Page 6 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

R iven

The Ducati’s engine snarls beneath me, all twelve hundred cc of German fury eating up the mountain road like it’s starved for asphalt.

I lean into the curves, feeling the machine respond to each micro-adjustment of weight and throttle.

The rental cost more than most people see in half a year. Worth every euro.

If I have to go into the middle of nowhere to take out a target, I may as well add a few creature comforts.

Cold cuts through my leather bike jacket, sharp and crisp. The Carpathians don’t fuck around—even in early fall, the wind carries teeth. I taste snow and pine, but underneath lurks something else. Something that shouldn’t exist at this elevation. Ancient. Hungry.

Heat stirs beneath my ribs. My breath mists up my visor.

Pay attention.

A week of digging through the Guild’s intelligence networks led me here.

Not the usual blood-and-threats extraction of information.

Strategic research. Archaeological databases cross-referenced with satellite imagery.

Magical disturbance reports spanning three centuries.

The Guild maintains those resources for a reason—when you need to find something that doesn’t want to be found, you use every advantage available.

The file presses against my chest through the jacket’s inner pocket.

I’ve memorized every word, every photograph, every energy signature diagram.

Standard protocol. But this job carries weight the others didn’t.

Veyra’s expression when she gave me the contract.

Her deliberately vague answers. Double pay.

Why double?

Of course, I know the answer to that.

The road narrows to barely more than a hiking trail when I spot what I’m looking for.

According to the satellite images, there should be nothing here but rock and scrub pine.

When I first got here three days ago, at the start of my surveillance, I learned that reality tells a different story.

A trail cuts through the forest—wide enough for vehicles, deliberately unmarked.

Someone with serious money has been using this route.

I kill the engine behind a stand of trees, hidden from the main approach. The Ducati ticks as it cools, the only sound besides wind through branches and something calling in the distance. Might be a hawk.

Might not.

I stay low. Silent.

My bag comes off the bike, and I dig through its contents.

Surveillance equipment first—camera with telephoto lens, electromagnetic detector, magical resonance scanner.

Then weapons. Ceramic knife that made it through airport security.

Collapsible crossbow that looks like a tripod when folded down.

The modified Sig picked up from a Guild contact in Cluj-Napoca, loaded with suppression rounds, each bullet designed to punch through supernatural defenses.

Everything exactly where it should be. Everything maintained to perfection.

The trail climbs for another half mile before opening into a clearing that violates every natural law I know. Trees too uniform. Too deliberately spaced. Someone shaped this place, hid it from aerial detection while maintaining ground access.

Professional work. Expensive work. Work that took time.

They’ve been here a while.

I settle behind a fallen log, bark rough against my forearms as I steady the camera.

I’ve picked a different vantage point each time I’ve been here.

Each one giving visual access to different parts of the facility.

The compound below looks like a research station playing dress-up as an archaeological dig.

Prefab buildings masked as scientific facilities. But the security tells the real story.

Motion sensors disguised as weather equipment. Cameras hidden in fake bird boxes. Guard rotations timed to eliminate blind spots.

Three visible. Two more implied.

All human. All carrying weapons that gleam wrong in the afternoon light. Enchanted. Someone expects supernatural trouble.

The electromagnetic readings spike every few minutes, regular as a heartbeat. Whatever they’re protecting pulses with active power beneath the main building. The resonance scanner confirms what my enhanced senses already know—energy patterns that taste like ancient fire and sleeping stone.

My skin responds to each pulse. Heat spreads across my shoulders, down my arms, pooling in my chest. I’ve been near artifacts before. Dozens of them. This feels different.

Personal.

Like something calling my name.

I photograph everything. Guard positions.

Weapon loadouts. Entry points. Escape routes.

The work keeps my hands busy while my mind monitors threats and opportunities.

Two ways in: the main approach, heavily monitored, or the service road that curves behind the compound.

Twelve-second window where the cameras can’t cover both angles.

Tight. Manageable.

And then finally… finally , it happens.

I see him.

The target confirmation comes three hours into surveillance. A man emerges from the main building, and my enhanced vision locks onto details invisible to normal sight. Tall. Muscular in way that doesn’t seem battle-honed. Unremarkable. But the energy signature matches the briefing perfectly.

Dragon bloodline. Old. Powerful. Unnatural energy.

The recognition hits unexpectedly. I’ve never seen magical bloodline markers in person, but Guild training covered them extensively. Political dynamite wrapped in genetic legacy.

Why didn’t the dossier include this?

Doesn’t matter.

I steady the camera, capture a dozen frames as the target moves between buildings. He’s joined by two others, who fall in step beside him as he heads back toward the main building.

Bingo.

Mission objective located. Identity confirmed. Approach planned.

The target disappears back into the main building. I return to surveillance. Observation. Planning. The job I was hired to complete.

Stay professional.

Evening brings shift changes and maintenance checks.

I take in each guard’s preferred route, note timing between radio calls, identify the communications array connecting this place to the outside world.

Standard intelligence gathering. The methodical work that separates professionals from thugs with expensive toys.

But underneath the familiar routine, something builds. Anticipation threaded with unease I can’t name. Each energy pulse pulls at something inside my chest. Like hunger for something I’ve never tasted.

Like thirst for something I’ve never drunk.

Maybe I’m coming down with something, dammit.

Whatever it is can wait.

By full dark, I have what I need. Security assessment complete. Infiltration route mapped. Target location confirmed. Time to proceed to the next phase.

I pack the surveillance equipment with my customary care, each piece finding its designated place. The trip back is in darkness, but I know my way down here now.

The Ducati starts on the first try, engine purring with German reliability.

The air is still cold, but I’m barely aware of it now as my mind runs through the details, cruising back along the now-familiar road.

The safe house is twelve miles back down the mountain—an anonymous cabin paid for with Guild currency, stocked with everything necessary for mission completion.

As I ride away from the clearing, the sensation follows me. Not external threat—I would have detected that hours ago. Something internal. The heat refuses to fade, and those energy pulses echo in my memory like phantom drumbeats.

At the safe house, I run final equipment checks under harsh LED lighting. The ceramic knife’s edge gleams without flaw. The rifle sights are perfectly aligned. The Sig’s action locks with satisfying precision.

Everything ready.

I pour whiskey from the bottle of Scottish single malt that I bought for my pre-operation ritual. One drink before a hit. I’ve done it for as long as I can remember. The alcohol should quiet whatever’s stirring in my mind.

It makes the heat worse.

Not painful. Just… present. Like something waking after a long sleep.

Maybe it’s the pull of the king’s resting place. Maybe it’s because I’m meddling with something that should be left alone.

Bullshit.

I push away superstitious nonsense, finish the drink, and set the glass aside. Tomorrow requires absolute focus. The target will be eliminated cleanly, professionally, according to Guild standards. Another assignment completed. Another step toward whatever passes for retirement in my profession.

The bed is narrow but adequate. Clean sheets. Decent mattress. I’ve slept in worse places.

But as I lie in darkness, those energy pulses follow me down from the mountain. Distant but persistent, like drums felt through the earth itself. My dragon heritage responds to each one, heat building in my bones until sleep becomes a joke.

I tell myself it’s proximity to ancient magic. Nothing more.

That has to be it.

Part of me—the part that’s spent decades learning to read supernatural currents—knows better.

But it doesn’t matter. I’ve planned for every contingency. Mapped every escape route. Identified every threat. This mission is too important for variables I can’t control. Too important for anything to go wrong.

My equipment is perfect. My intelligence is complete. My approach is flawless.

Whatever’s buried under that compound, whatever’s calling to the dragon blood in my veins—none of it matters. I’m prepared for everything.

Everything.

Tomorrow, I finish this.