Page 12 of Ashfall

It’s just a shadow.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, because the alternative makes little sense. Not here. Not now. But it doesn’t feel like a bird. It doesn’t even feel like a paraglider. It feels—wrong. Too big. Too smooth. The way it moved, cutting across the sky in a straight, powerful arc... my instincts don’t buy coincidence.

If that was a paraglider, I’ll eat my badge and wash it down with jet fuel.

I brace a hand above my brow, peering up as smoke snakes through the sunlight. The clouds are low today, weighed down with heat and ash. The silhouette disappeared so fast it might have been a trick of light. Might have been.

I blink up at the sky, shielding my eyes from the glare slicing through the clouds. The smoke is thick, curling in lazy streams through the canyon, but something moved up there. Not a bird. Bigger. Broader. It moved with a grace that didn’t belong to machines or wingsuits, carving a slow arc above the ridgeline like it was scouting.

High and fast and gone in the blink of an eye. It didn’t drift; it moved with intent. It wasn’t buffeted by the wind or scattered byturbulence. It cut through the air like it owned it. I squint harder, watching the sky, waiting for the shape to reappear. Waiting for logic to step in and explain it away. But it doesn’t.

There shouldn’t be anyone flying near an active fire zone. The thought alone pisses me off. Paragliders, ultralight pilots—anyone reckless enough to hover near this kind of chaos should have their license revoked and their head examined. Fires are unpredictable. One change in the wind, one rogue flare, and you’re ash in the trees. It’s idiotic. Irresponsible. And the fact that someone might be doing it on purpose? That makes my blood boil.

I follow the direction it moved, climbing the path east along the ridge. My boots crunch over loose stone, the incline steep and slick with windblown ash. The fire line burned close through here last season—charred stumps still jut like blackened teeth from the soil.

Eventually I reach a bluff, the only flat space nearby. It's half-stabilized with gravel and emergency netting—exactly the kind of place someone might try to land if they were stupid or desperate enough.But it's empty.

I circle slowly, scanning every inch. No gear. No chute. No drag marks. Not even a goddamn boot print. Just disturbed dust and the wind tugging at my sleeves.Nothing.And that kind of nothing sets every nerve in my body on edge.

A sudden gust cuts through the trees. I freeze, every nerve in my body locking up like a pulled wire. A gust of wind that had tugged almost playfully at my sleeves now presses down like a weight, thick and charged, as if the atmosphere itself is holding its breath.

That’s when I hear the snap.

It’s faint but unmistakable—a brittle, splintering crack like glass under stress.

Beneath my boot, the crusted edge of a flare pocket gives way, crumbling in slow motion. A thin wisp of sulfuric heat escapes like a hiss, curling around my calf, and the ground beneath me heaves with terrifying promise. I don’t have time to react. Just one heartbeat, one breath, and then the floor of the ridge starts to buckle.

"Shit—"

A gust of heat surges beneath me, and for a split second, I register the ground dissolving beneath my boots. The world tilts. My arms pinwheel, grasping for balance that isn’t there. The ridge drops out from under me, and panic floods my chest. I’m falling. Not far yet—but far enough. My foot scrapes empty air. My brain screams that I’ve screwed up, that I’m in real, gut-twisting trouble. And then gravity takes hold.

Then arms. Hard. Fast. Impossible.

One second I’m falling, heart in my throat, the next I’m caught in mid-air like I weigh nothing. The grip is iron—unyielding and absolute. I jolt against something warm and solid, a chest that doesn’t give, a chest that feels like it was forged in fire and anchored in place just for this moment.

The wind still howls in my ears, but I’m no longer moving. My breath catches. His scent—smoke, sweat, and something sharper, more primal—floods my senses. The world spins, but his arms are the only thing holding me together.

My fingers instinctively clutch at his shoulders, needing the solid feel of him to remind me I’m not still falling. His muscles are like steel beneath my palms, coiled with tension. For a second, I just hold on, grounding myself in the impossible reality of being caught mid-air like a feather.

Dax. Strong hands clamp around my waist, lifting me off the collapsing edge like I weigh nothing. It's not just fast—it's surgical. Controlled. A surge of power that shouldn't be possible. One second I’m airborne, the next I’m slammed back intoheat and muscle, steadied against a chest that feels more like reinforced steel than flesh. Hot. Solid. Absolute.

Dax. The name sears through me as surely as the fire I almost fell into. Every part of me is aware of him—the press of his body against mine, the heat that rolls off him in waves, the overwhelming strength coiled in the arms locked around me. He holds me too tightly, too long, like he doesn’t want to let go.

His breath is rough against my ear, hot and unsteady. I can feel his heartbeat—or maybe it’s mine—pounding between us like a second alarm. My skin is on fire where we touch, my pulse an unrelenting drumbeat. Even so, I don’t pull away. I can’t.

“Let go,” I mutter, though my voice betrays me, a little too breathless, a little too close to a moan.

Heat pools low in my belly, unwanted and insistent. My skin buzzes where he touches me, and I hate how easily my body responds to his—like I’ve been waiting for this exact contact. I don’t want to feel it. Don’t want to crave the closeness or lean into the solid line of him. But my fingers tighten in his shirt anyway, and I curse the traitorous flutter in my chest.

“You trying to get yourself killed?” he growls.

I lift my face toward his, hand fisting in his shirt. I don’t mean to. It’s reflex. Instinct. And it’s a terrible idea. Every cell in my body is screaming for space, for clarity—instead, I’m leaning closer, caught in his gravity. His eyes are molten, fierce and focused like he’s already memorized the shape of my mouth. His breath grazes my cheek, warm and intimate, his mouth inches from mine, and every breath between us feels stolen. If he leaned in—if I let him—we’d both burn.

He steps back first, putting precious inches of air between us, and I hate the sting of disappointment that flares in my chest. It’s sharp and petty and absolutely ridiculous, and it coils low in my belly like a dare unmet. I shouldn’t want him to stay that close. I shouldn’t miss the heat of him or crave the brush of hisbreath. But I do. And losing it feels colder than it has any right to.

“Are you always this dramatic or just when women are falling for you?” I snipe.

“You weren’t watching your step,” he says, jaw tight.

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