A beat of silence, then: "Always have, brother. Go get ’em."
I savor one breath of cool air. The healing wound hums like distant static—unwelcome, persistent—but I lock onto the biggerburn: the drums, the bunkers, the civilians sleeping ten klicks south in Prescott.
Time to hunt.
I launch myself into the vast expanse of the sky, the air screaming past my horns and membrane with a deafening roar, blistering the delicate ridges of my snout in an assault of fiery fury. The unyielding pressure slams mercilessly into my chest as my wings drive with ferocious power, seizing the upper thermals in a razor-sharp, relentless torrent.
The world below violently twists beneath my expansive black wings—arid hardpan and ancient ridges contort and weave in a chaotic dance of blistering heat and deep shadow. Below me, truck roofs ripple violently in the turbulent jetwash I leave behind, their cargo canvases thrashing wildly like wounded birds in agony. Drivers shout in panic, their voices lost to the wind, while one instinctively ducks in terror. Yet, my thermal shimmer cloaks my form, a sinister mirage streaking overhead—a boiling, shapeless threat, an invisible terror in the sky.
I veer sharply, lungs straining against the searing wind scorching my insides. Heat builds deep in my chest—a slow, pressurized surge expanding outward, the rise of a monstrous furnace awakening. It climbs relentlessly through my throat, searing behind my teeth. Then, with deliberate precision, I unleash it—a lethal exhalation, a razor-sharp ribbon of flame slicing through the darkness, drawn clean and merciless.
The night erupts in blazing orange, fire carving the sky as my wings beat once—perfectly timed with the release. The flame lashes forward, furious and unyielding, engulfing the lead flatbed’s rear axle in a white-hot inferno. Metal screams. Tires burst in a deafening chain reaction. Sparks rain down in a savage, fiery cascade.
The trailer jerks sideways, skidding across the path, obstructing the convoy—a mortally wounded behemoththrashing across the road, now an impassable barrier swallowed in flame.
Greer shouts. I hear his voice even over the wind—ragged, edged with panic, cracking with strain. It carries a frantic pitch that cuts through the roar like shrapnel, laced with fury and desperation. The vehicle he’s in swerves sharply, headlights jerking sideways as if his panic infects his driving. Tires bite into loose gravel, fishtailing with a screech as his stolen engine lurches ahead, the drum in back rattling dangerously.
Not yet, you bastard.
I fold my wings, drop, and rake the second flatbed with fire. Canvas ignites, but I temper the heat—just enough to slag tie-downs, not the payload. Drums tumble, hiss, crack in the cold. Mercs bail, rolling across volcanic glass, howling.
A burst of automatic fire pocks my flank—foam-jacket rounds, harmless against scale, but the impact jars the wound. My vision wavers. I bank away, rise, feel blood seep along the seam where scale meets flesh. The toxin burns colder now, edges of reality fuzzing.
I force clarity. Greer’s engine barrels across the flats, red lights strobing a challenge in the dark. Two drums rattle in its bed—live thermite bound for Prescott. If they cross into the city limits, this turns from basalt flats to a mass-casualty map. A familiar heartbeat surges in my chest. Liv.
Hang on, dragon-man. I’m coming in hot.
Her thought slams into my mind—hot, deliberate, electrifying. I feel her urgency behind it, not just in words but in sensation—a spark that fans the embers inside me, chasing back the creeping dark. Strength sluices down the bond, cutting through and lessening the pain. I bank toward the western ridge as an ATV’s headlamp bounces into view—Liv at the handlebars, rookies nowhere in sight. She guns the throttle,skidding sideways beside the convoy’s stalled rear, eyes on me, sigil glowing through soot-streaked Nomex.
“Nice distraction,” she calls over the engine’s roar.
“Need an encore?” I rumble, hovering low.
She plants a boot on the ATV seat, spreads her arms, and inhales. For a second, I forget the pain.
Power gathers around her—not magic, not flame-born talent—but something deeper. Primal. Human. The kind of strength born from defiance and raw conviction. The air ripples, like the world pauses to watch her stand her ground.
She doesn’t raise her hands to command the fire. She doesn’t need to. The wildfire sees her—recognizes something kindred in her resolve—and bends, just slightly, as if drawn to her intent. Heat lifts from the blaze still chewing through timber, a shimmer that surges toward my wings like the fire itself chooses to obey her.
Sparks whirl around her like fireflies, caught in the updraft of belief. She exhales—not flame, but fierce will—and the wildfire answers. It surges forward, threads with my own inferno midair, doubling its reach. For a beat, I feel her through the fire—our heartbeats syncing, her will braided through the heat like a vow. The pressure builds, and my flame swells—hotter, hungrier, alive with her conviction.
I wheel, open my jaws, and let the augmented inferno pour down. It washes across the third flatbed, cooking engine blocks, fusing transmissions to chassis. Ammo inside Fort Verde’s bunkers lies untouched—the convoy never reaches them.
Greer floors his stolen rig, siren wailing. Liv’s eyes lock on mine—both of us know what comes next.
I broadcast on Blackstrike’s channel. “Convoy neutralized. Greer’s engine south-east, two drums aboard. Engage mop-up.”
“Copy. We’ve got them,” Dax answers, rifle fire popping in the background.
I pivot midair, pain spidering from the wound. Liv yanks a fire-rake from the ATV, swings onto the rear rack, and points after Greer. “We finish this.”
“Just us.” I land hard beside her, fold my wings, and let the fire mold me back into man—no pain, only the hush of flame retreating under skin. I stagger once. She steadies me, handing me a bundle of clothes, her fingers hot where they grip my elbow.
“Can you still fly?” she asks.
“Won’t need to,” I say dressing quickly. “He’s heading for the old service road. You drive, I’ll get him stopped—one way or another.”
She thrusts the throttle. Gravel spits. Darkness races at us, broken by the ATV’s hazard strobes stuttering through the night.
