Scraped against the inside of my skull while Kazimir stood before me, cigar trailing smoke, that predator's smile still curving his lips.
In front of us, the pyre roared.
The flames climbed toward the ash-choked sky, and the heat pressed against my face—aggressive, hungry, pushing into my skin until my eyes watered. Somewhere in the blaze, something popped. Wet and sharp. A skull, maybe. Or a joint finally surrendering to the fire.
I didn't flinch.
Neither did the Lion.
He stood close enough to burn. Close enough that the heat should have driven him back, should have made him sweat, should have donesomethingto that massive body.
But Kazimir didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just watched the flames with the stillness of a man who had long ago made peace with fire. That stillness unsettled me more than his presence.
Deep in my chest, the dragon stirred.
Not rage.
The movement was primal and said:This one is dangerous in ways we haven't mapped yet.
I kept my hands loose at my sides.
Kept my breathing even.
Watched him the way a predator watched another predator—with respect, with caution, with the understanding that a single wrong move could turn this conversation into carnage.
I looked at him. “How can I help you, Kazimir?”
The Lion took a long drag of his cigar and exhaled smoke toward the blazing dead. "Do you know who first burned men?"
The question caught me off guard.
I'd expected demands.
Threats.
Some declaration of intent that would tell me why the leader of the Russian Bratva had landed a helicopter on my island without my permission.
Instead, he was asking me about history.
Here we go.
The wind shifted, carrying a fresh wave of smoke across the compound. I breathed through my mouth and tasted ash on my tongue. "No, Kazimir. I don’t know who was the first to start burning men."
Kazimir nodded slowly, still watching the flames. His dark hair stirred in the breeze—three, maybe four inches long—lifting and falling like something alive. The firelight caught the sharp planes of his face. "I believe it was the Greeks."
I frowned.
"But it wasn't for punishment. It was for honor. They believed fire released the soul. Freed it." The Lion lifted his cigar, and ash fell from the tip. "The Greeks burned their heroes on great pyres so their spirits could rise with the smoke and join the gods."
He's not here to teach me history. He's building toward something. The question is what.
The flames roared, hungry and vicious.
I turned my attention back to the pyre and spotted a body shifting deep within it. The corpse's ribcage collapsed next with a sickening crack that shot a violent storm of sparks skyward.
