I’m going to die.
“Fine,” he says, turning his back. “Make it quick.”
I realize this is as much privacy as I’m going to get, and look around for a likely spot, spying a cluster of shrubs nearby.
Great. Al fresco potty break.
Barely two minutes later, I’m pulling my zipper up and stumbling back over the uneven footing to where he’s still standing facing away.
“All done?” he says over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I answer, my voice small.
Dead. I’m dead.
Without a word, he sets off again, walking as if nothing happened. Probably a non-event for him. Then again, he’s a soldier; they deal with this stuff all the time, don’t they?
Grow up, Ember. It could be worse.
Yeah. I could be on fire.
Or in Syndicate hands.
I have bigger things to worry about.
Keeping my thoughts to myself, I follow him as we move downhill through wet pine needles that muffle our footsteps. My breath fogs white in the cold air. Above us, the sky bleeds pale gray through the canopy, but true dawn still feels hours away. The forest presses close: dripping branches, moss-slick stones, the sharp scent of rotting wood.
My boot catches on a root hidden beneath the snow. I stumble, catching myself against a tree trunk before I go down completely.
Luke glances back. “Careful.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, then feel guilty almost immediately. Luke’s been nothing but supportive and resourceful since we got stuck out here. Still, it burns to feel like he’s treating me like a child.
Because you practically are one, Ember.
We push deeper into the trees, the silence between us stretching taut. I keep my eyes on the ground, watching for roots and rocks, trying not to think about how vulnerable I am without flame. HowhumanI feel.
The sound of engines drifts up from below.
Luke goes rigid. His hand shoots out, catching my wrist and jerking me to a halt. I freeze, heart hammering, and scan the slope ahead.
The engines cut out.
Movement between the pines; figures in gray fatigues spread in a wide grid pattern. Six of them. Maybe more beyond my line of sight. They move with precision, each one carrying equipment that hums with a frequency I feel in my teeth.
“Syndicate,” Luke mouths, though he doesn’t need to tell me.
One agent raises a device that pulses with sickly pale light. The glow sweeps across tree trunks, painting everything in washed-out brilliance. When it passes over a patch of disturbed earth, the light flares brighter.
Tracking tech. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had technology to identify dragon presence.
My stomach sinks. How much trace energy did I leave behind at the campsite? How much am I leaving now with every step?
Luke tugs me sideways toward a massive fallen trunk, its bark black with rot. We drop behind it, pressing ourselves flat against the damp wood. Pine needles dig into my palms. My breath comes too fast, too loud in the sudden stillness.
Below us, boots crunch through underbrush. The hum of their equipment grows sharper, higher-pitched.
A radio crackles. “Sector seven. Expanding sweep pattern to grid eight.”
