Page 31

KADE

T he Denver airfield still breathes night.

Floodlights cast long shadows across the tarmac, silver-gold halos glinting off steel and glass.

The Gulfstream Blackstrike chartered hums at the edge of the runway, engines purring like it knows the mission already.

Beyond it, the horizon bleeds from indigo to fire, dawn creeping in—part promise, part warning.

We arrived early, too keyed up to sleep, too used to the rhythm of adrenaline to fake calm.

Liv walks beside me in silence, the early chill wrapping around her like steam off fresh burn lines.

She tightens the cuffs on her jacket, then turns and adjusts the strap across my chest without saying a word.

"Still think I’m the one who’s gonna die first out there?" I murmur.

She arches an eyebrow. "No. But you will get your ass handed to you if you ignore the drone recon again."

I grin. "I like it when you talk dirty."

Her mouth curves, soft but deadly. "You like when I keep you alive."

I swallow the instinct to joke, because underneath her expression, there’s steel—and care.

The way she says it sends a ripple of heat curling low in my chest. Protective, fierce, unshakable.

She’d burn the world to keep me breathing.

And that terrifies me more than anything on the other side of this runway.

The quiet between us says everything else. We’ve had heat. Now we have history. And she’s choosing this—us—me—again, knowing exactly what’s waiting.

She leans closer, brushing her knuckles along my chest. Her voice lowers. "You’re scared I’ll break. Or worse, burn."

"I’m scared I won’t stop it in time," I admit. "That I’ll lose you before we’ve really begun."

Liv cups the back of my neck. "Then don’t blink, Kade. Don’t flinch. I’m fireborn now, just like you. I’m not afraid to burn."

Her words sear through me—more than bravery, it’s belief.

In herself. In us. And it tears through the last of my fear.

If she can face the flames with her head high, I sure as hell won’t cower behind doubt.

Not anymore. I nod, throat tight. She's not just surviving. She’s already halfway through the flames.

We steal a few minutes behind a stack of crates near the hangar. The scent of jet fuel and scorched metal lingers in the air, but Liv smells like heat and something wholly her own—smoke from a wildfire I never want to put out.

Her body presses into mine with fierce, silent urgency that scorches straight through skin and bone.

She moves like she’s reclaiming breath, her mouth brushing mine with a slow, smoldering intensity that leaves me wrecked and wanting.

Her lips part—soft, deliberate, tasting of danger and need—and the kiss deepens, winding tension through every nerve in my body.

It’s not rushed. It’s not soft. It’s a claiming, molten and personal.

Her hand knots in my collar, pulling me down as I slide my hands lower, locking around her hips like I could weld us together right here, right now.

Her thigh presses between mine, and for a breathless second, there’s no world beyond her heat, her mouth, the perfect pressure that makes every part of me burn for more.

When she pulls back, her breath comes uneven. My heart hammers, synced to the fierce rhythm where our bodies connect. I rest my forehead against hers, anchoring us in the silence that follows.

This isn’t just lust. It’s a vow. If we go down in flames, we go together.

She rolls her eyes, but her fingers tighten in my collar. "Just don’t die on me, Kade."

From across the tarmac, Malek calls out, "If you two are done dry-humping, some of us still have blood pressure to manage."

Rafe snorts. "Speak for yourself, grandpa. Let 'em burn it off now—saves us all from choking on the tension later."

He’s still laughing when Vale and Draven approach in full tac gear. Vale carries a satchel like it’s made of glass.

Dax waits near the hangar, arms crossed, wind tugging at his jacket. He doesn’t bother with greetings. His stare is all business. “Briefing room. Now.”

We head inside.

A map’s already spread across the table.

Dax gestures to it. "Ash Vault was first tagged two decades ago, when a seismic anomaly exposed an old-world cache lined with scorched obsidian and remnants of pre-modern alloys. At first, we thought it was a geological fluke—until three more vaults turned up, each marked with dragon-forged sigils older than any we’ve dated.

It was classified after the Flagstaff breach. "

He lifts a tablet. The air tightens.

"Now it's not theory anymore. Someone knows where the bones are buried—and they’re digging with purpose."

"Three relic thefts last week," he adds, flipping the tablet to show a grainy image of a busted vault door, metal warped and blackened. "The hit sites line up with ancient hoards. Real ones—not legend. Ash Vault is a go."

My jaw sets. "You think they know what they’re taking?"

"They’re not amateurs," Dax confirms. "Someone’s targeting dormant dragon caches with intent."

Ash Vault isn’t a recovery op. It’s a containment directive wrapped in a warning. A line drawn in the ash that says: whatever happened before can’t be allowed to happen again.

The room falls quiet. Vale shoots a look at Draven. Rafe, for once, says nothing—his hand tightening around his gear strap. The weight of it hits all of us. This isn’t cleanup. It’s the first shot of a war.

Dax swipes again. The next image punches breath from my lungs—a partially melted carving I haven’t seen in centuries. The curl of a draconic crest, scorched into obsidian.

"This vault," he says, "was last touched by flame three hundred years ago. Kade, you recognize it?"

I nod slowly. "It was mine—before I burned it to the ground."

Dax’s eyes narrow, sharp and assessing. "Anything left behind worth going back for?"

"Maybe. A shard of Pyresteel. One of the old sigil markers." I exhale hard. "If they’ve got their hands on that... it’s worse than we thought."

Rafe claps a hand on my shoulder, jarring me back from the edge of that memory. "Still with us, Kade? Looked like you were zoning out. Starting to wonder if you’d gone soft."

I flash a grin. "Soft’s not exactly the word Liv used last night."

He groans. "Gods, spare me. Every time I ask a question, I regret it immediately."

Vale cuts in, voice sharp. “The Flagstaff scans were legit. If we’re right, the metal trace in that core chamber matches remnants of Ignis’ old forge tech…”

Liz looks at him, her expression perplexed. “Forge tech?”

“Experimental machinery they used to extract, contain, and weaponize dragon essence. We thought it had been destroyed.”

Draven swears under his breath. “They’re trying to rebuild it.”

“Or worse,” I say. “They want to recreate the effect—use dragon essence without dragons.”

Dax leans forward. “And that’s not all. Our techs picked up low-band interference off a relay spike in the Mojave. Someone’s tracking us. We don’t know who—but it’s not one of ours.”

As Dax finishes his briefing, Liv’s eyes flick toward me for a beat longer than necessary.

I can’t help but stare. This isn’t the same woman who walked into my life weeks ago, shadowed by scandal and shame.

She’s grown harder, sharper—burned clean of doubt.

But there’s still warmth beneath the steel, and it's only for me.

Final checks swirl around us—clipboards, engines, loaded gear. But I’m not watching the techs. I’m watching her.

Liv stands near the ramp, her pendant swinging forward on its chain, catching the edge of the rising sun. Mine responds beneath my shirt, heat blooming in answer.

I step in front of her, palms bracketing her waist. Her breath hitches but doesn’t break.

"Heart and flame," I murmur.

"Always," she says.

The sigils glow—synchronized, certain, alive.

We board side by side. The jet’s cabin hums around us, a low mechanical purr broken only by soft conversation and clipped comms from the cockpit.

We sit near the back, away from the noise. The low hum of the jet smooths over the silence between us—not awkward, just waiting.

She kisses me once. It’s not fire. It’s gravity.

She rests her head on my shoulder, sighs softly. The jet lifts. The runway drops away. Through the window I catch it—twin trails of exhaust rising behind us, silver-gold through the thinning cloud cover.

We fly into the sunrise. The light streaks across the clouds, a promise etched in flame, mirroring the path we’ve carved through ash and memory. For a second, I remember the quiet before Bitterroot went up in smoke—the way the wind sounded just before it screamed.

This time, I’m not alone.

Our sigils glow in unison, warmth threading beneath my skin—steady, certain, unbreakable.

We were forged in fire.

We’re heading straight into its heart.

Behind us, the fire sleeps.

Ahead, there's a new storm brewing.

RAFE

Vault Omega was only a name until now. As Dax’s words echo in my head—about the old-world caches, the Pyresteel, the sigils—my thoughts drift toward the desert.

Toward the ones already on the ground. We’ll need more than firepower.

We’ll need minds sharp enough to read the buried truths and hands steady enough to unearth what shouldn’t be touched.

That’s where she comes in.

CAMI

Vault Omega

New Mexico Desert

The sun hangs low over the desert, bleeding copper light across sandstone ridges and rusting excavation gear.

Heat rises in shimmering ribbons off the gravel path, and the wind carries the dry whisper of dust brushing tarp lines.

I tighten my braid and slide my field notes into my canvas satchel, boots scuffing over the gravel as I cross toward the staging area just past the dig perimeter.

Vault Omega is less than two klicks away—buried beneath the old basalt flow that locals call the Dragon’s Spine. They think it’s superstition, just a name. I know better.

I’m brushing dirt from my fingers when a dark shadow crosses the edge of my notebook. I glance up—and stop breathing for half a beat.

The man standing in front of me looks carved from the same rock as the ridgeline—lean, solid, and sun-scorched.

Tactical gear, dusty boots, aviators pushed up into black hair.

His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms threaded with old scars and new tension.

Blackstrike. Has to be. And he’s looking at me like I’m the anomaly.

“Dr. Camille Rhodes?” he asks, voice rough like the gravel under our feet but smooth enough to stick.

“That’s me,” I reply, shielding my eyes against the sun. “And you are?”

“Rafe Maddox. You’re my problem now.”

Charming. “I wasn’t aware I’d been promoted to ‘problem.’”

He doesn’t smile, but something flickers behind his eyes. “You’re camped too close to an active hot zone. My team’s sweeping Vault Omega before nightfall. If you’re here when it blows, I’m the one pulling archaeologist pieces out of a crater.”

I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. “We’ve been here for four days, mapping fault fractures and scanning for subterranean chambers. No breaches. No instability. Unless you’ve triggered something.”

His brow rises. “You think we’re the reckless ones.”

“I think someone should be asking what’s under the basalt before they start planting demolition charges.

” I reach into my satchel and pull out the shard I’ve carried since childhood—obsidian veined with silver and marked with the same sigil found on the scorched vault doors.

I hold it out. “This symbol is carved into three of the rock faces below us. Identical to the Vault Sigma breach in Nevada.”

Rafe takes it carefully, fingers brushing mine for a second too long. Heat flares—not just from the sun—and my breath hitches despite myself.

He turns the shard under the light. “Where’d you get this?”

“Cornwall. Found it in a sea cave when I was eight.” I pause, watching his reaction. “It’s why I do what I do.”

He studies the piece, then me. “Most kids find fossils or shells. You found a classified sigil tied to a fire-fused alloy and buried war caches. Lucky.”

“Or cursed,” I murmur. “Depends who’s digging.”

Rafe nods toward a mobile command tent half a field away, where satellite dishes glint and solar panels hum. “Come walk me through your scans. If you’re right about this symbol, Command needs to know before we drill.”

I hesitate—then follow, keeping pace as he strides back across sunbaked earth. The wind kicks up dust devils around our boots.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways, “you really believe the ash vaults are connected? That they’re not just geological flukes?”

“They’re not flukes,” I say, pulling a folded map from my satchel. “Every site sits on a line of fire-formed glass and residual magnetic anomalies. Vaults Sigma, Tau, Epsilon—all part of a containment network.”

“And what exactly are they containing?”

I stop walking. Let him see I’m serious. “Something old enough to scare us. And smart enough to bury itself.”

The air between us changes—not hostile, just charged, as if the sand still holds the memory of fire.

Rafe watches me a beat too long. Then he hands the shard back and jerks his chin toward the ridge. “You’re skating on thin ice, Dr. Rhodes. But you’ve got fifteen minutes to convince me you’re more than an academic with a death wish.”

I take the shard, slot it carefully into its pouch, and smile despite the tension clawing at my gut. “You’ll want more than fifteen.”

His grin finally breaks through—quick, sharp, entirely unexpected. “We’ll see.”

As we make our way to the command tent, the wind catches a new direction—and behind us, the ridge releases a low, hollow groan. Stone moaning under pressure—the first warning.

Still, I don’t look back.

Because whatever’s buried beneath the Dragon’s Spine? I think it knows we’re coming.

Rafe Maddox, Cami Rhodes and the rest of the Blackstrike Unit will return with Scorched Earth.