Chapter 3
Luke
The van rattles over ruts, suspension groaning with each pothole.
I sit in the front passenger seat, one boot braced against the dash, watching the ridges through the windshield.
Our driver—a local guide named Petru—keeps up a steady stream of commentary, gesturing at rock formations with one hand while the other steers us around the worst of the damage.
“You see this?” He points at a cliff face striped with sedimentary layers. “Very old. Jurassic period, maybe older. You are geologists, yes? You will love this region. So many secrets in the stone.”
“That’s the plan,” I say.
In the back, Ember leans forward between the seats. “How long have you lived here?”
“All my life. My father, his father… we are from these mountains.” Petru’s pride comes through thick in his accented English. “People come, people go, but the mountains remain. They remember everything.”
“Everything?” Mara’s voice carries from the far back seat, where she’s been scrolling through her phone. “Like what?”
Petru laughs. “Old stories. Dragons, witches, vampires. Tourists love these tales. But the mountains know the truth.”
“Which is?” Ember asks.
“That truth is stranger than any story.” He shoots her a grin in the rearview mirror. “You will see. The Carpathians do not give up their secrets easily.”
I glance back. Ember’s expression is rapt, engaged. She catches me looking, and her eyes widen slightly, color rising in her cheeks, before she sits back.
My dragon stirs. Interested.
What the fuck?
My beast needs a leash. There’s no room in my world for little girls.
Not that it’s even an option.
I face forward again.
“How far to the village?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if the road is bad near the river.” Petru downshifts as we climb. “You have been to Romania before?”
“Once. Different region.”
“Ah. Then you know. We are not like the cities. Here, things move slower. People remember the old ways.” He taps his temple. “This is good for your work, I think. The old ways and the old stone, they speak to each other.”
Behind me, Mara snorts. “The old ways. Right.”
Petru glances at her in the mirror, his expression amused. “You do not believe in old ways?”
“I believe in algorithms and metadata,” Mara says. “But sure, if the mountains want to chat, I’m listening.”
“You Americans. Always so practical.” He laughs again, warm and genuine. “But practicality will not explain everything you find here. Some things…” He trails off, shrugs. “Some things must be experienced.”
The road curves through a valley where mist clings to the pines. Sunlight breaks through in shafts, turning the fog golden. Ember has her face pressed to the window again, camera out, snapping photos.
“First time to these mountains?” Petru asks her.
“First time anywhere outside the U.S.,” she admits.
“Then you are lucky. The Carpathians at this time of year… there is nothing more beautiful.” He slows as we approach a small settlement, wooden houses with steep roofs clustered along the road. “And here we stop. You need supplies, yes? Water, food for the field?”
“That’s the idea,” I say.
He parks near a small shop with a faded Coca-Cola sign. “Ten minutes. I will wait.”
Inside, the shop smells of wood smoke and cured meat. Shelves line the walls, packed with jars of preserved vegetables, dried sausages hanging from hooks, bottles of homemade spirits with handwritten labels.
An elderly man stands behind the counter, weathered face creasing into a smile as we enter.
“Bun? ziua,” I say.
“Bun? ziua!” He straightens, pleased. “You speak Romanian?”
“A little. We’re geological consultants, surveying the northern ridges. We need water and field rations.”
“Ah, geologists!” He switches to English, his accent thick. “My son, he studies rocks at university in Cluj. Always talking about—how you say—mineralogy?” He waves at the shelves. “Take what you need. Is good to have visitors who appreciate the mountains.”
Mara’s already loading bottled water into a basket. “Do you get many tourists through here?”
“In summer, yes. Hikers, photographers. In winter…” He shrugs. “Quieter. The tourists, they do not like the cold.”
Ember wanders to a shelf of preserved goods, examining jars of plums, pickled peppers, jams with faded labels. The shopkeeper watches her with grandfatherly interest.
“You like Romanian food?” he asks her.
She looks up, startled. “Oh, I-I’ve never tried it.”
“Never?” He looks genuinely offended. “Then you must!” He reaches for a jar of preserved plums, unscrews the lid. “Here. My wife makes these. Traditional recipe, very old.”
Ember glances at me. I nod once.
She accepts a plum from his outstretched hand, tastes it carefully. Her eyes widen.
“Oh. That’s… It’s really good. Sweet, but not too sweet.”
“Exactly!” He beams. “You understand. Most tourists, they want everything like candy. But this… this is how food should taste. Simple. Honest.”
He insists on packing the jar for her, waves off her attempt to pay. “A gift. For appreciating good food.”
“Thank you,” Ember says, and her smile transforms her face; open, warm, sincere.
Something catches in my chest. I turn away, pretend to examine a stack of tinned goods.
“Your daughter?” the shopkeeper asks me, his tone casual.
“No.” The word comes out too fast. “We work together.”
Daughter? Jesus.
“Ah.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “She has a good smile. You should make her smile more often.”
I don’t respond. I gather our supplies, pay in local currency, and shepherd everyone back to the van before the old man can offer more unsolicited observations.
“Fucking daughter,” I find myself muttering beneath my breath. Is that what it’s come to? I may be a few hundred years old, but biologically, nobody would put me past my mid-thirties.
I think.
Fuck.
I shake my head to get rid of my wayward thoughts and clamber back into the passenger seat of the van.
“Everything good?” Petru eyes me as I buckle myself in.
“Perfect,” I clip out, then focus on my tablet, which displays topographical maps of the region that I work on committing to memory. After a moment, the driver turns his attention back to the road, not pushing for more conversation. Which suits me just fine.
The rest of the trip remains oddly quiet, considering Mara is sitting behind me. The woman is seldom silent for longer than a few minutes. I bet she talks in her damned sleep.
Petru drops us at the staging site with promises to return in the evening. The clearing opens up around us: fuel drums, canvas tarps, and in the center, the helicopter.
Bell 212. Older model, but the kind I trust. I’ve flown these in worse conditions, with worse odds.
Radu, the Aurora liaison, emerges from under the tail boom. “Kenan. Right on time.”
We shake hands. His grip is firm, professional.
“She’s fueled and pre-checked,” he says. “Comms are patched through to Bucharest. Weather’s stable for now, but there’s a front moving in from the east. You’ll want to be back before dusk.”
I pull up the flight path on my tablet. “Northern ridge system. Two hours up, two back. Plenty of buffer.”
“Your team?” He glances at Ember and Mara, who are unloading gear.
“They know their job.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push. “You’re cleared to depart in ten. Good luck.”
I walk a slow circuit around the helicopter. Fuel lines: secure. Rotor integrity: good. Hydraulics: pressure nominal. Tail rotor: no visible damage. It’s routine, the kind of check I could do blind, but I take my time. Because this isn’t just about me.
Ember appears at my elbow, watching me work.
“You’ve done this before,” she says.
“A few times.”
“More than a few.”
I finish inspecting the hydraulic reservoir, wipe my hands. “Military background. Flew transports and medevacs. This is simpler.”
“Simpler than war?”
“Everything is.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze steady on my face. Then: “I’m glad you’re flying us.”
The words are simple. Direct. And they leave me oddly unsettled.
I meet her eyes. “Stay strapped in. Do what I say. We’ll be fine.”
“I trust you.”
The way she says it—no hesitation, no doubt—makes my dragon rumble low in my chest.
He needs to stay the hell out of this.
The shopkeeper’s words come back to me unsolicited.
Daughter. Fuck’s sake.
I turn away before I say something stupid. “Get in the helicopter,” I tell her instead.
As soon as the women are in, I start the bird up. The turbine whines to life, vibration building through the frame. I run through pre-flight checks, muscle memory taking over. Fuel pressure: good. Rotor RPM: climbing. Instruments: nominal.
Behind me, Ember and Mara buckle in. I hear Mara’s voice through the headset, narrating something about the landscape for her phone camera.
“We’re lifting in thirty,” I say. “Stay strapped until I say otherwise.”
The rotor reaches speed. I pull collective, increase throttle, and the ground falls away smooth and controlled.
The forest spreads beneath us, dark green and endless. The mountains rise ahead in jagged layers, snow clinging to the highest peaks. Light breaks through the clouds in shafts, painting the ridges gold and shadow.
Through the headset: “It’s beautiful.”
I glance back. Ember’s leaning against the window, her face lit with wonder.
Our eyes meet in the reflection.
For half a second, the helicopter doesn’t exist. The mission doesn’t exist. There’s only her expression—open, awed, alive—and the way something in my throat tightens in response.
Then I force my attention back to the instruments.
“God, look at that.” It’s Mara. “If ever there was an Instagram moment, this is it. Turn to the side, Ember. I want to get a shot of your profile against that backdrop.”
“Mara, keep the commentary to a minimum,” I say. “I need to focus.” It’s a lie. I could do this in my sleep. But something’s left me unbalanced today.
“Copy that, Captain Killjoy.”
I ignore her.
The flight path takes us along the northern ridge system, following valleys carved by ancient glaciers. Below, the terrain is raw and unforgiving: sheer cliffs, dense forest, ravines that swallow light. The kind of landscape where something scaled and massive could hide for centuries.
Twenty minutes in, the turbulence starts.
It’s subtle at first. A wobble in the airframe. The stick fighting me slightly on a turn. I compensate, adjust trim, but something feels wrong.
The instruments flicker.
Once. Twice.
“Luke?” Ember’s voice carries a thread of concern.
“I feel it.” I keep my tone even. “Could be magnetic interference. This region has irregular fields.”
The console goes dark.
Shit!
For one second—two—the instruments are dead. Then they flicker back, but the altimeter is spinning, the artificial horizon tilted at an impossible angle.
“That’s not interference,” Mara says.
“No.” My hands move automatically, checking circuit breakers, backup systems. “Something’s jamming us.”
The helicopter lurches sideways. Hard. Mara’s gasp crackles through the headset. Behind me, I hear Ember’s sharp intake of breath.
The stick goes loose in my hand.
“Hydraulics are failing.” I’m already running scenarios: autorotation, forced landing, emergency protocols. But the terrain below is unforgiving. No clearings. No open ground. Just forest and rock.
The rotor pitch changes. The whine turns guttural, wrong. Smoke begins to curl from the console; acrid, chemical, burning my throat.
“Luke, what’s happening?” Ember’s voice is steady, but I can hear the fear underneath.
“Electrical failure. Some sort of interference.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
We should have accounted for this. Expected the Syndicate to have systems in place. Why the fuck didn’t I factor it in?
You’re a goddamned idiot, Kenan!
I fight the controls, trying to maintain altitude, but the helicopter is sluggish, unresponsive.
“I’m going to try to find somewhere to set down.”
“Try?” Mara’s voice climbs an octave.
The rotor stutters.
My stomach drops.
No time to land. I have to think fast.
“Everyone, listen to me.” I keep my voice calm, authoritative. The voice that’s talked soldiers through worse. “Tighten your straps. Cover your heads with your arms. Do it now.”
Behind me, movement. Fabric rustling. Mara swearing under her breath.
The cabin shakes violently. The horizon tilts. Through the windshield, I see trees rushing up to meet us.
Not enough time. Not enough altitude. Not enough options.
I twist in my seat. Ember’s eyes find mine; wide, terrified, but still trusting. Like she believes I can save us.
I want to. God, I want to.
The rotor stalls completely.
We drop.
The world becomes noise: metal screaming, wind howling, the roar of failing engines. I let go of the useless controls and throw myself back, one arm reaching for Ember, the other for Mara.
Scales shimmer over my skin like armor as my body moves on instinct. Positioning to shield them. To take the impact.
No time for a full shift.
No time for fucking anything.
Goddammit.
“Luke!” A scream. Ember’s scent fills my lungs. Warm, sweet. Still so trusting.
Her hand finds mine. Grips tight.
The trees rush up.
Impact.
The world shatters into fire and darkness, and the last thing I feel is her fingers clutching mine.
Then nothing.