Page 88 of Born in Fire

He travels through increasingly urban streets until we reach an industrial area bordering downtown. Warehouses and loading docks surround us, with glimpses of skyscrapers visible between buildings.

“This is as far as I go,” Eddie says, pulling to a stop in a loading zone. “You sure you’ll be okay from here? Those flip-flops aren’t exactly hiking boots.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice.

Eddie reaches into a cooler behind his seat. “Take these, at least.” He hands me a bottle of water and a bag of Doritos. “Brain fuel. And here,” he scribbles on a scrap of paper, “my cell number. If you get stuck or need another ride out of the city, give me a call. I’ll be in Seattle two more days.”

The kindness of this stranger brings an unexpected tightness to my throat. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“Don’t mention it.” He waves away my thanks. “Just pay it forward someday. And maybe let me know if you find any real dragons, yeah?” He winks.

I step down from the truck cab, the industrial district stretching before me, the invisible pull guiding me forward. Eddie’s horn toots briefly as he pulls away, leaving me alone in a city I don’t remember, but that somehow feels significant. I orient myself toward the tallest buildings and begin walking.

The industrial zone gradually gives way to a more commercial district. People in business clothes hurry past, some casting curious glances at my strange outfit, oversized flip-flops slapping on the pavement. I must look as out of place as I feel, but the stares bounce off me, insignificant compared to the urgent tug drawing me along.

As I approach the business district, flashes of memory begin to intrude with increasing frequency—disconnected images without context. A coffee cup with intricate foam art. Hands adjusting an apron tie. A customer’s smile. None make sense, yet all feel oddly familiar.

I pass a coffee shop, and the aroma hitting my nostrils sends me reeling. I stop abruptly, pressing my hands to my temples as sensations flood through me: the hiss of steam, the grinding of beans, the weight of a pitcher in my hand. My fingers twitch with muscle memory of movements I don’t consciously recall.

A businessman swerves to avoid colliding with me, muttering about “tourists” as he passes. I force myself to continue walking, though each block brings more disorienting flashes. A bookstore triggers the memory of pages turning. A park bench brings the sensation of sitting in sunshine. Each fragment appears and dissolves, leaving me more confused than enlightened.

I turn a corner, and suddenly, between two buildings, I catch my first glimpse of a distinctive tower—modern glass and steel with a unique architectural feature at the top that indeed resembles wings.

Craven Towers.

My body reacts before my mind can process the sight. My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape from my ribcage. My skin prickles with goosebumps despite the mild temperature. My legs stop moving, frozen in place as something like recognition washes over me.

I know this building. I’ve been here before. The certainty settles into my bones even as the specific memories remain frustratingly out of reach.

When I can move again, my pace quickens, the pull now so strong it’s almost painful to resist. I navigate streets without consulting signs, my body remembering what my mind cannot. Left here. Right at the next corner. Straight past the bank with the revolving doors.

The tower grows larger as I approach, dominating the skyline. Now I can see evidence of recent damage—the upper floors show signs of construction, with scaffolding and protective coverings visible. Barricades surround the building’s perimeter, creating a controlled access point where security guards check identification.

People flow around the plaza, some stopping to take pictures of the damaged building, others hurrying past with the purposeful stride of those with destinations. I stand at the edge of the open space, suddenly uncertain. The pull urges me forward, but rationality suggests I can’t simply walk into a corporate headquarters in hospital scrubs with no identification or purpose.

Yet something inside insists that I belong here. That answers await within those walls.

I take a step forward, then another, crossing the plaza with my gaze fixed on the building’s entrance. The world around me seems to fade, sounds becoming muffled, peripheral vision narrowing until only the tower remains in focus. My heartbeat echoes in my ears, drowning out the city noise.

I’m halfway across the plaza when a hand grips my arm from behind, fingers digging into my flesh with unpleasant pressure. I freeze, my body recognizing the touch before my mind can process it.

“Well, well,” a voice says close to my ear, soft enough that only I can hear. “Look who’s back from the dead. I knew you’d turn up sooner or later, Ju-Ju.”

My vision swims as fragments of memory cascade through my mind—a funeral with white lilies, a man’s controlling arm around my shoulders, whispered threats disguised as concern.

I turn slowly, my body remembering fear that my mind can’t place, to face the owner of that voice.

Chapter 27

Dorian

Blood drips from the Circle loyalist’s split lip, splattering onto the steel table between us. The sound of each drop hitting metal echoes in the sparse room; one of those left untouched by the violence of the past attack.

I circle the chair where our captive sits, bound with chains made of dragon-forged steel. The metal glows faintly orange where it touches his skin, preventing any shift. Daniel brought him in an hour ago, lured by false promises to discuss Circle collusion.

“Let’s try this again,” I say, keeping my voice deceptively soft. “Where is Malakai hiding the Shard?”

The loyalist—Vance, according to Daniel—spits blood onto the floor and smirks. His left eye is swollen shut, but the right one gleams with defiance.

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