Page 92 of Forged in Fire
She freezes instantly, melting back against the cave wall until she’s little more than a darker patch among the shadows. Good instincts. Better execution. But instead of scanning the passage ahead like I should be, I find myself watching the way darkness bends around her, protecting her.
Dammit! Pay attention, Barlowe.
I edge forward, thermal perception cutting through stone and shadow to reveal three heat signatures clustered around what must be a checkpoint. Syndicate security, positioned exactly where they should be to guard the approach to the Sleeping King’s chamber.
I slip back to where Iris waits, the copper in her eyes catching what little light filters down from above.
“Three guards,” I mouth. “Standard positioning.”
She nods, understanding immediately. We’ve done this dance before—in the monastery under fire, in the safe house when Guild operatives found us. But this feels different. Sharper. Like every choice we make here determines whether we walk out alive or become another cautionary tale about attachment making you stupid.
The first guard goes down clean—precision strike to the carotid, unconscious before he hits the floor. The second takes longer. He turns at the wrong moment, sees me coming, reaches for his weapon. I have him neutralized in three moves, but the extra seconds cost us.
The third guard triggers his comm device before I take him out.
“Shit,” Iris breathes, shadows coiling around her. “How long do we have before his reinforcements arrive?”
“Five minutes. Maybe less.” I’m already moving, checking the guards’ equipment, memorizing the passage layout. “We need to move deeper. Fast.”
We run.
The cave system branches and splits, passages diving deeper into the mountain’s belly. I should be calculating angles, marking potential ambush points, maintaining situational awareness like Guild training hammered into my bones. Instead, every few seconds, I catch myself glancing sideways to make sure she’s keeping pace, make sure she’s not falling behind.
She’s not. If anything, she moves through this underground maze like she was born to it, shadow-walking through the worst of the terrain while I navigate the hard way.
“There.” She points to a narrow opening I would have missed. “Natural chimney. Leads down toward the main chamber complex.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me.”
The words make me pause. Trust. Such a simple concept, but I’ve spent decades believing it was a luxury I couldn’t afford. People who trust get betrayed. Get used. Get dead.
But watching her slip through that opening, confident and competent and absolutely certain I’ll follow, something shifts in my chest. Maybe trust isn’t the worst thing in the world. An asset, not a liability.
The chimney drops us into a wider passage carved from living rock. Ancient work, older than the monasteries above, older than most of the supernatural settlements I’ve seen. Dragon work, from the look of it—walls that curve like they were shaped by massive claws rather than tools.
“This is it,” Iris whispers. “The outer approaches to the dragon king’s chamber.”
The air here thrums with power, making my teeth ache and my dragon heritage prickle under my skin. Whatever the first dragon king became when he left this earthly realm, the resonance of it still echoes through these stones.
More heat signatures ahead. Too many to handle quietly.
I motion for Iris to hold position while I assess, but she’s already moving, shadows flowing around her like armor. She reaches the edge of the passage before I can stop her, peering around the corner at what lies beyond.
“Iris.” My voice comes out too sharp.
She looks back, eyebrows raised at my tone.
“Let me scout first,” I say, hating how the words sound. Overprotective. Controlling. Like I think she can’t handle herself.
Of course she can fucking handle herself.
“I’ve got better concealment,” she points out reasonably. “And I’m faster.”
She’s right. Tactically, it makes perfect sense for her to take point. But every instinct screams against letting her walk into danger while I hang back.
“Riven.” Her voice drops to something softer. “What’s wrong?”
