Chapter 7
Luke
The world bleeds gray through the snow. Dawn hasn’t properly arrived yet. Just thin light filtering through clouds heavy with the promise of more precipitation.
Snow coats the pine branches overhead, fresh powder from overnight layered over older, crusted drifts. My breath fogs white in air cold enough to sting. This high in the mountains, snow is constant. So is the cold.
Ember sleeps curled near the small fire I built earlier, wrapped in my coat. Her breathing is even now, no longer shallow with exhaustion or fear. The flames have burned down to embers—appropriate, given her name—casting soft orange light across her face.
I watch her for a moment longer than necessary.
Professional assessment, I tell myself. Making sure she’s stable. Making sure the cold hasn’t seeped too deep into human bones that aren’t accustomed to mountain ice.
But that’s bullshit, and I know it.
The truth is less pragmatic. The truth is that she looks small against the boulder, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with her missing dragon.
The firelight catches on the curve of her cheek, the pale sweep of her hair against dark stone.
Even unconscious, she radiates warmth; something vibrant and alive.
I turn away and focus on what matters. Inventory. Weather. Next steps.
Two days of rations if we’re careful. Three if we stretch them. Temperature already subzero and dropping. The snow means tracks—ours and anyone hunting us. Hypothermia is a real threat to someone who can’t generate her own heat.
The helicopter went down maybe four miles northeast. If Mara survived the initial crash—which is unlikely—she’s either captured or dead by now. Neither option helps us.
I scan the treeline out of habit, noting exits and approaches. The ridge we’re on offers decent visibility but lousy cover. We stayed because Ember needed rest, not because it was smart.
Time to move.
Except my thoughts keep circling back to her.
The way she kept moving yesterday on that twisted ankle. The way she tried to hide fear behind questions. The way she looked at me when she realized her dragon was gone. Like I might have answers I don’t possess.
I’ve protected people for centuries. Clients, allies, clan members. This shouldn’t feel different.
The scent of her sleep-warmed skin reaches me even from here. Something clean and bright beneath the smoke and cold. Like sunlight on winter snow.
Stop.
I stand abruptly, needing distance from… whatever this is.
Maybe it’s the contrast. Her—twenty-one years old, raised sheltered, full of unexamined hope despite everything she’s lost. Me—ancient by any measure that matters, carrying a lifetime of cynicism like scar tissue.
She still believes people can be saved. I stopped believing that around my second century.
Memory surfaces: my first kill.
Not in combat. Not in some glorious dragon battle that made it into clan histories.
A rogue from the northern territories who’d been slaughtering human villages. I was young enough to think taking him down made me a hero. Old enough to know better within minutes of finishing the job.
When he died, his eyes went empty, the same as anyone’s. His blood looked identical. Killing him didn’t fix anything. Just added weight I’m still carrying centuries later.
I learned fast that innocence is expensive. Costs more every time you spend it. Eventually, you run out, and all you’ve got left is competence and the ability to function without it.
I don’t want Ember to learn that lesson.
Don’t want her to lose whatever makes her ask questions like she expects truth. Whatever makes her care about Mara despite barely knowing her. Whatever makes her stubborn enough to keep walking when her body’s screaming to stop.
The fire pops. I add another branch, watching sparks drift upward into predawn darkness.
She’s not yours to protect.
I have to remind myself of that. My involvement doesn’t extend beyond professional obligation. She’s an asset. A responsibility.
Except that protective instinct has morphed into something I don’t want to identify when I imagine Syndicate interrogators getting their hands on her.
I stand abruptly and move away from the fire.
Need to clear my head. Need to scout the terrain and make sure we’re not easy targets for whoever’s hunting us.
The snow crunches under my boots as I climb higher along the ridge. Cold bites through my tactical vest despite the layers. Dawn arrives slowly, red bleeding into gray along the eastern horizon, thin light creeping between snow-heavy cliffs.
Beautiful in the way harsh things can be.
From the vantage point, I scan the valley. Forest rolls away in every direction, dark green broken by white and gray stone. The crash site is visible as a charred wound through the trees; black against white, thin smoke still rising.
Then I see it.
Movement.
I focus, drawing on the limited dragon sense that remains in me. Enhanced sight, sharper than human, even if I can’t fully shift.
Black figures. Six. Maybe seven. Moving through snow in tight formation.
Not rescuers. Rescuers move erratically, calling out, spreading wide to cover ground. These men move like military. Coordinated. Deliberate. Efficient.
Syndicate.
They’re already combing the grid, sweeping toward the crash site with precision that comes from training and resources. They’re not just looking for wreckage. They’re hunting survivors.
Mara’s already lost—dead or captured—either way, beyond help. If they find Ember…
Ice settles in my gut. Not panic. Calculation.
Not going to happen.
I commit their movements to memory. Patrol patterns. Spacing. Equipment visible even from this distance. There’s a row of snowmobiles near the treeline.
I retreat carefully, making sure not to dislodge loose rock or create sound that might carry.
Ember is awake when I return to camp.
She’s sitting with her back against the boulder, my coat pulled tight around her shoulders. She looks cold and small and defiant all at once, stubborn pride keeping her upright despite exhaustion written in every line of her body.
Her eyes find mine immediately. Direct. Unafraid.
“What’s wrong?”
Sharp. No pretense. I appreciate that more than I should.
“We’ve got company.” I keep my voice low and even. “Syndicate team. Combing the ridge.”
Her face tightens, but she doesn’t fall apart. Just nods once and starts to stand, testing the ankle with a wince she tries to hide.
My chest constricts watching her push through pain without complaint.
“How’s the ankle?” I cross to her, movements controlled despite the urge to close the distance faster.
“Functional.” She tests her weight, flinching but staying upright. “Where do we go?”
“East along the cliff line. There are caves—old tunnels from centuries back. We can lose them in there.”
“How long do we have?”
“They have transport, so twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if we’re lucky.”
She strips off my coat, hands it back. “Then we should move.”
“Keep it.”
“But I’ve had it all night. You must be frozen—”
“I’ll manage.” When she hesitates, I add quietly, “Please.”
For a second, she just looks at me. Those deep brown eyes studying my face like she’s trying to understand something I haven’t said.
Then she pulls the coat back on and follows me as I kick dirt over the fire.
We work fast. Scatter the campsite. Erase obvious signs of occupation. It won’t fool a professional tracker, but it might buy us minutes.
Every second counts now.
Her scent fills the small space as we work; warmer now, mixing with smoke and pine. I catch myself breathing deeper than necessary and force discipline back into place.
“Stay close,” I tell her as we prepare to move out into the snow. “And quiet.”
She nods. Face pale but determined.
And despite everything—the danger, the mission, the absolute stupidity of getting emotionally compromised—I know with complete certainty that I’ll burn anyone who tries to take her.
Professional obligation, my ass.
This is personal.
That should terrify me.
It doesn’t.
And that’s a problem I’ll deal with later.
Assuming we survive long enough for later to matter.