“Why?” The question scrapes my throat raw. “Why me and not her?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. The fire pops and hisses in the chasm behind us. Somewhere in the distance, birds cry out, startled by the explosion, probably, fleeing whatever den or roost we just destroyed.
Finally, Luke turns to face me.
His eyes are dark again. Human. But there’s something in them I haven’t seen before, something that looks almost like pain.
“You were the one I could save.” The words come out low. Careful. Like he’s choosing each one. “She was pinned. Unconscious. Even with dragon strength—” He stops. Starts again. “My power wasn’t responding right. I couldn’t move the wreckage. Couldn’t break her free. But you were sliding. Still conscious. Still fighting. I had one chance to grab one of you.”
“So you chose.”
“So physics chose.” His jaw tightens. “And instinct. My dragon—” Another pause, longer this time. “It went for the one who could be saved.”
The flatness in his voice doesn’t match the tension in his body. I can see the cost of those words, the way they sit wrong in his mouth.
“You should have picked her.” My voice cracks. Guilt floods me.
“We’ll discuss this later,” he says. “If we live that long.”
Before I can respond, the ground shudders beneath us.
Not the helicopter. Not an explosion.
The earth itself, groaning and shifting as whatever structural damage the crash caused continues to spread. Cracks spiderweb out from the chasm’s edge, thin lines racing through dirt and rock like searching fingers.
Luke’s head snaps toward the sound. “Aftershock. The impact destabilized the formation. We need to—”
The crack nearest us widens with a sound like breaking ice.
He moves fast—faster than any human could—and his hands close around my shoulders. He hauls me up and away as the ground beneath where I was sitting drops six inches.
We don’t stop moving. Luke keeps one hand locked on my arm as we run, putting distance between ourselves and the collapsing earth. My lungs burn. My legs scream. But fear drives me forward because behind us, I can hear the sound of destruction spreading; earth giving way, structures failing, the mountain itself reorganizing around the wound we’ve torn in it.
We make it to solid rock—an outcropping that juts from the hillside like a shelf—before the worst of it hits. The ground gives way in a rush, and the fragmented rear section of the helicopter—our helicopter, the one that brought us here, the one Mara disappeared in—slides backward into the expanding hole.
More fire. More smoke. The colors still wrong.
Luke releases my arm. His hand stays raised for a moment, like he’s making sure I won’t bolt or collapse, before he lowers it to his side.
We stand there, breathing hard, watching our transport burn.
I stare at the flames rising from the chasm, my body refusing to process what just happened. The heat should hurt, but I can’tfeel anything except the hollow space in my chest that horror wants to fill.
“We need to move.” Luke’s voice cuts through the roar of burning fuel. He’s scanning the treeline. “Now.”
I don’t move. Can’t move.
“Ember.” Sharper this time. He steps into my line of sight, blocking the fire. “The smoke will be visible for miles. If there’s anyone out here—Syndicate, Circle—they’ll come to investigate. We’re sitting targets.”
The words penetrate slowly. Right. We’re in the middle of nowhere. No backup. No way to call for help with the comms destroyed in the crash. In enemy territory.
And Mara—
“I know.” His voice gentles, just a fraction, as if reading my mind. “But we can’t help her now. What we can do is survive long enough to get back to safety.”
The practicality of it cuts through the fog. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
I force myself to turn away. My legs shake, but they hold.
