To the right, silence—and I know they’re frozen. I’ve got seconds to break the spell before panic becomes collapse along the ridge.

Rookies freeze, wide-eyed behind masks. Diaz whispers, “We’re trapped.”

Not on my watch.

Not again.

Radio static. Rotor wash. Bitterroot blazing too fast to stop. The last time I hesitated, they died.

Not this time.

"You remember fire triangles?" I grab his collar and repeat. “You remember fire triangles?”

He blinks, recites: “Heat, fuel, oxygen.”

“Good. I’m about to steal one.”

Apparently today’s the day I commit grand theft rescue—with a side of reckless combustion.

I charge uphill, boots sinking into heat-softened ash. The air's so hot it bites. Dust scorches my throat, and the sigil under my collarbone flares—no magic, just a warning, a biological alarm bell screaming that this is suicide.

“You can’t run into that!” Diaz shouts.

“Watch me.”

Ten paces from the wall of fire, I drop to one knee. The blast hits—scalding, dry, fast. My breath rasps like sandpaper across open wounds. Heat claws up my neck, rakes across my arms. The world narrows to fire, smoke, and the bodies behind me I refuse to let die.

I press both palms to the dirt.

It’s not about power. It’s physics. Pressure. Intuition.

I brace low, digging fingers into baked earth. The sigil doesn’t burn—it focuses. Reminds me to stay locked in. I drag in a breath and slam every ounce of fear into function.

Air currents swirl. Dust lifts. Tiny vortexes dance near my elbows. Heat streams past me in uneven bursts, drawn downward. Not magic. Thermodynamics. I’m nothing but a conduit—creating a low-pressure pocket in a system that needs a release valve.

The air howls around me, drawn downward by the sudden low-pressure zone I’ve intentionally created.

My body position—low to the ground, knees pressed into the slope, palms anchoring me—funnels airflow into the heat pocket like a Venturi effect in overdrive, as if the inferno is gasping for equilibrium.

At my knees, sand melts—fusing into glimmering veins of half-formed glass.

The world seems to flinch. Just for a second. Just long enough.

The rookies cough behind me. Choked awe bleeds into the air.

I don’t look back.

I drop lower, palms flat, spine curled. Heat lashes my back, but I use it—let it drive the next breath deeper. If I can pull oxygen out of the firestorm, the flames will starve. If I can redirect the updraft—just enough—it’ll collapse the wall from within.

One breath.

The fire snarls, falters.

Another.

The air spins, a column collapsing inward like a throat choking shut. A narrow corridor forms—maybe two body-widths wide. Not safe. Not stable. But it’s a gap.

“Move!” I bark. “Single file. Gear tight. Run.”

Diaz grabs the first rookie and pushes hard. The others follow, ducking low, eyes wide. The heat claws at them, but the walls hold. Just barely. The last one stumbles through—and the fire surges, trying to reclaim the space.

I don’t give it the chance.

I shove forward, every tendon screaming, ribs cramping as I force myself upright. The sigil feels molten now—not supernatural, not mystical, just painful . A biofeedback loop feeding off my stress, my heartbeat, my refusal to let go.

I dive through the gap.

Fire snaps shut behind me like a steel trap, the pressure wave slapping my back with a roar like a slammed vault door. The sound rings in my ears—final, absolute—and the searing heat licks the edge of my gear, chasing but not catching.

We tumble into cleared ground—heaving, drenched in sweat. Coughs tear through the air. Visors rip off. Someone drops to their knees.

Ramirez pulls his mask and gasps. “What in holy hell was that?”

“Heat sink,” I croak. “Physics. Desperation. Take your pick.”

I stagger upright. My legs wobble but hold, muscles trembling from the strain.

A wave of dizziness crashes through me, black dots dancing at the edges of my vision.

My lungs scream, ribs tight with overuse, but my voice stays level—shaky, scorched, but unbroken.

“Remember it if you’re ever boxed in. Not the fear. The fix.”

The others stare, wide-eyed and silent from the aftershock of survival.

Diaz catches up beside me, voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

I nod once, steadying my breath.

We all walk away.

Sometimes, survival isn’t about firepower or fury. It’s about knowing how to choke a fire with the last breath you’ve got left.

I give a curt nod, eyes scanning for movement, every muscle drawn taut. No time to bask in survival. The next threat’s already inbound.

Then the world jerks sideways again as Ruiz barrels into view, boots slamming down like accusations.

Ruiz barrels up, helmet askew, rage blazing. “Monroe! You just ignored...”

“Saved them,” I cut in, voice flat. “Ignis spiked the ridge with live thermite. Drill’s over.”

She points a shaking finger at my brand—glowing faintly through soot-caked Nomex. “That. Is. Not. Regulation.”

“No, ma’am,” I say, stepping closer so she feels the residual heat bleeding off my skin. “It’s survival. Yours, too.”

Her jaw works. “Hand over your radio and badge. You’re a threat to this crew.”

The trainees murmur—fear or support, I can’t tell—while Ruiz snaps cuffs from her belt. I catch Diaz’s eyes; he changes his grip on the hose, like he’ll swing it in my defense. Brave kid.

It starts deep inside me—not just burning, but vibrating, a resonance that shivers through bone and breath, a tuning fork forged in flame. For an instant, I feel what he feels: the rush of altitude, a scream of wind, a sudden drop. The metallic sting of blood mixes with a dizzying lurch in my gut.

Kade—don’t you dare die on me I will burn this canyon to the bedrock before I lose you. Through the chaos, my sigil spikes. Kade’s agony knifes into my sternum. Images flash: night sky, bullet heat, wings stalling. He’s falling.

Ruiz steps forward.

I step back—and pivot, sprinting for the nearest rescue ATV. An engine spark is all it takes; the machine growls awake as I leap onto the seat. Ruiz shouts, “Monroe, stand down!”

I gun the throttle. Gravel spits. Trainees scatter.

“Liv!” Ramirez calls, but the wind swallows the rest.

I yank the goggles down over my eyes and throw myself onto the ATV. The engine snarls beneath me, wheels tearing across uneven ground as I rip past gear caches, busted hose lines, and overturned cones. Sparks rain from a shattered floodlight overhead.

Smoke lashes across my vision—acrid, blinding—turning the canyon’s edge into a smear of heat and motion.

Every jolt rattles my spine, the steering column jerking beneath my gloves as I swerve hard around a collapsed tripod, its emergency strobe still pulsing red.

The tires fishtail, catch, and drive me forward.

Sirens flare behind me. Floodlights swing wild. None of it matters. Not with Kade out there. My lungs claw at the scorched air, but I don't stop. Won’t stop. Reputation, badge, command—just ash compared to the bond searing through my chest.

Ahead, canyon shadows loom like jagged teeth, sharp and merciless, mirroring the fractures in my own resolve—edges that will cut deep if I let fear slow me down.

The dust plume from the convoy still hangs in the distance, a grim, twisting trail leading straight into the firestorm.

Hold on, Kade. I’m coming.

Somewhere beyond the canyon mouth, muzzle flashes crack like lightning, a dragon roars—ragged, defiant—and the night answers with gunfire.