Chapter 6
Ember
The cold bites harder now that I know my dragon won’t answer.
I’m still standing in the clearing where we tried to shift, arms wrapped around myself. Luke has already pulled on his pants and is reaching for his shirt, movements efficient despite the darkness.
I should move. Should pull myself together. But my body won’t obey.
My dragon is silent. Not sleeping. Not resting. Just… gone. Like someone reached inside my chest and carved out the part of me that mattered most.
I reach inward again—can’t help it—searching for the familiar warmth. The light that should gleam at the edges of my consciousness. The presence that’s lived inside me since birth.
A flutter, and then nothing.
Just hollow space where fire should burn.
“No.” The word comes out broken. “No, this can’t—”
I close my eyes and pull. Demanding the shift with everything I have. Gold light sparks weakly—so faint I almost miss it—then blinks out before I can grasp it.
I try again. Focus harder.
Maybe if I just—
A tiny flame flickers between my fingertips. Orange and fragile as a newborn heartbeat.
Yes!
Hope surges—
The flame dies. Smoke curls away into nothing.
“Come on, come on!” I growl.
I thrust my hand forward, reaching for my magic… witch-fire, blood-work, anything. The power that should flow as easily as breathing.
My palm remains cold and empty.
I close my fist, trying to summon the tingle of energy that precedes a spell. The way magic used to rise through my veins like champagne bubbles, effervescent and eager.
Nothing.
I speak the words for a simple illumination charm. The syllables taste right on my tongue—ancient and resonant—but they fall dead into the air.
No spark. No glow. No warmth spreading from my center.
“No. No, no, no!” My voice climbs higher with each repetition.
I’m hollow. Gutted. Whatever force is suppressing my dragon has taken everything. Even my witch power.
I’m just… human.
Completely, utterly human.
For the first time in my life.
My knees buckle.
“Ember!” Luke catches me before I hit the ground, one arm around my waist. His skin is warm against mine, shocking in its heat. “What did I say about exhausting yourself?”
“I had to try.” My voice sounds distant. Wrong. “I can’t be nothing.”
“You’re not nothing.” His grip tightens, steadying me. “You’re grounded. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t see one.”
“Then you’re not looking hard enough.” He releases me carefully, making sure I can stand before letting go completely. “Come on. Get dressed. We need to move.”
I stare at him. Then realize what he just said. I’m still freaking naked. And he’s just inches away. Stepping back, I reach down and snatch up my pants, hastily tugging them on before turning to find my bra and shirt. I’m struggling not to let panic take hold.
“It’s going to be fine, Ember,” he says soothingly, like he’s talking to a startled animal.
I take him in as I pull my shirt on and button it; the calm in his voice, the steady certainty in his eyes. Like losing our dragons is just another problem to solve.
It makes me furious.
“How are you so okay with this?” I demand.
“I’m not okay with it. But falling apart won’t change it.”
“So you just… accept it?”
“I adapt to it. There’s a difference.”
I stare at him for a moment. He’s still shirtless, standing within touching distance, and the moonlight catches every line of him. The broad planes of his chest. The shadows pooling in the hollows of his collarbones.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. Not from magic, not from fear. Something else entirely. Something unfamiliar and unwelcome.
I’ve seen men before. Well, not men. Clumsy, eager boys who kissed like they were trying to prove something. Soft hands and softer bodies that never quite matched the heat inside me. They were experiments. Curiosities.
This isn’t that.
This man is all hard lines and coiled control.
Heat floods my face as I remember what I saw just minutes ago. Before the panic set in. Before I realized my dragon was gone.
Luke. Completely naked in the moonlight. Every inch of him carved from muscle and shadow. The powerful sweep of his shoulders. The ridges of his abdomen leading down to—
Stop.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image is branded behind my eyelids.
I’ve never seen a man like that. Not in person. Not standing so close I could reach out and—
What is wrong with me?
My dragon is gone. We lost Mara. We’re stranded in dangerous territory, and something has blocked our power.
And I’m standing here blushing like a sheltered schoolgirl because Luke Kenan has nice abs.
I need to get myself together.
Now.
“You good?” He tilts his head.
My face burns despite the cold. I clear my throat.
“Sure,” I say. “Just… cold.” It’s true. But for some reason, that’s not why I feel like I’m trembling inside.
He gives a curt nod, pulls his shirt on over his head, then reaches into his backpack, tugging out a thermal jacket and handing it to me.
“Here. Put this on.” When I hesitate, he adds, “You need this more than I do.”
I take the coat because refusing would be stupid. It swallows me, heavy and warm and smelling like leather and pine smoke. Like him.
I pull it tight and try not to think about how safe it feels.
Luke shrugs into his vest, checking weapons and supplies in a way that tells me he’s done this a thousand times before. He’s already moved past the shock, already figuring out next steps.
I watch him and wonder what it’s like to be that controlled. That certain. That unbothered by losing everything.
“We should go,” he says, settling his pack across his shoulders. “Put distance between us and the crash site while we still have darkness for cover.”
“Move where? We can’t fly. We’re fifteen miles from—”
“So we walk.”
I laugh. Bitter and broken. “You want to walk fifteen miles through the Carpathian Mountains? In the dark? In the cold?”
“You have a better suggestion?”
I don’t. That’s the problem.
Luke is already heading toward the trees, clearly expecting me to follow. I do, because what else is there to do? Standing here won’t bring my power back.
We walk in silence through forest that presses close. Without dragon sight, the darkness is absolute, just shapes and shadows that could be anything. I stumble over a root I should have seen, would have seen, if I were still what I’m supposed to be.
Luke slows fractionally, adjusting to my limitations without comment.
The terrain climbs steeply. My breathing comes hard within minutes. My legs—used to dragon strength, to magic reinforcing every movement—protest with each step. The twisted ankle I’ve been ignoring starts to throb.
I grit my teeth and keep going.
Thirty minutes in, Luke calls a halt. “How’s the ankle?”
“Fine,” I lie.
He turns, one eyebrow raised. Even in darkness, I can see the skepticism.
“It’s manageable,” I amend.
“That’s not the same as fine.” He scans our surroundings, then points to a fallen log. “Sit. Five minutes. Let me take a look.”
I sink down gratefully, unlacing my boot. My ankle is swollen, the skin mottled purple and blue, visible even in the darkness.
Luke crouches in front of me, his hands closing around my ankle with professional detachment. Warm hands. Dragon-warm, even if his dragon won’t shift.
The contact sends awareness racing up my leg that has nothing to do with pain.
“Swelling’s increased,” he says after a moment. “We need to wrap this tighter.”
He produces medical supplies from his pack, efficient, prepared for everything. His fingers are gentle as he straps the ankle, securing it firmly.
I watch his face while he works. The concentration. The economy of movement. The way he’s completely unbothered by our proximity, by the intimacy of his hands on my skin.
He’s beautiful, I realize. Not soft—nothing about Luke is soft—but in the way that strong men can be beautiful.
The thought should embarrass me. Instead, it just settles warm and strange in my chest.
“There.” He sits back. “That should hold.”
“Thank you.” My voice is hoarse.
He nods once, then stands. Offers his hand to help me up.
I take it without thinking. His palm is warm and solid against mine, and for a second, we’re standing too close. His eyes meet mine in the darkness, and my breath catches.
Then he releases me and steps back with careful deliberation.
“We keep moving,” he says. “But slower pace. Tell me if the ankle gets worse.”
We walk for another hour. The climb grows steeper, the cold seeping deeper into bones that have never known it. My breath comes in white clouds. My fingers go numb inside Luke’s coat.
The weakness terrifies me more than the cold.
I’ve never been weak before. Inexperienced, yes. Naive… no doubt about it. But I’ve never felt my body fail. Never understood what it meant to be limited by flesh and bone instead of fueled by fire.
Now I’m learning.
And I hate every second of it.
The terrain becomes brutal: loose shale and exposed rock that would be easy to navigate with wings, impossible on foot in darkness. Luke picks our path with caution, testing each foothold before committing his weight.
I follow, trying to match his movements. My ankle screams with every step. My legs shake. Exhaustion drags at me like an undertow.
God. I can’t take any more!
My lungs feel seared. Muscles on fire.
“Luke.” My voice comes out ragged. “I need… to stop.”
He turns immediately, reading something in my face. “How bad?”
“I just—” I swallow hard. “I can’t.”
It costs me to admit it. To acknowledge that my body can’t do what my will demands. That I’m not strong enough.
Luke’s expression doesn’t change, but something softens in his eyes.
“Alright. We find shelter.”
“But we need to keep moving. We need to—”
“We need to rest.” His tone is final. “Pushing past your limits now means you won’t be able to move at all tomorrow. That helps no one.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
But accepting it feels like defeat.
Luke scans our surroundings, then points to a shallow overhang carved into the hillside.
“There. It’ll give us protection from the wind.”
I follow him to the shelter, barely deep enough to be called a cave, but defensible. Concealed. Better than nothing.
I sink down immediately, too exhausted to care about comfort. My entire body aches in ways I’ve never experienced. Muscles I didn’t know I had announce themselves with every breath.
Luke drops his pack and starts gathering materials for a fire. Dry branches. Kindling. Flint and steel from his survival kit.
I watch him work, mesmerized by the efficiency of his movements. The way he coaxes flame from nothing using mundane tools. The patience required to wait for fire instead of commanding it.
Sparks catch. Smoke curls upward. Flames begin to grow.
The fire is small—nothing compared to dragon flame—but it’s warmth. Human warmth, earned through effort instead of magic.
“How long?” I ask.
“For what?”
“The fire. To actually give heat.” I give a convulsive shiver. Now that we’ve stopped moving, it feels like the chill has soaked into my bones.
Luke glances at me, something unreadable crossing his face. “Few minutes.”
A few minutes. An eternity.
He settles across from me, adding wood to the growing flames. The firelight catches in his eyes, makes them molten copper despite the brown.
“You did well today,” he says quietly.
“I slowed us down.” I hate myself for it.
“You kept moving on a twisted ankle through terrain that would challenge most dragons.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “That’s not weak.”
I want to believe him. Want to accept that maybe surviving is enough.
But the hollow space in my chest says otherwise.
The hollow space in my chest reminds me of Mara. How we left her.
“Do you think she’s really dead?” I say abruptly.
He’s silent for a moment, then, “Yes.”
I swallow hard, guilt surfacing yet again. “You could have saved her if you hadn’t picked me.”
“Then all three of us would be dead.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “I saved who I could, Ember. There was no way I could pull her free before the chopper went down. You were the obvious choice.”
Was I?
Of course I was.
But if I’d been able to reach for my power, this conversation wouldn’t even be happening. And maybe Mara would be here with us now. Maybe we could both have tapped into our dragon strength to save the only human among us.
Except, we couldn’t.
“I miss it,” I whisper. “Being… more.”
Luke is silent for a long moment. Then: “You’re not less now.”
“I feel less.”
“Feeling and being aren’t the same thing.” He adds another branch to the fire. “You think power makes you strong. But power is just a tool. Strength is what you do when the tools are gone.”
I look at him. At the hard lines of his face, the certainty in every movement, the complete absence of doubt despite everything that’s happened.
“Is that what you tell yourself?” I ask.
“It’s what I know.” His eyes meet mine through the flames. “I’ve lost everything more than once. Every time, I thought that was it. That, without those things, I was nothing.”
“But?”
“But I kept breathing. Kept moving. Eventually built something new.” He shrugs. “Not better. Not the same. Just… new.”
The words settle heavy in my chest. Heavy and hopeful all at once.
“It’ll come back,” he adds quietly. “Your dragon. Your magic. And we’ll get out of here.”
“You don’t know that.” I hate how childlike I sound, and it occurs to me that I’ve seldom been far from my mother’s protection. God, I’m such a baby.
Especially compared to him.
“No,” he admits. “But I believe it.”
The certainty in his voice does something to my ribs. Makes them tight and loose all at once.
I lean back against the stone, exhaustion finally winning. The fire has spread warmth through the small space; not dragon-heat, but enough.
My eyes drift closed despite my best efforts.
“Sleep,” Luke says. “I’ll keep watch.”
“You need rest too,” I mumble.
“I’ll manage.”
Of course he will. He always manages.
Sleep drags me down fast and hard, pulled under by exhaustion I’ve never known before.
The last thing I’m aware of is Luke’s breathing—steady, rhythmic, grounding—and the strange comfort of knowing he’s there.