Page 25 of Ashfall

Overhead, something passes.

A shadow. Massive. Fast. Wings.

The shape tears across the sliver of sky above the trees like a living weapon, blotting out light, and I freeze. My breath seizes in my lungs, my skin tightening like it’s reacting to something more than wind or instinct. Every rational part of me screams it’s a low aircraft—a spotter chopper caught in the updrafts—but another part, deeper and older, howls in protest. Something primal recognizes the silhouette. The wingspan is too wide, the sound too silent, the speed too exact. Not metal. Not man-made.

My knees nearly buckle. Not from fear. Confusion swirls through me like smoke—thick, disorienting. Because I shouldn’t know what I just saw. And yet, some part of me does... and that terrifies me more than the shadow itself.

Dax locks his gaze upward, his body coiled like a predator poised to strike. He’s not surprised. He’s waiting. Not just for danger to pass, but for confirmation. For recognition. For the moment, the impossible becomes real. His posture isn’t tense with fear—it’s readiness. Like whatever is flying above us, he knows it intimately. And that realization crashes over me like cold water. Because he’s not afraid.

Whatever that is, it isn't an unknown to Dax. He recognizes it instantly. Not with fear, but with grim familiarity—like an old nightmare returned. And I know—I know—he’s seen it before. The look in his eyes isn’t just recognition; it’s personal. The kind of knowing that leaves scars. And suddenly, I’m not sure who or what I’ve aligned myself with, or whether I’m the one being protected… or kept in the dark.

I reach for him without thinking, fingers curling into his shirt, seeking something solid, something real in the chaosspinning around me. I don’t know if I’m trying to ground myself or pull him closer—or both. And then we’re kissing.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s raw, consuming, like striking a match in a room already filled with gas. His mouth crushes mine with a hunger that mirrors everything building in me—need, confusion, fear, fury. My fingers clutch at his chest like I could hold back the storm inside me if I just hang on tight enough.

And for a few impossibly hot, blinding seconds, we burn together.

No warning. No breath. Just an eruption of heat—scorching, urgent, alive. Desperation clings to every movement, every gasp. His mouth slants over mine, rough and claiming, and I meet him with equal fire. Teeth clash, tongues twist, and it’s messy, frantic, like we’re devouring something we can’t name. His hands slide into my hair, gripping, guiding, anchoring me against him. My fingers tangle in his shirt, fisting tight like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. The world falls away in a rush of blood, flame and need so raw it makes my knees shake. I don’t remember moving. I don’t remember who kissed who. Only the taste of him, the burn of us, and how I never want it to end.

All I know is we’re pressed together, lost in a moment so intense it feels like it could rip the sky open. The world narrows to the heat of his body, the grind of his mouth on mine, the fire licking beneath my skin that refuses to be ignored. There’s no thought, no doubt, just instinct and heat and the terrifying freedom of letting go.

Until it crashes over me.

Reality slams back like a slap of cold water. I recoil as if scorched, my breath shattering in my chest, and stumble back a step as if space will somehow clear the fog inside me. My lipstingle. My fingers are still curled. And all I can think is—what the hell just happened to me?

"I can’t…" I start, breathless. "I don’t…"

His eyes are dark. Blazing. The kind of heat that could consume, command, destroy—and rebuild. He looks at me like I’m already his, like the fight to let me go is a war waging behind his eyes. But he lets me go. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like releasing a lifeline.

"You’re not ready," he says softly. Not accusing. Just... knowing.

I leave him there in the trees, the press of his body and the memory of his mouth still seared into my skin like a second layer of heat. My legs feel shaky, untrustworthy, like they’re not entirely convinced we’re done yet. My thoughts spin—wild and fractured—each step away from him thick with static, like I’m wading through fog. My heart doesn’t just pound. It thunders, echoing with confusion, with something too fierce to name. Because something changed back there. And I don’t know how to come back from it.

Back at my tent, I finish my reports, but the numbers blur, melting into meaningless strings across the screen. No one else seems to care about the why behind these fires. About the pattern, the symbols, the purpose. The truth lies buried in ash and smoke. No one but me. It’s like I’m chasing ghosts while everyone else insists there’s nothing in the dark. I’m starting to wonder if that’s because I’m the only one who can—the only one willing to look deeper, to question what we’ve been told. Or maybe... maybe I’m the only one left who hasn't been silenced.

That night, I dream about fire. But not outside. Inside. It doesn’t roar or rage—it whispers. It slides under my skin like molten silk, curling through my chest, threading down my arms, spreading through my veins like liquid heat. It coils behind my ribs, a slow, sensuous burn that hums with power andsomething that feels disturbingly like recognition. It licks at my lungs with every breath, hot and strangely soothing. I’m burning but not breaking. Alive in a way I’ve never been before.

When I wake, the room is dark, the air cool against my overheated skin. I think, for a moment, the dream is still holding me—that sensation of fire beneath flesh is too real to simply vanish. But then I look down, and I see it. My skin glows—soft, ethereal, pulsing faintly like embers under the moonlight. A soft amber shimmer curls along the inside of my arms, tracing my veins like fire caught just beneath the surface. It moves subtly, like it’s alive, like it’s listening. I blink hard, rub at it, but it doesn’t disappear.

Not until I touch it—and it fades, reluctantly, as if reluctant to leave me. The light dims, retreating beneath my skin like an ember curling deeper into ash. Even then, I feel the heat linger beneath my fingertips, humming faintly, like it knows me. Like it chose me. A secret burned into my bones, etched in flame and blood and something I don’t understand yet. But it was there. And something in me knows—it still is.

CHAPTER 12

DAX

Pacing the length of the volcanic corridor in Blackstrike’s home base, I swear the stone is going to wear a groove beneath my boots. Each step echoes with a tension I can’t bleed off, a weight coiled too deep to shake. The cavern walls glow faintly with embedded embers, pulsing like a heartbeat—steady, ancient, alive. The sanctum hums around me, all molten silence and restless power, a sacred womb of fire and memory where the past never quite sleeps. Shadows dance across dragon-carved stone, and the air carries the scent of sulfur and stone—a reminder of what we are, and what I’ve tried to hold back.

But it’s nothing compared to the storm inside me. A wildfire with no containment line, no safe perimeter. I shouldn’t have let her kiss me—shouldn’t have kissed her back with the kind of hunger that spoke more of centuries than seconds. Shouldn’t have let my hands grip her like she was already mine, like her mouth belonged beneath mine, like the world would split apart if I didn’t taste her again. And yet—I did. Because for the first time in many lifetimes, I felt whole.

I drag a hand through my hair, fingers catching at the nape of my neck where the heat pulses worst, trying to get my thoughtsstraight, trying to suppress the fire coiling tighter beneath my skin. It's not just physical—it’s the dragon pushing, clawing, aching for her. Ember. My mate. My flame. The one I’ve been waiting for, across centuries of smoke and silence, of sacrifice and shadow. And I haven’t even told her who—what—I am. I’ve kept that truth locked behind my teeth like it’s too dangerous to say out loud. Because once I do, there’s no going back. Not for me. Not for her.

It’s time. I can’t keep circling her like some ancient specter afraid of his own past. I can’t let her walk headfirst into a storm laced with centuries of buried truths while I burn in the shadows. She’s not some passing interest or fleeting temptation. She’s the fire that calls to mine, the only one who might see the monster and still stand her ground. She deserves more than riddles and evasions. She deserves the truth.

Kade’s voice echoes in my mind from the last time we spoke, just a few hours ago, over the secure line. He’d spoken in a clipped, low tone, as if he knew I wouldn’t want to hear what he had to say, but needed me to hear it, anyway. We don’t waste words—never have—but the weight behind his voice pressed deeper than usual. He said little, but what he said hit harder than I expected, like kindling finally catching fire after sitting too long in the smoke.

"You’re not her savior, Dax," he said, voice tight. "You’re her fated mate. Maybe it’s time you stopped hiding. If she’s your mate, she deserves truth, not protection. You want her to stand with you in fire? Stop shielding her from the heat. Ember is different, as are you. When the time is right, she’ll be ready."

I grunted. "And what if she isn’t? What if my revealing myself to her endangers the unit? What if I light the match and she burns?"

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