They say fire cleanses. But that’s bullshit.
Fire exposes.
It burns away illusion. Pretending I was ever enough for her. Pretending I was anything but a placeholder for someone bigger, older, darker.
I watch Liv’s face flicker on the drone screen, pixelated and perfect. She doesn’t look afraid. That pisses me off more than it should.
She should be afraid.
"Sir, we lost the Prescott shipment," one of the Ignis lieutenants says, hovering like a vulture. "Blackstrike interference."
"Of course we did." I rub my temples.
Behind my eyelids, flames dance. Greer, the coward. Greer, the one who swapped shifts. That’s what she said, and others whispered. Not that I saw what was coming. Not that I saved myself. Just that I left them.
They never saw the rot in the system. Not like I did.
Not like Ignis does.
She could have joined me. She could have helped cleanse the ground, rebuild something real. But she chose the dragon. Adragon. Who knew such monsters existed? Just one more things Ignis showed me.
She always did like danger. Fine. Let her burn with him.
I glance at the map—Fort Verde circled in red. The thermite’s already staged. All I need is a window. And she’ll finally see the truth in the flames.
That I was right.
That she should have followed me.
That fire doesn’t purify. It consumes.
KADE
A metallic tang coats my tongue—sharp, bitter, unmistakably copper—before the wind even brushes my face. It clings to the back of my throat like old blood, thick and foreboding, a warning more primal than scent or sight.
Pain flares beneath my ribs like a swarm of hornets burrowing deep beneath muscle. Every breath tightens, each movement grinds the fragment deeper. My vision tints at the edges, the world slightly off-kilter. The sour sting of copper floods my mouth, and it’s all I can do not to stagger as fire tries to rise against the weakness clawing through me.
I bite down on the edge of a growl and flatten against the slab crowning the petrified basalt flats southeast of Fort Verde. Heat radiates through the stone, dry and dead, yet a rhythm stirs beneath me—subtle, steady—as if something buried is beginning to rise. The night wind lashes across the black rock, sharp as razors, dragging the acrid bite of diesel exhaust and the greasy tang of fear. It churns in the air—panic sweat, machine oil,the bite of charged nerves—each note distinct, pungent, and unmistakably Ignis.
Below, shadows stir with nervous momentum. The convoy creeps forward, its scent painting the terrain even before its shape fully emerges from the dark. A line of stolen troop carriers creeps past the outer fence, headlights hooded, engines muted. Four flatbeds ride drag, each cradling steel drums swaddled in canvas. Thermite. Enough to turn an ammo bunker into a sunrise no one ordered.
Through the monocular, I spot a cluster of helmets and rifles, shadows twitching like they’re trying too hard to look tough. Twelve mercs, all nerves and posturing, and Greer leading the pack in a stolen fire engine painted matte black.
He rides point like a king on parade—chest out, ego louder than the engine—too full of himself to notice his crown’s slipped sideways.
Dax’s voice rasps in my earpiece. "Blackstrike is set. Talk to me."
“Convoy’s on schedule. Basalt flats in two.” I keep my whisper low, dry. Every syllable tastes of rust. “I’ll light the welcome mat.”
"How bad is the wound?" Dax’s voice cuts through the static. "Infrared picks up the heat bloom, Kade. You’re dripping fire."
He probably doesn’t know for sure—but Dax has lived long enough to know what he knows, and his guesses are always too close.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s the convoy that matters.”
"We’ve got overwatch."
“I need Ignis focused on me, not looking for the ambush. Trust me.”
