He stiffens. “Drone.”
Far above, a faint red light glows through the haze—slow, deliberate, predatory. It slices through the smoke with mechanical precision, scanning the landscape. Not a flicker. A focus. Watching. Tracking. Calculating. The kind of gaze that doesn’t just observe—it marks.
The air thickens with consequence, as if the moment itself holds its breath—and the ground beneath us forgets which side of the line it's on.
CHAPTER 9
KADE
Smoke still hangs over camp like a bad secret when I slip between cargo pallets behind the supply tent.Defying orders, Liv’s down by the rigs, directing rookies to triple-check hose seals—a task she performs with calm precision, even if her eyes flick constantly toward the tree line. Her spine stays straight, voice clipped, but I don’t miss the way her fingers flex between commands or how her shoulders are too tight for this early in the shift. She's trying to look unshaken, unreadable.
I know the storm still simmers under her skin—because it simmers under mine, too. Her pendant’s soft glow marks her safe; the brighter flare on my handheld tracker, not so much.
A flat-black crate squats on the tailgate of a contractor pickup, stenciledDRIP-TORCH FUEL—CLASS 3. The manifest says diesel-gas mix. My nose says thermite: metallic tang, hot even through sealed steel. Ignis wants a magnesium sunburst right where the water tenders stage. Nice try.
I lever the lid with a crowbar. The metal groans in protest, hot to the touch even through my gloves. A faint, acrid heat leaks out, singeing the inside of my nose with a tang like scorchedbattery acid and overcooked iron. Definitely not diesel. The crate practically sweats malice.
Inside, slim canisters gleam dull silver, each stamped with a phoenix symbol. Cute. I wrap the whole crate in Nomex blankets, lash it to an ATV trailer, and tow it across camp under the pre-dawn haze. Nobody looks twice; everyone’s busy re-stretching hose after last night’s flare. Good. Let them stay busy.
The abandoned quartz mine sits a quarter mile upslope, hidden by scrub oak and rockfall. I drag the crate inside, past rotten timber struts and rail carts frozen in rust. Far back, where no human flashlight’s reached in decades, dragon sigils glow faint gold along the walls—wards carved by an ancestor who remembered when this mountain still answered to scales. I set the thermite on the bare stone floor, activate the sigils with a breath of heat only a dragon can give.
The shift pulls harder than usual tonight.
I feel it building in my bones as the sun dips low, the wind rising in short, stuttering bursts. There’s tension in the camp. Sabotage tightening its noose. The rookies don’t see it, but I do. It slithers at the edges of shadows, waiting.
I strip off my field gear—shirt, boots, pants—folding them fast and neat on a dry rock just inside the shaft entrance. I feel my dragon rising, scales prickling beneath the surface, pushing upward.
The change begins—a ripple of fire through my chest, down my arms, my hands distorting, talons pressing through skin with a shimmer of molten gold. I clench my jaw against the growl clawing its way up my throat.
"Sir?"
Shit.
Diaz.
His voice is hesitant, but too close.
I force the dragon down.
“What is it?” I manage to snarl.
"Sir, you dropped your radio," he says, closer now. I hear the sounds of his boot steps right outside the cave.
I force air through my nose. Slowly. “Just leave it and get back to the line.”
"Uh… okay, I’ll just set it down here," Diaz mutters. He turns, footsteps retreating.
I hold my breath for five more seconds. The mine breathes cold air against my bare skin, raising gooseflesh. One calm inhale, then I let the dragon rise.
Fire erupts around me in a spiraling vortex, wrapping my limbs in heat and light until skin gives way to scale, muscle thickens, and wings flare wide enough to stir the cavern dust into eddies. The change isn’t violent—it’s exultant. Every joint realigns with purpose, every breath deepens with strength as I expand into my true form. The mine shrinks around me, the ceiling suddenly closer, the air sharper with quartz dust and ancient mineral scents.
Power courses through every fiber of me—primal, unshakable. I lower my horned head, open my jaws, and release a single precise stream of white-hot flame. The heat licks across the warding sigils etched into the floor and walls, igniting them in a searing golden blaze. The runes blaze like miniature suns, their light dancing over the walls in molten waves as they seal the crate with fire no human—no Ignis mercenary—could cross or corrupt.
When the wards settle into a steady glow, I tuck wings tight, breathe out ember, and pull the fire back inside. Scales relent to skin; the cave’s chill kisses me fully human again, naked and steaming. I dress in the clothes I stashed, tug boots on, and shoulder my pack. Mission forward.
Outside, my sat-link pings:DAX—PRIORITY.I duck behind a boulder and tap the earpiece.
“Talk,” I whisper.
