Page 12 of Forged in Fire
I steady the camera, capture a dozen frames as the target moves between buildings. He’s joined by two others, who fall in step beside him as he heads back toward the main building.
Bingo.
Mission objective located. Identity confirmed. Approach planned.
The target disappears back into the main building. I return to surveillance. Observation. Planning. The job I was hired to complete.
Stay professional.
Evening brings shift changes and maintenance checks. I take in each guard’s preferred route, note timing between radio calls, identify the communications array connecting this place to the outside world. Standard intelligence gathering. The methodical work that separates professionals from thugs with expensive toys.
But underneath the familiar routine, something builds. Anticipation threaded with unease I can’t name. Each energy pulse pulls at something inside my chest. Like hunger for something I’ve never tasted.
Like thirst for something I’ve never drunk.
Maybe I’m coming down with something, dammit.
Whatever it is can wait.
By full dark, I have what I need. Security assessment complete. Infiltration route mapped. Target location confirmed. Time to proceed to the next phase.
I pack the surveillance equipment with my customary care, each piece finding its designated place. The trip back is in darkness, but I know my way down here now.
The Ducati starts on the first try, engine purring with German reliability. The air is still cold, but I’m barely aware of it now as my mind runs through the details, cruising back along the now-familiar road. The safe house is twelve miles back down the mountain—an anonymous cabin paid for with Guild currency, stocked with everything necessary for mission completion.
As I ride away from the clearing, the sensation follows me. Not external threat—I would have detected that hours ago. Something internal. The heat refuses to fade, and those energy pulses echo in my memory like phantom drumbeats.
At the safe house, I run final equipment checks under harsh LED lighting. The ceramic knife’s edge gleams without flaw. The rifle sights are perfectly aligned. The Sig’s action locks with satisfying precision.
Everything ready.
I pour whiskey from the bottle of Scottish single malt that I bought for my pre-operation ritual. One drink before a hit. I’ve done it for as long as I can remember. The alcohol should quiet whatever’s stirring in my mind.
It makes the heat worse.
Not painful. Just… present. Like something waking after a long sleep.
Maybe it’s the pull of the king’s resting place. Maybe it’s because I’m meddling with something that should be left alone.
Bullshit.
I push away superstitious nonsense, finish the drink, and set the glass aside. Tomorrow requires absolute focus. The target will be eliminated cleanly, professionally, according to Guild standards. Another assignment completed. Another step toward whatever passes for retirement in my profession.
The bed is narrow but adequate. Clean sheets. Decent mattress. I’ve slept in worse places.
But as I lie in darkness, those energy pulses follow me down from the mountain. Distant but persistent, like drums felt through the earth itself. My dragon heritage responds to each one, heat building in my bones until sleep becomes a joke.
I tell myself it’s proximity to ancient magic. Nothing more.
That has to be it.
Part of me—the part that’s spent decades learning to read supernatural currents—knows better.
But it doesn’t matter. I’ve planned for every contingency. Mapped every escape route. Identified every threat. This mission is too important for variables I can’t control. Too important for anything to go wrong.
My equipment is perfect. My intelligence is complete. My approach is flawless.
Whatever’s buried under that compound, whatever’s calling to the dragon blood in my veins—none of it matters. I’m prepared for everything.
