“Power this old doesn’t vanish,” I say, thinking out loud. “It feeds. Maybe it’s feeding wrong.”
“Or feedingsomeone.”
Our eyes meet in the torchlight. The same thought forming between us: the ancient tomb Ember saw in her dreams. The Sleeping King’s resting place, somewhere deeper in these mountains.
She holds my gaze. Doesn’t look away. And for three seconds, I forget about tactics and exits and the Syndicate agents above us.
Three seconds where it’s just her eyes… and the awareness that we’re alone in the dark and she’s standing close enough that I could reach out and—
I break eye contact.
I don’t like the idea of spending time in caves tied to dead dragon royalty. But the sounds filtering down from above—boots on rock, scanner equipment pinging—make the choice simple.
Down is safer than up.
For now.
“We keep moving,” I tell her. “Find an inner chamber, then rest.”
“It would be easier if we could see more,” she murmurs, then tries to kindle light with a charm, mutters words I recognize from basic magical training. A spark dances between her fingers, throwing wild shadows across both our faces before flickering out.
The flame catches her features for half a second. Illuminates the disappointment, the fear she’s trying to hide. Then darkness swallows us again, barely lit by the red beam of my torch.
She startles when the light dies. My hand finds her shoulder on instinct, steadying, grounding.
“You’re okay,” I tell her, though the contact jolts through me. Her jacket is cold from the mountain air, but underneath I feel warmth. Alive. Real.
We freeze that way. My palm on her shoulder. Her breathing stopped. The darkness pressing close around us, like it’s trying to force us together.
I should let go.
Don’t want to.
That realization shakes me. I turn away to rummage in my pack, needing the interruption, needing my hands busy with something other than the urge to keep touching her.
Get your head straight, Kenan. She’s a mission parameter. Nothing more.
The lie is empty.
I distribute weight more efficiently. Water. Rations. The flare gun I’ve been saving. All of it reorganized with care while my heart rate stays elevated for reasons that have nothing to do with practicalities.
“Luke,” she whispers anxiously as the faint echo of pursuit reaches us, distant but distinct. Footsteps or shifting stone, I can’t tell. Could be Syndicate systematically working through sectors. Could be the mountain settling.
Either way, we’re not staying here to find out.
I kill the torch instantly, leaving us in darkness so complete it has weight.
Ember’s breathing comes faster beside me. Not panic. Just the instinctive response to sudden blindness. I reach out, find her arm in the dark. Feel her tense under my fingers.
Even through the jacket, through layers of fabric, the contact registers. Grounds me when it should complicate things.
“I can’t see.” Her voice is strained.
“Stay close. Hand on my jacket,” I say, not pointing out that she’s stating the obvious.
She hesitates. I feel it in the space between us, pride warring with necessity. Then her fingers brush my shoulder, sliding down to find the strap of my vest.
The touch—light, tentative—shoots straight through me.
