Page 28 of Ashfall

The silence stretches.

Then, finally, I stop pacing. "So let me get this straight—you’re a dragon-shifter. This is your base. Your team? They’re all like you?"

He nods once. "We took an oath a long time ago—to guard our existence, to protect humanity when needed, and to never reveal ourselves unless absolutely necessary."

"Define 'long time,'" I ask suspiciously, my arms still crossed. I already suspect his sense of time makes mine look laughable.

Dax grins, slow and unapologetic. "In some cases, hundreds of years. In others... thousands."

Thousands. My mouth goes dry. I can only stare, trying to wrap my head around what it means to live that long. To carry that much memory, that much weight.

"We did not always live in harmony with man," he says, softer now. "There were eras of conflict. Of worship. Of fear."

I raise an eyebrow. "So... virginal sacrifices?"

He lets out a breath. "Not our finest era. Nor was it humanity’s. We never asked for offerings—they were given, usually out of fear or tradition."

"And what did you do with them?"

His gaze holds mine. "Enjoyed what was freely offered, when we could. But devouring? Killing? That was rare and condemned. Most of us relocated those women—gave them coin,safe homes, anonymity. We weren’t monsters... at least, not all of us."

I nod slowly. I don’t know why, but it makes sense. Terrifying, ancient sense.

"So what changed?"

His expression changes—pride tempered by old pain. "We evolved. Or we tried. Our instincts never left us, but we adapted. We learned how to control the flame. How to work among humans without setting the world on fire. Most of us chose to protect, to serve. We created Blackstrike to serve as our cover—a frontline smokejumper unit for the most extreme fires. But it’s more than that."

He takes a step closer. "We go where the fire appears to be unnatural. Where things go wrong. Where rogue shifters manipulate flame, push the balance too far. That’s when we move in. That’s what we are."

It sends a shiver down my spine. Because suddenly, the world feels a lot bigger—and a lot more fragile. Like every step I’ve taken until now has been across solid ground, and I’ve just realized it was thin ice all along. Everything I believed was possible, rational, explainable—gone. Replaced by a truth so old and raw, it hums in the surrounding air. Dragons. Fire. Fate. And me—standing in the middle of it, no longer sure whether I’m supposed to run or burn.

"And the secrecy?" I ask.

Dax’s jaw tightens. “We’re not meant to be known. The world wouldn’t survive it. We’re not fairy-tale villains, but there’s a dark side to what we are. Without our mates, the fire inside us turns unstable. It starts small—heat rising, patience thinning. But eventually, we lose our grip on humanity. We burn out. We lose control. We go feral.

"It’s not just rage or madness,” he continues. “It’s deeper than that. Elemental. The dragon takes over. Reason disappears.We become exactly what the world already fears: weapons of destruction.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So, what—you need a soulmate to stay sane?”

He hesitates, jaw flexing. “I’ve seen it firsthand. One of ours tried to fight the bond. Said fate was a lie. Thought he could manage on his own. But in the end, he couldn’t tell friend from foe. He almost leveled a town before we stopped him. Took three of us to put him down. He died screaming—body and mind both gone.”

A shiver creeps up my spine, curling slowly and deeply like smoke wrapping around my ribs. I don’t know what hits harder—the horror of what he just described, or the quiet grief in his voice when he said it. That kind of loss doesn’t just haunt a person. It hollows them. Leaves a burn that never fully heals. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat is too tight, my thoughts too scattered.

What do you say to someone who’s watched their own kind fall to madness and had to help end it? To someone who’s seen what happens when the fire wins? The silence between us stretches like a fault line, and for once, I have no words to fill it.

Fear curls in my chest, sharp and cold—like a shard of ice piercing through the heat he left behind. This isn’t just a myth. It’s not some beautifully twisted fantasy I can dismiss when it gets too real. This is brutal, elemental truth. Life or death. His. Theirs. And suddenly, terrifyingly, maybe even mine. Because if he’s right—if there’s some kind of bond between us and if it’s the only thing holding his fire in check—what happens if I say no? What happens if I run?

My mouth is dry. My mind is racing, chasing logic that’s slipping through my fingers like ash. I want to believe this is some elaborate delusion, a prank, something I’ll wake up from with a jolt and a laugh. But I saw him shift—watched his bodydissolve into flame and emerge reborn. I felt the heat. It wasn't imagined. It seared into my skin and etched itself into the space between heartbeats. No hallucination has ever left a mark like that.

"So I’m supposed to what—save you?" I ask.

He doesn’t flinch. "No. But you’re the only one who could."

"That’s not comforting," I mutter. "That’s pressure. That’s insane. That’s?—"

"Fire," he says. "It doesn’t ask permission. It just is."

I glare at him. Then spin on my heel. Storming off feels good. Powerful. The stomp of my boots on the stone is sharp, defiant—punctuating my anger with every step. But the sensation fades quickly as I near the edge of the platform and the truth rears up like a wall. I stop cold, cursing under my breath as I stare out over the drop. Jagged canyon ridges stretch in every direction, cloaked in mist and smoke. No road. No path. No damn way down.

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