Page 17 of Forged in Fire
There’s another signature slipping through the compound. Brighter. Hotter. Wrong in ways that make my teeth grind together.
What the fuck?
This is someone I don’t recognize, although something about their energy prickles at my senses.
Female. Has to be from the way she moves—fluid, careful, different pattern than the guards. The heat she radiates cuts through my enhanced vision like liquid gold, demanding attention I don’t want to give.
What is she doing here?
My dragon blood responds before rational thought kicks in. Something deep in my chest twists, sends sharp pulses through my nervous system until sweat beads between my shoulder blades despite the mountain cold. The sensation builds with each breath, like recognition crawling up from genetic memory I didn’t know I possessed.
Bullshit. Just environmental factors.
These mountains are saturated with ancient magic—centuries of supernatural conflicts, old bloodlines, power that seeps into stone and soil. I’m reacting to ambient energy. Nothing more.
Still, the compulsion gnaws at me. Makes my rifle sight shake when it should be steady. Makes my breathing irregular when control is the difference between clean kills and messy complications.
Focus on the job, Barlowe.
Track the target. Complete the contract.
Simple.
I adjust position, use cover that took hours to map during yesterday’s reconnaissance. Every boulder, every tree line, every depression in the terrain that provides concealment without compromising sight lines. Patience and precision—the qualities that keep me breathing when less disciplined operators end up feeding worms.
The compound’s perimeter security relies more on technology than manpower. Motion sensors at predictable intervals, cameras sweeping arcs that leave gaps for anyone patient enough to study the patterns. Electromagnetic barriers designed to detect standard surveillance equipment.
My gear isn’t standard.
Through the scope, I track the heat signatures moving through the main building. The target remains stationary in what appears to be a central building. The woman moves differently—restless energy, tense body language.
What the fuck is she doing here?
The burning in my chest cranks up to molten. I bite the inside of my cheek, taste blood, force my breathing to regulate. Whatever’s affecting me, I can’t let it compromise the mission. Can’t let unexplained reactions get in the way of what I’m here for.
Besides, Ineverhave unexplained reactions.
Professional distance. Planning. That’s how I’ve survived decades in a profession where personal feelings become weapons other people use against you.
Through the scope, I watch as the female form slips silently through the compound. She’s stealthy, I’ll give her that much. Slipping past guards who seem completely oblivious to her presence. One walks close enough to touch, and yet doesn’t pause as he passes her.
Interesting.
Why didn’t he spot her?
I keep my scope trained on her form, using a combination of infrared sights and my own enhanced vision to keep an eye on her. She waits for a guard to pass and then glides toward the central structure. She hesitates there, then she’s moving again.
Picked the locks. Got past the wards.
Even more interesting.
Not human?
Shouldn’t surprise me, considering this is Syndicate turf. I wouldn’t expect the place to be infiltrated by anyone without supernatural powers.
Still… Who the hell is she? I’ve been here for days and haven’t seen her. Yet she’s moving with a purpose that tells me she knows exactly where she’s heading. Like something is drawing her.
Right toward my target.
