Page 1 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
Prologue
Afull moon casts ghost-pale light through the towering evergreens of the Bitterroot Mountains. Shadows move unnaturally in the underbrush—too quick, too silent. The only sound is ragged breathing.
Three mangled bodies lie sprawled across a clearing, limbs contorted, flesh torn by something neither man nor beast. Blood steams in the cold night air, soaking into the moss and pine needles. Cracked twigs and clawmarks gouge the nearby trees.
A figure watches from the tree line. Hooded. Silent. Unmoving. Their gloved hand clutches a gas canister. A matchbox slips from a coat pocket. They step into the clearing and kneel, murmuring something—an incantation? A prayer?—before drenching the corpses with gasoline.
The match flares, reflected in the golden eyes of the figure. It’s dropped. Flames erupt, hungry and sudden, licking up into the trees like summoned spirits unleashed. The fire spreads fast, too fast—jumping to dry brush and kindling, ravenous for oxygen.
A newscaster’s voice crackles to life as we close in on the scorched ground. “For three days the blaze took over our precious Bitterroot National Forest, leaving little evidence of how it started or who was behind the devastation. This makes the sixth fire in as many months to haunt the region. Which leads us to ask: how did we get here and how do we stop it from happening again?
Chapter one
Baptism by Fire
SERA
The first thing I hear is the newscaster’s voice as I step through the heavy double doors of Firehouse 333 and straight into a trap.
The air reeks of sweat and engine grease, with cedar-scented cleaner failing to mask the lingering smoke. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. My boots thud against the concrete as I try to blend in, even though I know I stand out. Fresh meat. Too polished. Too late.
A voice like a bullhorn cuts through the room.
"Are you Serafina Knowles?"
My stomach lurches. Way to keep under the radar, Sera! Already they know who I am. I school my face into a neutralsmile and turn toward the fireman addressing me. He's tall, all wiry limbs and cocky grin, with a black eye just barely healed and an eyebrow ring that somehow works with the uniform.
"Sera," I correct, stepping forward.
He smirks like he’s won something. "You’re the last one here, so join the line and let’s get started. We have a special test for all our probies before we begin training today."
A few chuckles ripple from the seasoned firefighters gathered in a loose semicircle behind him. Five of us stand in a row—rookies. My instincts buzz. Something's off.
The cocky one—I’ll learn later his name is Marcus Sloane—pulls out a box of matches.
"These," he says, holding them up like a magician presenting his final trick, "are special firehouse matches. Let's see who can light one of these babies!"
Laughter. Nervous shuffling. I plaster on a grin I don’t feel. I could light the match from here, but letting them see that? Not an option.
One by one, the others try. The first rookie, a guy with a buzzcut and nervous hands, strikes twice. Nothing. The next, a tall redhead, shakes her head before even trying. After some additional pressure, she strikes the match twice to no avail. Third strike, still no flame. The third probie vigorously scratches the match alongside the matchbox. Nothing but protests from the gallery. The fourth pretends to blow on his like he saw a spark. Marcus gives him a dramatic slow clap for effort.
Then it's my turn. I don’t know what the game is, but I’d like to blend with the others.
I take the match Marcus hands me. The wood feels strangely warm.
Focus, Sera. Keep it down. Breathe. Cool. Don’t ignite.
I strike it against the box.
Flame.
Instant. Bright. Alive.
Gasps erupt. Someone yells, "We’ve found the arsonist!" Another voice shouts, "Or a witch!"
My blood turns to ice. I assess the situation.
Turns out, those matches were rigged not to ignite—a harmless prank with cold tips and faulty heads. But mine lit anyway. That flare? All me.
