Page 62 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
It’s being fed. Steered.
And we’re in its path.
Tori grips my arm, just for a second. “We can stop it,” she says under her breath, low enough not to be overheard. “But you’ll have to anchor it.”
My heart slams against my ribs. I look around to see who’s watching. “Now?”
She nods, already reaching for the pouch at her hip—an ordinary-looking medical kit, but I know better. From a hidden pocket, she pulls a small vial of ash root and a twisted length of braided copper wire.
“Blend it,” she mutters, crushing the root between her fingers and sprinkling it into my glove. “You carry the spark. I’ll direct the break.”
We kneel together in the scorched soil, the flames closing in, wind howling like it knows what we’re doing. I press my palm to the ground. The copper warms as I feed power into it—just enough to ripple the ley lines beneath the blaze.
Tori chants softly beside me, ancient syllables slipping through her lips like smoke through cracks.
My fingers burn. The fire pulses once—angry. It lunges.
And then it falters.
A sharp gust bursts through the canyon, slamming into the fire’s edge like a divine slap. The flames stutter, collapse inward, suffocating on their own breath.
The slope ahead—once glowing orange—goes still.
We rise together, breath ragged.
No one saw the magic. But we felt it.
The fire's will has been broken. For now.
As I catch my breath, I glance up and see the Captain watching us, scanning the scorched earth like a detective at a crime scene.
I walk over to him as Tori goes out to test for remaining embers.
“Have you ever seen a fire do that?” I ask, feigning naivete.
His head wobbles back and forth as he ponders this. His fingers twitch as if they are feeling for something that will make everything make sense again.
The Captain falls to his knees. I run to him, heart in my throat, thinking he’s hurt—but then I see it.
Something glints in the soot.
He reaches forward with his gloved hand, brushing away charred debris. The thing buried beneath isn’t metal at first glance—just scorched bone, fused into melted denim. Then the light catches a silver ring on a blackened toe.
Not a thing. A person.
I suck in a breath as forensics arrives. They move quickly but reverently, cordoning off the area. One tech kneels beside the Captain and begins photographing the exposed limb while another brushes the surrounding ash with a delicate horsehair tool.
“Left leg,” one of them murmurs. “Partial burn. No boot. Could be a civilian or a missing crew member.”
A third tech lifts something from the debris with tongs—a charred necklace chain threaded through a cracked, obsidian pendant.
“Tag it,” the Captain says hoarsely, still kneeling.
The scent hits me next. Sharp. Artificial.
Gasoline.
It curls through the clearing like a whisper—faint but unmistakable.
