Draven swears under his breath. “They’re trying to rebuild it.”
“Or worse,” I say. “They want to recreate the effect—use dragon essence without dragons.”
Dax leans forward. “And that’s not all. Our techs picked up low-band interference off a relay spike in the Mojave. Someone’s tracking us. We don’t know who—but it’s not one of ours.”
As Dax finishes his briefing, Liv’s eyes flick toward me for a beat longer than necessary. I can’t help but stare. This isn’t the same woman who walked into my life weeks ago, shadowed by scandal and shame. She’s grown harder, sharper—burned clean of doubt. But there’s still warmth beneath the steel, and it's only for me.
Final checks swirl around us—clipboards, engines, loaded gear. But I’m not watching the techs. I’m watching her.
Liv stands near the ramp, her pendant swinging forward on its chain, catching the edge of the rising sun. Mine responds beneath my shirt, heat blooming in answer.
I step in front of her, palms bracketing her waist. Her breath hitches but doesn’t break.
"Heart and flame," I murmur.
"Always," she says.
The sigils glow—synchronized, certain, alive.
We board side by side. The jet’s cabin hums around us, a low mechanical purr broken only by soft conversation and clipped comms from the cockpit.
We sit near the back, away from the noise. The low hum of the jet smooths over the silence between us—not awkward, just waiting.
She kisses me once. It’s not fire. It’s gravity.
She rests her head on my shoulder, sighs softly. The jet lifts. The runway drops away. Through the window I catch it—twin trails of exhaust rising behind us, silver-gold through the thinning cloud cover.
We fly into the sunrise. The light streaks across the clouds, a promise etched in flame, mirroring the path we’ve carved through ash and memory. For a second, I remember the quiet before Bitterroot went up in smoke—the way the wind sounded just before it screamed.
This time, I’m not alone.
Our sigils glow in unison, warmth threading beneath my skin—steady, certain, unbreakable.
We were forged in fire.
We’re heading straight into its heart.
Behind us, the fire sleeps.
Ahead, there's a new storm brewing.
RAFE
Vault Omega was only a name until now. As Dax’s words echo in my head—about the old-world caches, the Pyresteel, the sigils—my thoughts drift toward the desert. Toward the ones already on the ground. We’ll need more than firepower. We’ll need minds sharp enough to read the buried truths and hands steady enough to unearth what shouldn’t be touched.
That’s where she comes in.
CAMI
Vault Omega
New Mexico Desert
The sun hangs low over the desert, bleeding copper light across sandstone ridges and rusting excavation gear. Heat rises in shimmering ribbons off the gravel path, and the wind carries the dry whisper of dust brushing tarp lines. I tighten my braid and slide my field notes into my canvas satchel, boots scuffing over the gravel as I cross toward the staging area just past the dig perimeter.
Vault Omega is less than two klicks away—buried beneath the old basalt flow that locals call the Dragon’s Spine. They think it’s superstition, just a name. I know better.
I’m brushing dirt from my fingers when a dark shadow crosses the edge of my notebook. I glance up—and stop breathing for half a beat.
