The snow comes down heavy enough to muffle the world. No wind. No birds. Just the rhythm of my paws hammering frozen ground and the rasp of air dragging through my lungs.
I’ve been traveling for over a day.
By my estimates, right now, the convoy is crossing the Cascades. There are only three viable routes through these mountains for a secure transport: Highway 2 through Stevens Pass, I-90 through Snoqualmie, or the old forestry road network through the northern range.
Aurora wouldn’t use the highways. Too exposed. Too many variables. A high-value Syndicate defector traveling under protection? They’d take the northern route—the one that cuts through protected wilderness where they control every approach, every sightline, every emergency extraction point.
I’d laid it out in my head during that first hour of running, eliminated the southern options, the interstate corridors whereSyndicate operatives could stage an ambush. That left the northern forestry roads. And if I ran hard enough, cut through terrain the convoy couldn’t navigate, I could reach the eastern approach before they passed through.
Almost impossible. But not if you move like you mean it.
The human part of me—the sliver that still calculates, still plans—tracks the ache in my chest and knows I’m pushing too hard. The wolf doesn’t care. She’s been caged for too long, fed scraps of purpose through surveillance jobs and containment duty. Now she’s free, and she’s hunting.
I cut through forest shadows, following the scent web threading through the trees. Diesel exhaust. Scorched metal. The acrid tang of dragonfire containment tech—chemical suppressants mixed with smoldering fire. It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs in the air, and I follow it east across ridges and ravines, taking shortcuts the convoy can’t.
My breath fogs white. My paws barely leave prints in the snow.
The forest thins as I climb toward a narrow ridge, and I slow, dropping low, letting my body melt into the landscape. Below, the access road cuts through the valley in switchbacks, and there—fresh tire tracks carved deep into crusting snow, edges already hardening in the cold.
I creep closer, nose down, reading the tracks layered into the frozen earth.
Multiple humans. Oil smoke. Leather and coffee and the faint metallic sweat of nervous guards. And underneath it all, that burnt-copper signature unique to dragons who’ve been locked down too long, their fire suppressed and restrained until it turns cold.
Him.
The thought cuts sharp.
I ghost alongside the ridge, keeping to cover, wind at my nose so nothing downwind can catch my scent. The tracks are recent—an hour old at most. Maybe less.
Not far now.
My pulse kicks once, hard. The wolf’s focus narrows:see him, and end it.
No memory. No hesitation.
Just action.
I pause beneath a cedar overhang where the branches hang low and thick, snow piled heavy enough to create a pocket of darkness. My body shifts before I consciously decide, bones grinding into new alignment, spine curving, fur receding. The transformation is controlled violence: cartilage snapping into human joints while the wolf stays close.
The cold hits hard.
I’m naked except for patches of fur on my forearms and calves, snow melting against overheated skin. My breath comes in ragged clouds. I should be shivering.
I’m not.
Because the hunt doesn’t care about exposure.
And neither do I.
I move forward on human feet, quieter now, using the rocky terrain for cover. The low rumble of engines reaches me before I see them—a deep, grinding sound that echoes off the valley walls.
I drop into a crouch behind an outcrop of stone and peer through the brush.
The convoy appears around the bend below: three matte-black vehicles crawling along the narrow road, Aurora insignia muted beneath layers of snow and road salt. The lead SUV moves cautiously, headlights cutting pale beams through the falling snow. The transport van follows close behind, flanked by a third vehicle bringing up the rear.
Everything precise. Routine. Bored guards who think the biggest threat is ice on the road.
Then I see him.
