Knowing I will need them later, I remove my clothes and crouch beside the forge, the earth trembling subtly beneath my boots, like it senses what’s coming. The stones press against my knees, warm from the residual heat, holding tension in every pore. I breathe deep, drawing in the char of soot, the bite of molten steel, the ancient stir of something wilder. Smoke clings to my lungs. The fire answers before I even call—rising, coiling up my spine with the inevitability of blood memory, heat blooming in my core, a star reborn.
It surges from the ground, golden and alive, igniting the air with a low roar that silences everything else. The earth thrums beneath me, not with chaos—but with purpose. Fire coils upward in a spiral of radiance, wrapping the shed in a sacred veil of heat and light. I don’t fight it. I surrender. The flame inside doesn’t ask. It claims.
My breath stills as the transformation begins—not violent, not forced, but inevitable. Light envelops me. Skin becomes heat. Form becomes fire. And then—dragon. Cobalt scales shimmer into existence where skin once was, wings unfurling through the blaze like memory remembered. There’s no pain, only presence. Only power.
I rise through the flame, not burned, but reborn. No metaphor. No illusion. Dragon—eternal, elemental, mine.
I exhale, and a controlled stream of dragon flame pours from my throat into the coals. The forge drinks deep, roaring to life with a white-hot flame, fed by breath capable of melting stone. I step forward into the heat, lowering the blank into the inferno with one clawed hand. The metal responds, singeing and glowing, forged into life.
Only then, wrapped in fire and memory, do I let the dragon fall away. The transformation comes swift—fire folding inward, scales sinking beneath skin. When the mist clears, I’mcrouched beside the forge, human once more—bare-chested, sweat streaming, breath ragged from the claiming.
After redressing, I retrieve the smallest hammer I own—crafted for precision, not brute force, far too delicate for a dragon’s talons. I lay the blank across the anvil stone and begin to strike. Dragon fire clings to the metal, feathering the edges. The shape bends into a V as I drive the mark deep—my sigil, carved from oath and instinct. Each blow rings out in the dark, steady and sharp, a vow made flesh.
When it’s done, I lift the pendant before lowering it into a crystal vial of quartz-filtered water. The hiss of quenching steam rises around me, mingled with the scent of molten silver and sacred fire. There is a kind of magic that seals into the core of the disc, captured and quiet, but not tamed.
The pendant lies on the anvil, cooled now. Its surface holds a shimmer like frozen heat—silver touched by starlight. Along the rim, tiny rune-flutes catch the light and bend it, pulsing once as they link to my field beacon. It’ll ping every few breaths, no matter how many signals Ignis tries to jam. No one else will understand what it is.
But I’ll sense it—a steady beat in tandem with mine, low and insistent, no matter the distance. That pendant isn’t just metal; it’s a link forged in dragon flame, seared into memory and bone. Wherever she moves, I’ll feel the tug—her presence threading through me as wildfire beneath skin. Liv’s heartbeat, bound to mine, will boom like thunder in the quiet places only I can hear.
The anvil groans under the weight of the forging—twin scorch crescents seared into the steel, aftermath of dragon fire. I knew better, damn well knew better, but the pendant had to be made right, and that meant calling the dragon, letting him do what only he could. No mundane flame would bind the magic to the metal—not truly, not safely. Still, the marks are a risk I can't afford. I sweep a tarp over the anvil and scatter ash to dullthe gleam. It will pass at a glance, maybe, but the steel’s warped—touched by something sacred, something forbidden. If Ruiz’s inspectors come sniffing, this place needs to look like junk and rust, not the altar of a dragon’s forge.
I hit the secure line, routing the call through three ghost towers—old military remnants that leave no trace. On the second buzz, the connection hisses to life. My breath holds. Muscles tighten. That familiar razor-wire tension knots low in my gut, coiling into something sharp and merciless.
Greer answers, voice slick with triumph and something fouler beneath, like oil slicking over blood. “Didn’t think this number would bite back. Who the hell is this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, keeping my tone flat as forged steel. “What matters is this—if you hurt Liv again, in any way, I’ll make sure there’s nothing left of you but smoke and rumor.”
A beat of silence. Then a low, oily chuckle. “She’s the storm, not me. She’ll light the fuse herself. And you’ll stand there and watch her burn—no matter how many toys you’ve got, or how many threats you spit.”
My hand tightens around the edge of the workbench, metal groaning beneath my grip. “Then start digging your grave.”
“If you’re planning my funeral, you’d better bring flowers,” he purrs, and the line goes dead.
I pocket the phone, pulse hammering. Foam rounds, invisible mercs, Liv at the center of the bullseye—too many moving parts. I swallow the urge to run straight to her trailer and drag her clear of this place. Mission first. Protect her by ending the threat, not by spooking her into reckless questions.
I strip down beside the forge, folding each piece of clothing with clinical precision—even as fire already coils low in my belly, waiting. My boots thud against packed dirt, the last tie to the man I pretend to be. With a breath that tastes of steel and ash, Iclose my eyes and reach inward—not gently, but like dragging a blade through marrow.
The fire answers instantly. It erupts from the earth, golden and alive, coiling around my limbs with a predator’s grace. The roar swells, not destructive but commanding—heat and hunger made manifest. It doesn’t burn. It becomes.
Light flows over me, through me, until skin gives way to flame and flame gives way to scale. There’s no break, no fracture—only a seamless transformation, as natural as breath. My body stretches into truth, form redefined by something older than memory. Scales ripple into being like molten cobalt poured over muscle, flowing with purpose, hardening into armor forged from storm and shadow. My wings unfurl in a cascade of light, the air parting to welcome them.
When I move, the ground remembers. My tail cuts a furrow in the scorched soil, marking the moment of return—not as a man reborn, but as a dragon made whole.
For one breathless moment, I am fire incarnate—no questions, no guilt. Just power. Just truth.
Then I take to the sky, talons raking the earth as my body surges upward in a blast of muscle and wind. The ground falls away beneath me, the forge's glow dimming into a distant ember. Air tears past my horns, cold and biting, scouring every inch of scale and sinew. My wings stretch wide, slicing clean through the veil of night, each beat a rhythmic thunder that drowns out thought.
Above the camp, I spiral higher, the world shrinking to shadows and flickers of firelight. Down below, everything feels too tight—too human. Up here, in the embrace of sky and wind, I remember what it means to be unbound. The ache of duality, of skin stitched over flame, falls away until there’s only this: raw power and weightless grace. My senses sharpen—smoke trails inthe dark, heat signatures scattered across the valley, a hawk’s cry spinning off the canyon rim.
I fly not because I must, but because I can. Because there are truths that only make sense with my wings stretched wide, with fading moonlight glinting off my scales, with the stars wheeling like the old gods above me. Up here, I am not pretending. I am not hiding. I am dragon—eternal, vigilant, free.
Even now with wind screaming and wings slicing the sky, I feel her. Above the desert, where no one sees, I fly. Liv is wrapped in secrets and danger she doesn’t yet understand. I fly not to escape her, but to be strong enough to protect her when the storm breaks.
I spiral low over the darkened ridges, wings slicing through pre-dawn’s fragile hush before angling into a controlled descent. My talons strike scorched earth, throwing up a veil of dust as I land beside the forge. Heat still clings to the stones, whispering the memory of fire even as the chill of morning begins to bite.
With a breath pulled deep into my chest, I will the dragon to retreat. Flames fold inward, spiraling into my core as the transformation reverses—scales dissolving into skin, wings retracting into nothing, tail disappearing into the blaze that once birthed it. The fire that cradled my bones recedes in a slow, coiling rhythm, leaving behind the raw imprint of its passage. My limbs settle into human form, trembling slightly under the weight of gravity and breath. Sweat beads along my spine, not from pain but from the sudden quiet, the stillness that follows the storm of becoming. The air feels colder now, heavier, as if the earth itself mourns the loss of flight.
Naked and gasping, I crouch near the forge, fingers digging into the ash-laced dirt. Every part of me aches—not from pain, but from relinquishing the freedom of the sky. The earth feels too heavy, too still, after that wild, wind-rushed flight. I exhale,forcing steadiness back into my breath, and wipe soot from my face with the back of one shaking hand.
