Page 9 of Ashfall

He lets out a quick breath, almost a scoff. “Trust isn’t the point,” he said. “You’re here to observe, not to receive briefings like my teammembers. I don’t know or trust you, but I trust fire. And it's telling me we're in deep."

I cross my arms, heart pounding even though I refuse to show it. "Then maybe it’s time you stop hiding what you know," I say, more measured now, less challenge and more invitation. "You and your team clearly know more than you’re saying. I’m not here to step on toes or undermine your command—but if we’re not sharing intel, we’re wasting time. We need to worktogether on this, not circle each other like rival packs. Because if what I’m seeing is even half right, we’re already behind."

His voice drops. "You’re hunting something bigger than you think, Ember. You just don’t see it yet."

My name on his tongue does strange things to my insides. But I hold my ground. "Then show me. Stop talking in riddles and show me what the hell we’re actually up against."

He holds my gaze for a beat longer, like he’s weighing something heavy. Then, just as suddenly, he steps back. "Soon."His eyes—dark, hooded, gleaming like he knows something I don’t. He pulls back, turns on his heel. "I'm heading back to our base. I'll see you in the morning. try to get some sleep."

By the time I reach my assigned tent, the sun is setting low, and my nerves are shot. I haven’t eaten, haven’t rested, and my brain is buzzing.

Laptop open, I pull old case files—arsons logged across five states, some officially closed, others marked unexplained or unsolved. I flip through report after report, my eyes scanning for anything that even remotely mirrors what I saw on that ridge.

And then I find it. Thepattern.Not just similar. Identical. Same heat bloom configuration. Same ignition geometry. A triangle that shouldn’t exist in natural fire spread. It shows up in Oregon, then Colorado, then Idaho. Two years ago, Montana. Last year, northern California.

Different forests. Different crews. But the same eerie surgical spread. The same refusal of the flames to follow wind logic or terrain. Controlled chaos.And in every case, the local authoritiesbrushed it off as an anomaly or blamed a lightning strike with no obvious point of origin. Convenient. Clean. Too clean.

I lean back and stare at the screen, the pit in my stomach deepening. This isn’t just one arsonist.It’s a strategy.And whoever’s behind it has been testing us for years.

I think of Dax. Of his silence. The data missing from the Blackstrike reports. That kind of tight, practiced restraint doesn’t come from confusion. It comes from experience. From exposure. They know more about these fires than they’re letting on. They are deeply involved in something I haven’t been allowed to see. They’re hiding or protecting something. The more I see, the more I’m thinking it’s not just classified—it’s dangerous.

The Blackstrike Unit is famous or infamous, depending upon who you ask. They're secretive but effective.And I don’t know which one scares me more.

I rub my eyes, exhausted, when a knock at the tent pole startles me.

A volunteer from the kitchen pokes her head in. "Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but Commander Fane said to make sure you ate."

She sets the tray down—sandwich, fruit, protein bar—and something else. A small piece of polished amber rests on the napkin, catching the light like frozen sunlight. I stare at it, a strange prickle working its way up my spine.

“He said to tell you it helps with grounding,” she murmurs, already stepping back.

Grounding? What does that even mean—emotionally steady? Spiritually anchored? I have no idea. But the weight of it feels deliberate, like it’s meant to hold something in place. Maybe even me.

I eat the food. I don’t want to, but I do. And after, I lie back on the cot, the piece of amber still clutched in one hand.

Sleep comes fast. Andso do the dreams.

Fire.It crackles in a rhythm that shouldn't be natural, moving like it breathes—inhaling, exhaling, watching.

The flames dance in patterns, spiraling outward from my feet like they're drawing runes in ash.

Wings cut through the smoke above, massive and impossible, shadowing everything in gold and crimson. They beat once, slow and soundless, stirring the surrounding haze in a vortex of heat.

The fire parts in their wake, revealing flashes of shape and muscle and scale too vast to comprehend. It isn't just fire I'm dreaming of. It's something inside it. Something alive. And it knows me.

I stand in the middle of the blaze, unburned but surrounded, the heat kissing my skin instead of consuming it. The fire glides over my arms like silk made of sunlight, warming me from the inside out. There’s no sky. No ground. Just the flame that wraps around me like a lover’s hands—curious, reverent, possessive.

The scent of charred cedar mixes with something darker, muskier, ancient and intimate, like the memory of skin against skin in the dark. My breath hitches, not from fear, but from anticipation. I should feel terror. But all I feel is the pull—deep, elemental, inevitable.

A voice stirs—not in words, but like thunder in my blood, velvet and flame intertwined. It coils low in my belly, warm and pulsing, brushing against the inside of my skin as if it knows every secret I’ve buried. It feels like breath on my neck, lips at my ear.

“You already know,” it whispers.

Then come the eyes. Molten gold locked on me through the smoke, glowing with heat and something more primal. They don’t blink. They don’t look away. They burn into me—through me—like they know every secret I’ve never spoken aloud.There’s no malice in them, no threat. Just certainty. Claiming. Like they’ve stared into me before and memorized every line. Like they’ve been waiting for me to return.

I reach forward—and wake up gasping. My skin is damp with sweat and my heart's racing. No reason. No logic. Just a dream.Except it doesn’t feel like a dream.It feels like a warning or a promise or maybe amemory... one I haven’t made yet.

CHAPTER 4

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