I slide a hand under my shirt—wet heat. I grit my teeth, force my palm over the wound. Pressure, not power. No fire. Just heat, grit and desperation. Black spots bloom at the edges of my vision.
“Don’t you pass out,” she snaps, eyes locked on the rutting trail.
“Not until Greer’s ash.”
She guns it harder. We crest a ridge—and there he is. Greer’s fire engine idles below, a matte-black monster crouched on uneven stone. One thermite drum is tilted at a dangerous angle, ready to tumble.
She brakes hard. I vault from the ATV, land, roll, ribs protesting as I charge downslope.
Greer’s door slams open. He swings a rifle, hands shaking from fury or pain. Our eyes lock for half a second—his wide, glassy, panicked. He yells something I don’t hear. The barrel wavers before he steadies it with a curse, sweat dripping down his brow.
Too late. Too sloppy.
I lunge, palms slamming against the rifle. The barrel sears my skin, but I don’t let go. I twist, wrenching it sideways with every ounce of strength I’ve got. He shrieks—high-pitched and raw—stumbling backward as the rifle clatters to the dirt.
Acrid smoke rises between us. The plastic stock has started to warp, maybe from heat, maybe overuse. Doesn’t matter. He’s already retreating, clutching his scorched hand, scrambling back into the cab with wild eyes.
Beside me, Liv barrels in, grabs a burning branch from a downed snag, and swings it in a tight arc. Sparks burst across the thermite drum. Metal groans, then gives. The drum lurches free, toppling from the flatbed and tumbling across the dirt in a trail of embers.
Greer slams the gas. The engine fishtails wildly. I lunge again, but the bumper clips my thigh—pain flares white-hot—and then he’s gone, swallowed by dust and darkness, headed straight for Prescott with one drum still onboard.
Liv doesn’t hesitate. She hurls the flaming branch like a lasso—precision forged in fury. It wraps the fallen drum, snapping it open. Thermite spills out, molten sparks hissing harmlessly on the cooling basalt.
Crisis halved.
“You’re done pretending you’re fine,” she says, voice like steel.
“Greer...”
“Is mine,” she growls. “Your turn to ride shotgun and bleed.”
I open my mouth, but the dizziness wins. The world spins. She catches me, shoves me onto the ATV, and swings astride in one fluid motion. The engine fires to life.
Headlights carve through dust and dark, locking on Greer’s fleeing taillights.
I rest my head against her back, let her heat bleed into me. Not magic. Not flame. Just her—anchoring me to the momentbefore the dark swallows everything whole. Strength returns, slow but steady.
Ahead, a glow blooms—maybe city lights. Maybe the next drum, seconds from detonation.
Either way, we’re not stopping.
“Hold tight, dragon-man,” she mutters. “Time to finish what fire started.”
The ATV rockets forward. The wind howls around us, biting hard. Liv leans into the ride—shoulders squared, muscles tight, every breath a promise.
My blood sings—not just with pain, but purpose. One drum left. One chance to end this.
If we fail, Prescott burns.
No more hesitation. No more restraint.
Fire doesn’t pause.
Neither will we.
CHAPTER 16
LIV
