Fire.
Except it’s there. Between me and ending.
I wake with my heart pounding and my magic reaching toward a name I haven’t spoken yet.
The dying man’s words echo in my head: Find him. Do whatever you have to.
Three days east. The Ash Wastes.
I don’t know what Kaster Nexis will do when I find him. The reputation suggests he’ll kill me for trespassing in his territory, or ignore me until the monsters catch up, or not care enough to acknowledge my existence.
I’ve survived this long by following my bloodline’s instincts. By trusting the warning before the wolves arrive.
Maybe this time I’m following a different kind of signal.
The road eastis worse than the settlement.
Wagons burned or overturned. Signs of desperate flight—dropped possessions, discarded weapons, the deep grooves of wheels pushed too fast over rough terrain.
Some of the dead are recent. Others have been here long enough that the ash has nearly buried them.
I walk past them all.
The power in my veins stays quiet, conserving itself. The encounter with the scout cost me more than I want to calculate.
But the dreams?—
The dreams keep showing me that fire. That presence. That vast violent thing standing between me and oblivion.
By midday, I’ve left the worst of the destruction behind. The road climbs into barren hills, scrubland giving way to rocky terrain that holds the memory of ancient violence. Scorch marks stain the earth. Bones jut from the soil at odd angles—old bones, sun-bleached, picked clean by time rather than scavengers.
Dragon-fought territory.
I’m getting close.
The scouts findme again at sunset.
Different pack this time—six of them, fanning out across the ridgeline with obvious intent. They’ve learned from the first encounter. They’re not testing me anymore.
They’re closing in for the kill.
I could use my magic. Burn more years to make one or two of them stick. But six is too many. I’d die before I finished them all, and they know it.
So I run.
The terrain works against me—loose rock, steep inclines, no cover worth the name. The scouts flow across the ground like water, gaining with every stride. I can hear them behind me, that clicking communication passing between them, coordinating the hunt.
One cuts left, angling to intercept. Another vanishes over a ridge, probably circling to cut off escape.
I’m not going to make it.
My foot catches on a stone and I stumble, nearly going down. The lead scout is close enough that I hear its breathing—fast, eager, hungry.
Then the world ignites.
Dragonfire.
Not natural fire—white-hot and absolute, tearing across the ridgeline in a wave that turns scouts to ash before they can scream. The force slams into me, driving me to my knees. The air itself seems to combust.
