The world comes back in pieces. Heat against my face. Wrong, too close, scorching the air in my lungs. Metal groaning somewhere overhead. A smell that makes my stomach lurch: fuel and burned insulation and something that stings my throat.
My eyes won’t focus. Everything tips sideways. Wrong angle. The helicopter cabin stretches above me instead of around me, seat straps cutting into my shoulder in a position that doesn’t make sense.
We’re not flying anymore.
Memory crashes through the fog. Luke’s hands on the controls. The shriek of failing rotors. Mara’s scream cutting through the wind. Trees rushing up to meet us, then—
We crashed.
Oh God. Oh God!
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps that leave my lips tingling.
Calm down, Ember. You need to stay calm.
I try to move. My body doesn’t respond the way it should. Everything feels distant, wrapped in cotton. My hand finds the buckle release by instinct, and the straps let go with a metallic snap. I fall three feet and land hard on what used to be the cabin wall.
The shock of it clears my head.
Not cotton. Shock. I’m in shock.
I force myself to my hands and knees. Glass crunches beneath my palms, piercing skin, though I’m barely aware of the pain. The cabin lists at a sick angle, nose down, tail section twisted away from the cockpit. Through the shattered windshield, I can see dirt and broken branches pressed against the glass. Beyond that, empty air.
We’re on the edge of something. A drop-off. Maybe a chasm of some sort.
Shit. This is bad. This is really bad.
“Mara?” My voice comes out hoarse. “Luke?”
Movement draws my attention to the front of the cabin. Mara hangs half through a shattered emergency hatch, her body wedged in the opening at a cruel angle. Metal—jagged, torn—pins her at the waist.
She’s not moving.
Panic floods my veins, burning away the last of the fog.
Luke kneels beside her, one hand braced against the buckled frame. Blood runs down the side of his face from a gash near his temple, but his hands stay steady as he reaches for the wreckage pinning her. His fingers close around the twisted metal, and for a second, scales emerge across his knuckles, gleaming slate, dragon-bright.
Then they fade.
He tries again. The scales flicker back, but weaker this time. Translucent, then fading. His whole body goes rigid with effort, muscles straining, but the metal doesn’t budge.
Something’s wrong. I can feel it in the air: a flatness, like the moment before an earthquake when all the birds go silent. Magic should be crackling around us. Luke should be able to tear that wreckage apart with dragon strength.
But he can’t.
“Is she—?” I start.
“Trapped.” His voice cuts through my question. Low. Controlled. But I hear the edge underneath. “Don’t move.”
I freeze halfway to standing. The helicopter shifts slightly, and my stomach drops as I feel the ground beneath us give a fraction of an inch.
We’re not just on the edge. We’re balanced on it.
Luke doesn’t look at me. All his attention stays fixed on Mara, on the way her chest barely rises. He positions himself, plants his feet, tries again to shift the metal.
Nothing happens.
I watch the frustration ripple through him—controlled, but there—as he tries to access power that isn’t responding the way it should.
