Page 23

GREER

T hey say fire cleanses. But that’s bullshit.

Fire exposes.

It burns away illusion. Pretending I was ever enough for her. Pretending I was anything but a placeholder for someone bigger, older, darker.

I watch Liv’s face flicker on the drone screen, pixelated and perfect. She doesn’t look afraid. That pisses me off more than it should.

She should be afraid.

"Sir, we lost the Prescott shipment," one of the Ignis lieutenants says, hovering like a vulture. "Blackstrike interference."

"Of course we did." I rub my temples.

Behind my eyelids, flames dance. Greer, the coward. Greer, the one who swapped shifts. That’s what she said, and others whispered. Not that I saw what was coming. Not that I saved myself. Just that I left them.

They never saw the rot in the system. Not like I did.

Not like Ignis does.

She could have joined me. She could have helped cleanse the ground, rebuild something real. But she chose the dragon. A dragon. Who knew such monsters existed? Just one more things Ignis showed me.

She always did like danger. Fine. Let her burn with him.

I glance at the map—Fort Verde circled in red. The thermite’s already staged. All I need is a window. And she’ll finally see the truth in the flames.

That I was right.

That she should have followed me.

That fire doesn’t purify. It consumes.

KADE

A metallic tang coats my tongue—sharp, bitter, unmistakably copper—before the wind even brushes my face. It clings to the back of my throat like old blood, thick and foreboding, a warning more primal than scent or sight.

Pain flares beneath my ribs like a swarm of hornets burrowing deep beneath muscle.

Every breath tightens, each movement grinds the fragment deeper.

My vision tints at the edges, the world slightly off-kilter.

The sour sting of copper floods my mouth, and it’s all I can do not to stagger as fire tries to rise against the weakness clawing through me.

I bite down on the edge of a growl and flatten against the slab crowning the petrified basalt flats southeast of Fort Verde.

Heat radiates through the stone, dry and dead, yet a rhythm stirs beneath me—subtle, steady—as if something buried is beginning to rise.

The night wind lashes across the black rock, sharp as razors, dragging the acrid bite of diesel exhaust and the greasy tang of fear.

It churns in the air—panic sweat, machine oil, the bite of charged nerves—each note distinct, pungent, and unmistakably Ignis.

Below, shadows stir with nervous momentum.

The convoy creeps forward, its scent painting the terrain even before its shape fully emerges from the dark.

A line of stolen troop carriers creeps past the outer fence, headlights hooded, engines muted.

Four flatbeds ride drag, each cradling steel drums swaddled in canvas.

Thermite. Enough to turn an ammo bunker into a sunrise no one ordered.

Through the monocular, I spot a cluster of helmets and rifles, shadows twitching like they’re trying too hard to look tough. Twelve mercs, all nerves and posturing, and Greer leading the pack in a stolen fire engine painted matte black.

He rides point like a king on parade—chest out, ego louder than the engine—too full of himself to notice his crown’s slipped sideways.

Dax’s voice rasps in my earpiece. "Blackstrike is set. Talk to me."

“Convoy’s on schedule. Basalt flats in two.” I keep my whisper low, dry. Every syllable tastes of rust. “I’ll light the welcome mat.”

"How bad is the wound?" Dax’s voice cuts through the static. "Infrared picks up the heat bloom, Kade. You’re dripping fire."

He probably doesn’t know for sure—but Dax has lived long enough to know what he knows, and his guesses are always too close.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s the convoy that matters.”

"We’ve got overwatch."

“I need Ignis focused on me, not looking for the ambush. Trust me.”

A beat of silence, then: "Always have, brother. Go get ’em."

I savor one breath of cool air. The healing wound hums like distant static—unwelcome, persistent—but I lock onto the bigger burn: the drums, the bunkers, the civilians sleeping ten klicks south in Prescott.

Time to hunt.

I launch myself into the vast expanse of the sky, the air screaming past my horns and membrane with a deafening roar, blistering the delicate ridges of my snout in an assault of fiery fury.

The unyielding pressure slams mercilessly into my chest as my wings drive with ferocious power, seizing the upper thermals in a razor-sharp, relentless torrent.

The world below violently twists beneath my expansive black wings—arid hardpan and ancient ridges contort and weave in a chaotic dance of blistering heat and deep shadow.

Below me, truck roofs ripple violently in the turbulent jetwash I leave behind, their cargo canvases thrashing wildly like wounded birds in agony.

Drivers shout in panic, their voices lost to the wind, while one instinctively ducks in terror.

Yet, my thermal shimmer cloaks my form, a sinister mirage streaking overhead—a boiling, shapeless threat, an invisible terror in the sky.

I veer sharply, lungs straining against the searing wind scorching my insides.

Heat builds deep in my chest—a slow, pressurized surge expanding outward, the rise of a monstrous furnace awakening.

It climbs relentlessly through my throat, searing behind my teeth.

Then, with deliberate precision, I unleash it—a lethal exhalation, a razor-sharp ribbon of flame slicing through the darkness, drawn clean and merciless.

The night erupts in blazing orange, fire carving the sky as my wings beat once—perfectly timed with the release.

The flame lashes forward, furious and unyielding, engulfing the lead flatbed’s rear axle in a white-hot inferno.

Metal screams. Tires burst in a deafening chain reaction.

Sparks rain down in a savage, fiery cascade.

The trailer jerks sideways, skidding across the path, obstructing the convoy—a mortally wounded behemoth thrashing across the road, now an impassable barrier swallowed in flame.

Greer shouts. I hear his voice even over the wind—ragged, edged with panic, cracking with strain.

It carries a frantic pitch that cuts through the roar like shrapnel, laced with fury and desperation.

The vehicle he’s in swerves sharply, headlights jerking sideways as if his panic infects his driving.

Tires bite into loose gravel, fishtailing with a screech as his stolen engine lurches ahead, the drum in back rattling dangerously.

Not yet, you bastard.

I fold my wings, drop, and rake the second flatbed with fire. Canvas ignites, but I temper the heat—just enough to slag tie-downs, not the payload. Drums tumble, hiss, crack in the cold. Mercs bail, rolling across volcanic glass, howling.

A burst of automatic fire pocks my flank—foam-jacket rounds, harmless against scale, but the impact jars the wound. My vision wavers. I bank away, rise, feel blood seep along the seam where scale meets flesh. The toxin burns colder now, edges of reality fuzzing.

I force clarity. Greer’s engine barrels across the flats, red lights strobing a challenge in the dark. Two drums rattle in its bed—live thermite bound for Prescott. If they cross into the city limits, this turns from basalt flats to a mass-casualty map. A familiar heartbeat surges in my chest. Liv.

Hang on, dragon-man. I’m coming in hot.

Her thought slams into my mind—hot, deliberate, electrifying.

I feel her urgency behind it, not just in words but in sensation—a spark that fans the embers inside me, chasing back the creeping dark.

Strength sluices down the bond, cutting through and lessening the pain.

I bank toward the western ridge as an ATV’s headlamp bounces into view—Liv at the handlebars, rookies nowhere in sight.

She guns the throttle, skidding sideways beside the convoy’s stalled rear, eyes on me, sigil glowing through soot-streaked Nomex.

“Nice distraction,” she calls over the engine’s roar.

“Need an encore?” I rumble, hovering low.

She plants a boot on the ATV seat, spreads her arms, and inhales. For a second, I forget the pain.

Power gathers around her—not magic, not flame-born talent—but something deeper. Primal. Human. The kind of strength born from defiance and raw conviction. The air ripples, like the world pauses to watch her stand her ground.

She doesn’t raise her hands to command the fire.

She doesn’t need to. The wildfire sees her—recognizes something kindred in her resolve—and bends, just slightly, as if drawn to her intent.

Heat lifts from the blaze still chewing through timber, a shimmer that surges toward my wings like the fire itself chooses to obey her.

Sparks whirl around her like fireflies, caught in the updraft of belief.

She exhales—not flame, but fierce will—and the wildfire answers.

It surges forward, threads with my own inferno midair, doubling its reach.

For a beat, I feel her through the fire—our heartbeats syncing, her will braided through the heat like a vow.

The pressure builds, and my flame swells—hotter, hungrier, alive with her conviction.

I wheel, open my jaws, and let the augmented inferno pour down. It washes across the third flatbed, cooking engine blocks, fusing transmissions to chassis. Ammo inside Fort Verde’s bunkers lies untouched—the convoy never reaches them.

Greer floors his stolen rig, siren wailing. Liv’s eyes lock on mine—both of us know what comes next.

I broadcast on Blackstrike’s channel. “Convoy neutralized. Greer’s engine south-east, two drums aboard. Engage mop-up.”

“Copy. We’ve got them , ” Dax answers, rifle fire popping in the background.

I pivot midair, pain spidering from the wound. Liv yanks a fire-rake from the ATV, swings onto the rear rack, and points after Greer. “We finish this.”

“Just us.” I land hard beside her, fold my wings, and let the fire mold me back into man—no pain, only the hush of flame retreating under skin. I stagger once. She steadies me, handing me a bundle of clothes, her fingers hot where they grip my elbow.

“Can you still fly?” she asks.

“Won’t need to,” I say dressing quickly. “He’s heading for the old service road. You drive, I’ll get him stopped—one way or another.”

She thrusts the throttle. Gravel spits. Darkness races at us, broken by the ATV’s hazard strobes stuttering through the night.

I slide a hand under my shirt—wet heat. I grit my teeth, force my palm over the wound. Pressure, not power. No fire. Just heat, grit and desperation. Black spots bloom at the edges of my vision.

“Don’t you pass out,” she snaps, eyes locked on the rutting trail.

“Not until Greer’s ash.”

She guns it harder. We crest a ridge—and there he is. Greer’s fire engine idles below, a matte-black monster crouched on uneven stone. One thermite drum is tilted at a dangerous angle, ready to tumble.

She brakes hard. I vault from the ATV, land, roll, ribs protesting as I charge downslope.

Greer’s door slams open. He swings a rifle, hands shaking from fury or pain. Our eyes lock for half a second—his wide, glassy, panicked. He yells something I don’t hear. The barrel wavers before he steadies it with a curse, sweat dripping down his brow.

Too late. Too sloppy.

I lunge, palms slamming against the rifle. The barrel sears my skin, but I don’t let go. I twist, wrenching it sideways with every ounce of strength I’ve got. He shrieks—high-pitched and raw—stumbling backward as the rifle clatters to the dirt.

Acrid smoke rises between us. The plastic stock has started to warp, maybe from heat, maybe overuse. Doesn’t matter. He’s already retreating, clutching his scorched hand, scrambling back into the cab with wild eyes.

Beside me, Liv barrels in, grabs a burning branch from a downed snag, and swings it in a tight arc. Sparks burst across the thermite drum. Metal groans, then gives. The drum lurches free, toppling from the flatbed and tumbling across the dirt in a trail of embers.

Greer slams the gas. The engine fishtails wildly. I lunge again, but the bumper clips my thigh—pain flares white-hot—and then he’s gone, swallowed by dust and darkness, headed straight for Prescott with one drum still onboard.

Liv doesn’t hesitate. She hurls the flaming branch like a lasso—precision forged in fury. It wraps the fallen drum, snapping it open. Thermite spills out, molten sparks hissing harmlessly on the cooling basalt.

Crisis halved.

“You’re done pretending you’re fine,” she says, voice like steel.

“Greer...”

“Is mine,” she growls. “Your turn to ride shotgun and bleed.”

I open my mouth, but the dizziness wins. The world spins. She catches me, shoves me onto the ATV, and swings astride in one fluid motion. The engine fires to life.

Headlights carve through dust and dark, locking on Greer’s fleeing taillights.

I rest my head against her back, let her heat bleed into me. Not magic. Not flame. Just her—anchoring me to the moment before the dark swallows everything whole. Strength returns, slow but steady.

Ahead, a glow blooms—maybe city lights. Maybe the next drum, seconds from detonation.

Either way, we’re not stopping.

“Hold tight, dragon-man,” she mutters. “Time to finish what fire started.”

The ATV rockets forward. The wind howls around us, biting hard. Liv leans into the ride—shoulders squared, muscles tight, every breath a promise.

My blood sings—not just with pain, but purpose. One drum left. One chance to end this.

If we fail, Prescott burns.

No more hesitation. No more restraint.

Fire doesn’t pause.

Neither will we.