Page 8 of Forged in Fire
The room feels sterile despite its comfortable furnishings. Standard-issue everything—bed, desk, chair—designed for functionality rather than personality. It’s the kind of space that houses a dozen different operatives throughout the year, each leaving no trace of their presence. Taking up Viktor’s offer to stay in the Collective’s living quarters was a practical decision.
I spread my gear across the regulation desk—the ritual of organization that’s kept me sane. Combat knife, lockpicks, rappelling rope, thermal scope. Each piece carries memories: the knife that saved my life in Belgrade, the rope that got me out of a Syndicate facility in Prague. Tools of survival, companions in the endless search that’s defined my existence since Kieran disappeared.
My dragon nature stirs restlessly beneath my skin, responding to the anticipation thrumming through my veins. The flames that mark my heritage want to manifest, to burn away theuncertainty and doubt. I flex my fingers, watching shadows dance between them.
It’s been too long. So much time wasted following rumors across continents, chasing phantoms that turned out to be nothing more than wishful thinking. The businessman in New York who walked like Kieran from behind but had the wrong laugh. The guy with red hair in Amsterdam whose copper eyes belonged to a stranger. The surveillance footage from Moscow that showed a figure with Kieran’s build entering a building, only for me to discover the man was twenty years too old. I’ve stretched every one of my resources to breaking point in my relentless search, my network of contacts growing tired of my badgering.
I’m tired too.
Each disappointment has carved deeper, until I started questioning whether I’d imagined the twin bond that once connected us. Whether the certainty I felt—that he was alive, that he needed me—was just delusion wrapped in desperate hope.
This time is different.
That security footage, the way the figure moved… That was Kieran. Not someone who resembled him, not wishful thinking. Him.
I roll practical clothing into precise cylinders, my hands moving while my mind races. What if we can’t find the place? What if by the time Viktor organizes his expedition, the trail goes cold again? The thought makes my dragon fire flicker hotter, shadows deepening around my hands.
Kieran’s leather jacket hangs in my closet, the only piece of home I’ve carried with me. I pull it out, running my fingers over the worn leather. It still carries the faint scent of fall leaves and his soap. The left shoulder bears a small tear from the night wewere separated, a reminder of chaos and violence and the choice that’s haunted me.
I hold it against my chest, allowing myself this moment of weakness. Then I fold it carefully—if I find him, he’ll want it back.
WhenI find him.
You’re going to find him, Iris.
The knock at my door comes just as I’m considering whether to pack my emergency cash. Three sharp raps, then three more; someone’s impatient. I check the time. Seven in the evening.
“Iris? It’s us.” Elena’s voice carries through the door, vibrating with excitement.
I open it to find Elena and Mara standing there. Elena clutches a laptop bag like it contains the secrets of the universe, while Mara shifts from foot to foot with barely contained energy. Her hair is an unusual blend of black with electric blue highlights that somehow work, and she’s wearing what looks like a vintage band T-shirt under a jacket covered in patches.
“Hey,” I say, stepping back to let them in. “What’s—?”
“I found it.” Elena brushes past me, already moving toward my desk, where she freezes at the sight of my gear laid out in neat rows. “Oh. You’re… organized.”
“Always am.” I gesture toward the couch. “Sit. Tell me what you found.”
Elena sets her laptop down, her movements quick and precise. When she opens it, the screen illuminates her face with an otherworldly glow. For a moment, she looks exactly like what she is—an investigator who’s spent years chasing impossible truths.
“It took me all day,” she says, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. “I had to call in favors from contacts I’ve been saving for years. People who deal in… unconventional information.”
“You mean magical contacts,” Mara translates, perching on the edge of my bed like a bright bird.
“Among others.” Elena’s eyes never leave the screen. “Finding information about the Sleeping King isn’t just about digging through historical records. Most of the real details were deliberately obscured or destroyed. But I know people who specialize in reconstructing lost histories.”
She turns the laptop toward me. The screen shows a complex map overlaid with geological surveys, historical documents, and what appear to be energy readings displayed in shifting colors.
“This is the Carpathian Mountains,” Elena explains, pointing to a section highlighted in red. “Specifically, a network of caves about forty miles northeast of Bra?ov. The local legends call it Lacul Adormit—the Sleeping Lake—because there’s supposedly an underground lake system that connects to deeper chambers.”
My dragon fire responds to the words, recognizing something ancient and significant. The flames under my skin pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat. “How certain are you?”
“Ninety percent.” Elena clicks through several screens, showing me ancient maps, modern satellite imagery, and energy signature readouts. “I cross-referenced historical accounts of Craven clan strongholds with geological surveys and magical resonance patterns. The energy signatures are… unique. Old magic, deep magic. The kind that would be used to create a protective barrier around something precious.”
“Or someone,” I murmur, my throat tight.
“Exactly.” Elena’s excitement is infectious, her researcher’s instincts fully engaged. “But here’s the thing, Iris. This isn’t just about finding your brother anymore. If the king’s burial chamber is really there, if the Syndicate has access to it…”
She trails off, but I can finish the thought. Ancient dragon magic in the wrong hands. Power that could reshape thesupernatural world. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Kieran.
