It’s a moment of uneasy stillness—the quiet before a scream. My sigil beats in sync with the pump engine, a low, urgent rhythm only I can feel, warning me that something’s coming.
“Eyes up, Diaz,” I snap, fingers flashing in front of his mask. “You watch the slope, not your boots.”
He startles, eyes wide and breath catching—green, but responsive. His hands shake as he adjusts the nozzle, finally angling it toward a scrub cluster smoldering twenty yards uphill. New heat flares there—too intense for a training line, an unnatural bloom that lights every nerve in warning.
I flick my radio. “Command, confirm flare temperature on Bravo flank.”
Static. Then Ruiz’s clipped reply. “Reading eighty-five Celsius. Within parameters.”
“Negative—my visor shows one-ten and climbing.”
Another pause. “Hold position.”
Another voice crackles in—tech, probably logistics. “Command, external temps might be skewed—uh, canyon bounce. Readings could be thermal echo.”
“Confirmed echo,” Ruiz snaps. “Monroe, maintain drill discipline.”
I grind my molars. “Or you could come down here and taste-test the air.”
Pause. “Hold position.”
Translation: quit questioning her numbers.
The rookies shuffle, restless, their boots scuffing dry grit in uneven rhythm. One fidgets with a nozzle, another adjusts their pack straps for the third time in a minute. Sweat beadson their brows beneath soot-smudged helmets, shoulders tight with anticipation. The air is too quiet now, every shallow breath edged with static tension—as if the canyon itself waits for something to break.
Diaz’s voice cracks as he whispers, “We’re trapped.” His gloved hands tremble visibly on the coupling, knuckles paling. I catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes—the same doubt I buried deep in my own when I was first out here.
Jo’s gloved hands tremble on the coupling; Ramirez stands rigid, mouthing something—maybe a prayer—beneath his mask. I clock them both in a second: tells I know too well. I used to be that kid, eyes too wide, knuckles too white. Every instinct in me sharpens—because they’re mine to protect. I watch shimmering waves crawl up dead grass, licking toward the slot cut we’ll use to exit when the exercise ends. If that slot burns shut, we’re boxed in.
My mark ignites—sharp, urgent. It burns hotter than flame, a searing brand just beneath the skin, vibrating in short, furious bursts that hammer through my chest. The rhythm isn't mine—it's his. And I know that cadence. I felt it first in the claiming—Kade’s fire wrapping around me, his breath fusing with mine, our heartbeats slamming into unison in the blinding instant the flame took us. Heat surging behind my ribs, pressure crowding my skull, our bodies drawn into the same molten current.
Now, the force of it slams back into me, a siren shrieking through bone. Kade. Every signal in the bond detonates—sharp, searing bursts syncing with his pain. I feel the spike tearing through my system, lightning stitched into every nerve, heart jackknifing with the force of it. The air tilts. My knees stiffen. And I feel it all.
Pain and stubborn fury tear through the bond like shrapnel, splintering beneath my ribs and stealing my breath. His agony flares bright and jagged, a primal scream carried on wings Ican almost feel beating through the sky. He's wounded. Still airborne. Still chasing death. I brace against the pull, lungs tight, heart hammering as I force my vision back to the ridge, anchoring myself in the present before the bond can drag me under.
“Ramirez,” I call, jerking my chin toward the slope. “Take Jo, flank left, scratch a break line. Everyone else, anchor hose here.”
They move. Good. Muscle memory keeps them from asking why I’m overriding Command. I clock their discipline, the precision beneath the fear—Diaz’s grip steadies, Ramirez checks Jo’s footing without needing a word. They’re scared, but they’re mine.
And I remember my last canyon drill as a trainee—heat biting at my boots, my captain’s voice cutting through the smoke as he shouted over a sudden gust, the air thick with panic and char. A rookie crumpled beside a live ember, sobbing so hard her breaths came in hiccups. I could still feel the grit in my teeth, the sear of radiant heat on my thighs, the stench of melted Nomex. We walked out charred but alive, every step a battle. And I swore then—if I ever wore command’s badge, I’d be the kind of leader who didn't leave anyone behind. Who turned fear into fight. Who made sure her team did better.
A crack—soft, almost polite—ripples across rock.
My breath catches. For a split second, the canyon holds still—heat tense, dust suspended, even time itself pausing on a blade’s edge. Then the world tips red.
Light detonates across my vision as a thunderclap of fire erupts along the ridge—molten arcs trailing behind, painting the air in blinding streaks. The sudden heat slams into my chest, every nerve flaring with white-hot warning.
Thermite bursts from three stumps along the ridge, molten ribbons cascading downhill. The heat hits with the force of a forge flung open; hose jackets shrivel on contact, couplingsexplode. Within seconds, a wall of liquid fire races toward us, devouring cheatgrass and dead juniper, sealing off the escape route behind a veil of white-hot flame.
The eruption isn’t quiet—it arrives with a waxy splatter, a monstrous candle cracked wide, followed by the hiss of sap boiling and spitting from dry bark.
Static prickles along my arms, lifting the tiny hairs even under Nomex. Somewhere to the left, a rookie screams. To the right, silence—and I know they’re frozen. I’ve got seconds to break the spell before panic becomes collapse along the ridge.
Rookies freeze, wide-eyed behind masks. Diaz whispers, “We’re trapped.”
Not on my watch.
Not again.
