“Perfect,” I clip out, then focus on my tablet, which displays topographical maps of the region that I work on committing to memory. After a moment, the driver turns his attention back to the road, not pushing for more conversation. Which suits me just fine.
The rest of the trip remains oddly quiet, considering Mara is sitting behind me. The woman is seldom silent for longer than a few minutes. I bet she talks in her damned sleep.
Petru drops us at the staging site with promises to return in the evening. The clearing opens up around us: fuel drums, canvas tarps, and in the center, the helicopter.
Bell 212. Older model, but the kind I trust. I’ve flown these in worse conditions, with worse odds.
Radu, the Aurora liaison, emerges from under the tail boom. “Kenan. Right on time.”
We shake hands. His grip is firm, professional.
“She’s fueled and pre-checked,” he says. “Comms are patched through to Bucharest. Weather’s stable for now, but there’s a front moving in from the east. You’ll want to be back before dusk.”
I pull up the flight path on my tablet. “Northern ridge system. Two hours up, two back. Plenty of buffer.”
“Your team?” He glances at Ember and Mara, who are unloading gear.
“They know their job.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push. “You’re cleared to depart in ten. Good luck.”
I walk a slow circuit around the helicopter. Fuel lines: secure. Rotor integrity: good. Hydraulics: pressure nominal. Tail rotor: no visible damage. It’s routine, the kind of check I could do blind, but I take my time. Because this isn’t just about me.
Ember appears at my elbow, watching me work.
“You’ve done this before,” she says.
“A few times.”
“More than a few.”
I finish inspecting the hydraulic reservoir, wipe my hands. “Military background. Flew transports and medevacs. This is simpler.”
“Simpler than war?”
“Everything is.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze steady on my face. Then: “I’m glad you’re flying us.”
The words are simple. Direct. And they leave me oddly unsettled.
I meet her eyes. “Stay strapped in. Do what I say. We’ll be fine.”
“I trust you.”
The way she says it—no hesitation, no doubt—makes my dragon rumble low in my chest.
He needs to stay the hell out of this.
The shopkeeper’s words come back to me unsolicited.
Daughter. Fuck’s sake.
I turn away before I say something stupid. “Get in the helicopter,” I tell her instead.
As soon as the women are in, I start the bird up. The turbine whines to life, vibration building through the frame. I run through pre-flight checks, muscle memory taking over. Fuel pressure: good. Rotor RPM: climbing. Instruments: nominal.
Behind me, Ember and Mara buckle in. I hear Mara’s voice through the headset, narrating something about the landscape for her phone camera.
