Page 83 of Lost in Fire

The next hour passes in intense preparation. Luke and Mara argue over communications equipment, although their banterreveals a grudging professional respect beneath the surface tension.

Lila finds me checking my weapons for the third time. “She must be extraordinary,” she says quietly.

“She is,” I say it firmly.

“The woman who made you risk everything twice.” Her smile holds understanding and sympathy. “First, going back to the Syndicate, now this.”

“She’s worth it,” I say without hesitation.

Nearby, Nadia and Iris compare notes on Syndicate defenses, their conversation revealing growing mutual respect.

Dorian approaches with specialized equipment. “This should temporarily neutralize the binding chains. One-use device, so make it count.”

I nod grimly as we head down to our waiting vehicles.

As night falls over Seattle, our convoy splits into three unmarked cars—tactical redundancy in case we’re tracked. We wind through the city’s rainy streets, lights reflecting off wet pavement as we navigate around the surveillance dead zones Mara mapped for us. The Syndicate’s urban watchers are everywhere; twice, we detour to avoid suspiciously positioned “utility workers” at major intersections.

The urban sprawl gives way to dense forest as we climb into the Cascade foothills. Dorian takes point in the lead vehicle, following old logging roads that don’t appear on modern maps. The moonlight filtering through ancient cedars casts everything in silver and shadow, perfect cover for our approach. Our comms remain silent except for essential updates—”Checkpoint clear” and “Maintain distance” the only phrases breaking the tense quiet.

Three miles from the facility, we abandon the vehicles under camouflage netting. The rest is on foot—a grueling hike through terrain deliberately left wild to discourage approach. Iris moveslike a ghost through the underbrush, occasionally becoming literal shadow as she scouts ahead. Nadia’s enhanced senses detect the first layers of magical alarm systems—whisper-thin strands of energy suspended between trees like spectral spider webs.

“Syndicate perimeter ward,” she murmurs, pointing to what appears to be nothing but mist. “Designed to trigger if anything larger than a small deer passes through.”

Luke produces specialized equipment that creates a temporary null-space in the magical barrier—enough for us to slip through single-file, holding our breath as the cold energy of the ward brushes against our skin without triggering.

Finally, we reach the ridge overlooking our target. The Syndicate Stronghold dominates the valley below, a modernist fortress of black glass and reinforced concrete that seems to absorb the surrounding darkness rather than reflect it. No obvious guards patrol its perimeter—they don’t need them. The real defenses are the layers of wards, surveillance tech, and magical barriers that make the Pentagon look like a playground. Floodlights sweep the cleared ground surrounding the structure in precise, overlapping patterns, while what appears to be simple decorative stonework actually forms complex binding sigils visible only to those who know to look for them.

“There,” Iris whispers, indicating a maintenance entrance on the northeast side. “That’s our best chance.”

I study the facility through tactical binoculars, memories of my previous imprisonment there rising unbidden. Somewhere in that monolith of malevolent purpose, Vanya waits—either as victim or bait. Possibly both.

“Diversion team in position,” Dorian’s voice crackles through our communications.

“What’s the play?” I ask, tension tightening my grip on the tactical comm.

“Fire and fury,” comes the grim reply. “Northern perimeter, ninety seconds.”

On cue, a massive explosion rocks the facility, the distant thunder of it vibrating through the maintenance tunnel walls. Emergency klaxons wail as red warning lights begin to pulse through the complex.

“Surveillance loop activating in three… two…” Mara’s voice sounds strained through her comms link. “Seven minutes starting now. They’re scrambling to the north side—looks like Dorian and Caleb are putting on quite a show.”

A second explosion, closer this time. Through our tactical feed, I glimpse dragons—massive, scaled forms—circling the northern towers, breathing targeted streams of fire at exterior defenses. The Cravens risking exposure to create our window.

“Move,” I command, and we slip from our hiding place.

We ghost through the maintenance tunnels, Iris flowing between shadow and solid form with unsettling grace. When a patrol of four guards rushes past an intersection, she dissolves into darkness, flowing along the ceiling as naturally as smoke. Her abilities are remarkable—she doesn’t just move stealthily, she becomes part of the darkness itself.

“Two minutes elapsed,” Mara updates. “Guards converging on north quadrant. Security protocols initiating lockdown sequences, but I’m intercepting.”

The detention level feels different. Oppressive. The air itself seems heavy with despair and suppressed magic—a thickness that makes each breath labor, like drawing air through wool. The magical dampening fields prickle against my skin, subtle but persistent.

“Her energy signature is faint but present,” Nadia whispers, following her mystical compass. “This way. East corridor, third security door.”

We pass cells containing empty-eyed prisoners—magic users drained of will and power. Some watch us with vacant stares. Others don’t look up at all.

“Four minutes,” Mara warns. “System’s fighting me. Something’s wrong—they’re not responding to the diversion protocol I expected.”

As we approach the high-security cell block, something cold settles in my gut. The corridors are too empty. The guards too scarce. Strategic instincts honed through centuries of combat scream warnings I can’t ignore.

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