Heat.
A man cloaked in black, standing untouched in the middle of a burning house, flames curling around him like they were afraid to get too close.
I am Thorne.
“Oh, hell no,” I whisper into the darkness.
I push myself upright—and nearly slide right off the bed.
The surface beneath me is slick and smooth, the sheets whispering against my skin.
Too smooth. Too expensive.
My hand tightens in the fabric as my feet find the floor.
Stone.
Not cold.
Warm. Deeply warm.
Like sun-baked rock that’s been holding heat all day.
I flinch, instinctively expecting pain, but it doesn’t come.
The warmth seeps into my soles instead, grounding and unsettling all at once.
I drop the sheet. Then, I look down. And choke.
Yep. Still completely naked.
No clothes. No boots. No uniform.
No radio clipped to my shoulder.
No knife in my pocket.
Nothing familiar. Nothing mine.
I grab the sheet again and wind it around my body like a makeshift toga.
Then I look around. It’s dark out.
I see no light spilling inside from the open floor to ceiling windows.
My skin prickles as I take in my surroundings.
The chamber is vast, carved entirely from obsidian and volcanic stone.
The walls are dark and glossy, veined with faint lines of red-orange glow, like the rock itself is breathing.
Firelight ripples across the surface, casting shadows that move when nothing else does.
Coal dust perfumes the air.
Smoke, but refined.
Controlled.
