Prologue 1 Delia
Present Day, Jersey City, New Jersey
Sirens are so damn loud when everything else is quiet.
It’s the kind of night that should be still.
Middle of the night, sky like bruised velvet.
No stars—just the jaundiced glow of city lights smudging everything at the edges.
The kind of night when even Jersey City is supposed to sleep.
But instead, the city is screaming.
And I can feel it—that pull—before I even open the door of the rig.
My boots hit the ground. The pavement is slick, reflecting chaos.
Red and blue lights flash like they're trying to keep time with my pulse.
Everything smells like wet asphalt, rubber, and panic.
I take a breath.
Then another.
Ground yourself, Delia.
It doesn’t help.
Because there’s fire.
I can smell it before I see it—sharp, acrid, greedy.
I can hear it, too, underneath the sirens. That low, insistent roar that sounds like the world is exhaling through clenched teeth.
And worse than that?
I like it.
Not in a sicko, burn-it-all-down way.
Just... there’s something about fire.
Something wild.
Untamed.
Unforgiving.
You don’t reason with it.
You don’t negotiate with it.
You either meet it head-on—or you don’t walk away.
And that used to be the whole point.
God, I miss it.
I miss the weight of the gear on my shoulders.
The heat on my skin.
The rush—when it’s just you and the flame and every second counts.
Back when I was still a firefighter, there was nothing else like it.
No feeling more real than running toward what everyone else was running from.
It burned me. And I still wanted more.
Now, I’m an EMT.
Still in the game.
Still doing what I can to help—to serve, to save.
But it’s different.
Now I’m what comes after the burn.
Now I patch what's left.
The house fire we’ve been called to is a monster.
Too hot.
Too fast.
Too far gone.
It’s not a living room blaze or a kitchen flare-up.
This one is hungry.
It’s the kind of fire that eats through everything—wood, memory, lives.
It climbs and curls and collapses roofs with zero hesitation.
Police are already shouting arson.
Which means someone fed this thing on purpose.
And that makes me sick.
But still... some traitorous part of me is vibrating beneath the surface.
Not from fear.
Not even from adrenaline.
From recognition.
Because fire is a test.
Every single time.
Of courage. Of instinct. Of heart.
And I’ve never been able to turn away from that test.
Not then.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
I glance at my partner for the night. Never had one who sticks longer than a few weeks, so no, I don’t bother learning much about him.
I think his name is Diaz. Could be he goes by Steve.
Anyway, he’s leaning against the rig, phone out, watching his goddamn Instagram reel highlights like this is background noise instead of a nightmare.
He wants to get famous or something. Thinks he can do that by playing the hero.
Whatever. Good for him.
Right now, we have a job to do.
“Get ready,” I snap, already stepping out of the ambulance.
Three firetrucks. Half a dozen police cars. The house itself is one of those historic monsters downtown—you know the kind. Old as hell, expensive to touch, protected by town council red tape and a hundred years of bad decisions.
Old wiring.
Dusty carpets.
Rotting beams.
Musty curtains.
It’s a historical death trap just waiting for a spark.
And tonight, it got one.
Flames chew through the upper floors, windows blown out, smoke pouring like a living thing into the sky.
The smell hits hard—burning wood, melted plastic, electrical wire.
It coats the back of my throat, triggering memories better left forgotten.
My father collapsed, unconscious on the floor. Black smoke filling the apartment. My eyes burning. My mother trying to lift him up, screaming at me to run.
I push them down, rubbing my fingers across the scar on my left wrist. A gruesome souvenir. Physical proof that I survived the fire that claimed both my mother and father.
It reminds me that yes, I was there.
Also, and maybe more importantly, that I’m here now. Alive.
“Is everyone out?” a cop shouts to a firefighter hauling hose.
The firefighter shakes his head, visor smeared with soot.
“Still looking for one. A child. Six years old.”
My heart squeezes so hard it almost hurts to breathe.
That’s it. I’m done waiting.
I trained as a firefighter before I became an EMT. Did the drills. Learned the heat patterns. The signs of collapse.
Then a busted knee ended that path, shoved me into a different uniform. But the instincts never left.
And I’m not standing around when a kid might still be inside.
I cut away from the main cluster of responders, circling toward the back of the house. Everyone’s focused on the front—windows, ladders, shouting.
If the kid was there, they’d have found them by now.
Instinct pulls me toward the shadows.
The back of the house is worse.
Smoke seeps from every seam, curling low. The air tastes like ash and electricity.
I spot it almost immediately—an old basement door, the kind you pull up from the outside, warped and half-hidden by overgrown brush.
“Hello?” I call, already reaching for it.
The door creaks open, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into darkness.
Smoke rolls down from above, thick and choking. I pull my jacket tighter and start down.
“Hello?” My voice echoes.
No answer.
I cough, eyes burning. This is stupid. Dangerous. I know better.
I turn and stop dead.
Someone is standing at the bottom of the stairs.
No.
Not someone.
Something.
He’s tall. Six and a half feet at least.
Broad.
Standing in the middle of the blaze like it doesn’t touch him.
Flames lick the walls behind him, but they bend away from his skin, curling like they’re afraid.
His eyes lift to mine.
They’re glowing.
Amber. Bright. Alive. Like fire given shape.
I’m struck dumb.
This isn’t possible.
No one should be here.
No one should look like that.
“Hello?” My voice shakes despite my best effort. “You—sir, you need to get out of here!”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m the strange thing here.
Heat rolls off him, not like a burn, but like standing too close to a furnace. Power hums in the air, making my skin prickle.
I swallow hard. Professional. Focus.
“Sir—are you hurt? Come with me,” I say, stepping closer despite every warning bell in my body. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He doesn’t speak.
But when I reach for his arm, he lets me take it.
His skin is warm. Not burned. Not injured.
Just really, really warm. Solid. Real.
We climb the stairs together.
Smoke thickens, alarms blaring somewhere above.
When we emerge into the yard, chaos explodes back into view.
“We got her!” someone shouts from the front.
Relief floods me so hard my knees almost buckle.
They found the child. She’s alive.
Thank fuck.
Good. Now I can focus on him.
“Were you in there long?” I ask, guiding him toward the ambulance. “Did you breathe in much smoke?”
“No.”
His voice is deep. Rough.
It slides straight under my skin and settles somewhere it has no business being.
He’s really big. Tall, muscular. Intense.
My stomach clenches.
I’m painfully aware that we don’t match. Like at all.
I’m short, chubby, and wearing an ill-fitting, scratchy, polyester uniform with my hair pulled back in a severe bun. Not one drop of makeup on my face.
Shit. Did I wear deodorant this morning?
I shove all those feelings, those reactions, down.
I’m a professional.
And that’s what I tell myself as I continue to check him over.
“Let me listen to your lungs,” I say, already reaching for my stethoscope. “Smoke inhalation can be serious.”
He lets me. Doesn’t flinch when I reach inside his black shirt and press the cold metal to his chest.
His heartbeat is steady. Strong.
Too steady for someone pulled from a fire.
“What’s your name?” I ask, because I can’t not. The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and human and stupidly necessary.
“I am Thorne.”
The name lands heavy. Solid. Dangerous.
Like a warning carved into stone.
It’s too much.
The fire.
The heat rolling off him.
The way he’s looking at me.
I drop my gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we are, of how fast my heart is pounding.
His fingers close around my chin.
Not rough—but unyielding.
He lifts my face until I’m looking at him again, forced to meet eyes that glow like banked coals.
“And you,” he says, voice low, reverent in a way that makes my skin prickle, “are mine, Shula.”
The words hit me like a live wire.
They hum through my body, low and resonant, like something ancient waking up.
Sparks skitter along my nerves.
Heat blooms in my chest, not fear exactly—more like recognition. The kind that makes no sense and feels too real.
“My name is Delia Esposito,” I say quickly, too quickly. “Just Delia.”
A corner of his mouth curves. Not a smile.
Something sharper. Dangerous.
“Delia, yes,” he says, tasting it. “But I came here searching for someone, and the Fates brought me to you, Shula.”
My pulse stutters. “W—what?”
“You will come with me to the Broken Plains,” he growls, voice vibrating through my bones, “and together we will tame the land, unite the people, and drive the SoulTakers back into the dark where they belong.”
I blink at him.
Once. Twice.
“Okaaay,” I say carefully, slipping straight into EMT mode because what else do you do when a man in a burning house starts talking about destiny and darkness?
“Sir, have you taken anything tonight? Drugs? Alcohol?”
“I am intoxicated by naught but your beauty.”
I snort despite myself.
“Yeah, right. Okay. You’ve had your fun, but maybe we should bring you to the ER. Get a tox screen. Just to be safe.”
My mouth keeps moving, professional and automatic, but my heart is slamming against my ribs.
Because here’s the thing—he doesn’t look high. He doesn’t look drunk.
He looks sincere.
Earnest, even.