The older guard speaks for the first time in an hour. “You trained as a tactical commander?”
His voice is neutral. Professional curiosity, nothing more.
“Yes.”
“Shows.” He adjusts his position fractionally. “You’ve been tracking defensive vulnerabilities since we left the checkpoint.”
I don’t confirm or deny. Just wait.
“Habit,” he continues. “Or are you planning something?”
“If I were planning something, you’d already be dead.”
The words come out flat. Factual. The young guard tenses, but the older one just nods.
“Fair enough.” He settles back. “For what it’s worth, I hope Aurora gives you a fair hearing.”
I almost ask why he cares. But I know the answer: because men like him believe in process. In the idea that even people like me deserve a chance to explain.
He’s wrong, but I appreciate the sentiment.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He considers before answering. “Matthew.”
“How long with Aurora?”
“Eight years.” He watches the tree line. “You?”
“Twenty-three years with the Syndicate.” The number sits heavy. “Three days defected.”
“What changed?”
Everything. Nothing. The slow accumulation of atrocities until the weight became unbearable.
“I ran out of justifications,” I tell him.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to.
The conversation dies. Wind buffets the vehicle. Snow accumulates on the windshield faster than the wipers can clear it.
Then the heat hits.
Not gradual. Not subtle.
It slams into the base of my skull—foreign and immediate, like someone pressed a brand to bone. My dragonfire surges without permission, temperature spiking hot enough that sweat breaks across my forehead despite the cold.
The young guard notices. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word comes out too tight.
I’m not fine.
Something’s wrong. My body’s reacting to a threat I can’t identify, senses screaming danger even though nothing’s changed. Just snow and shadow and endless rows of pines.
But something’s out there.
I know this feeling. Spent two decades honing the instinct that separates operators who live from those who don’t. This isn’t paranoia. This isn’t anxiety.
