Page 1 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

I ’ve never had trouble cleaning the blood from my crossbow until now.

The damp rag only smears crimson across the polished wooden handle.

Each drop slides over my fingers, falling and staining the floorboards.

I grunt as I toss the sodden rag back into the pail of murky water, irritation boiling at my failed attempt to remove the stain.

It’s nothing but a worthless relic anyway—broken, with old screws that not even my father’s teachings could save.

Yet I still hesitate. Letting go should be easy, but four years in the Corps etched its weight into my palms, carving a comfort I can’t afford.

Nothing lasts this long. Not in this world.

I lean back, running my fingers through my hair, the pale strands almost blending with my skin.

A glimpse of my reflection in the window reveals a ghostly figure, hair like bleached parchment and skin pale from months without sunlight.

A man caught somewhere between life and death—death that creeps closer the longer I breathe.

My fingers trace along the tiller, feeling the deep crevice from a recent impact.

With a sigh, I uncock the string. The faint click echoes in the half-empty room—a room I try not to get too comfortable in.

I won’t be here long. But having a room all to myself beats the reeking smell of sweat and fresh dragon’s blood in the first-year barracks.

I gently kick the pail aside with the heel of my boot, tightening my grip around the crossbow.

The crack feels as though it splinters further from the pressure.

A deep sigh escapes me as I rise from the chair and attach the bow to a nail sticking out of the nearest wall. A wall it will remain on forever.

“That was your last battle,” I murmur, releasing the handle with a sudden, gentle twitch.

This was my first bow, which I got when I joined the Corps.

I’m surprised it lasted this long. But then again, I haven’t been out on missions for three weeks.

I’m rendered useless without a bow, and daggers don’t do well against dragons. Especially a Redsnout.

The sun climbs higher, its light peeking through the wide window.

My shadow shrinks by the minute—a reminder that the Memorial of the Fallen is about to begin.

Guilt claws at my throat. Maybe they won’t notice that I’m not there.

But if they do, I won’t have a valid excuse for my absence.

Either way, I have to go. I just don’t want eyes on me.

I step toward the door, zipping my leather jacket up to its half collar—just high enough to hide the black veins creeping and twisting up the left side of my neck, fading into my skin like smoke.

It’s always something that catches the attention of new cadets.

I draw a sharp breath and straighten my back as I recall my training.

Shut it off.

A soldier is a tool, not a sentimental being.

Flinging the door open, I’m met with the stone-cold wall and the faint smell of burning resin coming from torches flickering down a narrow hallway.

It’s quiet. No doubt everyone has already gathered in the Great Hall, ready to spend a brief moment honoring those who have fallen in the recent expedition.

Soon they will abandon their emotions—the only thing linking them to their sentience—and return to their posts as stoic soldiers.

Thoughts race through my mind, harder to contain with each stride as I pass down the long, empty halls.

Torches cast my shadow across the brick-lined path.

Before I know it, I’m standing amid the growing crowd in the Great Hall.

Hundreds of soldiers are crammed in a large room, and the smell of sweat and worn leather clings to the air, hitting me the moment I walk through the arch.

Avoid eye contact, Zel, I think to myself. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

A large banner hangs on the wall, with names and numbers of the fallen units carved in the decaying wood.

The sinking feeling in my gut tells me that’s not all of them.

The numbers will only grow. I quickly scan the banner, focusing on the amount rather than the who’s .

The names carved in remind me of every Memorial we’ve had.

It’s always the same. These are names of what the superiors assume are the fallen ones, but not truly confirmed.

Normal dragonfire chars bodies beyond recognition.

A Redsnout’s fire doesn’t even leave dust. There may be survivors who haven’t returned yet, but if the Redsnout finds them, we’ll never know what they learned on the expedition.

I’m distracted by the cries and yells of soldiers echoing from the walls.

It’s the only time we’re allowed to mourn, to let ourselves be human, no matter how brief.

But whenever I try to feel whatever a human should, I find myself suppressing it even more.

I shouldn’t feel grief or pain or sorrow.

I won’t make the mistake of letting myself feel again. It’s what gets you killed.

I scan the banner again.

One hundred and four dead.

Shit.

That’s more than half of the entire expedition army. I haven’t seen numbers this grim in years, and I didn’t expect to see them now—not when there’s only one dragon left.

Guilt tightens in my throat, as if my years of training are useless, unable to keep control of my emotions.

I can’t afford to be seen like this with the ever-increasing crowd pushing and shoving around me.

So I clear my throat—hoping that will make it go away—and recall General Grogol’s training, voice echoing in my head.

If you let yourself feel—you doubt. If you doubt—you’re dead.

Perhaps I should’ve been there. Perhaps I should’ve led this expedition.

Maybe the loss wouldn’t have been so great.

Yet somehow my absence frees me from carrying this weight on my shoulders.

I’d rather not stain my hands with more blood than they already have.

I step closer to the banner, the carvings in the gray wood becoming clearer.

Unit 18.

Unit 64.

Unit 40.

All of them—gone. Whatever they have learned about the western terrain died with them, assuming they learned anything at all.

So many dead. Now, more soldiers will have to work extra duties just to keep the system going.

Less time for training. While the dragon continues to evolve, we’ll always be one step behind. If not two.

Unit 12.

Unit 23.

Unit 19.

Fuck.

My unit.

For only a moment, I let myself feel —a harsh reminder that I’m still capable of it. But I need to remind myself that I’m a soldier first. I take a deep breath and turn around, looking for the closest exit from this wretched place.

I hate crowds.

My eyes stray to General Tamis Grogol, a few steps from the archway, watching me, with a lieutenant nearby.

I glance at the exit again, then back to the general.

He slightly lowers his head, signaling me to come to him.

My feet shuffle, catching the ground beneath me as I move closer.

He waves the lieutenant away, who wears a disapproving grimace, then merges with the crowd.

I place myself next to him and observe the crowd.

“In all my years as general, I have not gotten used to this,” he says, his voice stern but his gaze never leaving the assembled people.

I release a soft grunt in approval and get comfortable around his presence, our shoulders aligning as I stretch my back into a proper stance. I scan the increasing crowd, catching glimpses of faces I desperately don’t want to see again. Faces I want to avoid.

“Division Day’s tomorrow,” the general says. “This year, we have forty-two new cadets ready to be placed.”

I cast a quick, sideways look at him. “That’s double the amount from last year.”

He gives a slow, approving nod. “We need all the manpower we can get. This dragon is far more vicious than anything we have ever faced.”

His words hit me hard. I may not have been on the battlefield for three weeks, but it sure feels like I never left it.

He turns slightly toward me. “I’m hoping to see you by my side,” he says. “As Commander.”

“Commander?” I jerk my head toward him, surprise flashing through me before I rein it in. “With all due respect, General, I don’t believe I’m fit to lead. Not with my condition worsening. In fact, I was hoping to avoid this year’s ceremony. I find it rather difficult to hide my symptoms.”

I know he will disapprove, but I’d rather not have people stare at me and make assumptions about whether I’m a Demon or a Divine.

There’s a moment of silence between us. Hundreds of soldiers pass by, some of them reeking with the pungent smell of liquor , making me scrunch my nose. He lets out a sigh as he adjusts his posture.

“I’ve lost commanders in this expedition,” he says, voice curt. “I need someone I can rely on. Someone I can trust. This isn’t over. And I need you by my side, Kazele .”

Kazele. The nickname has followed me since the day I showed up on his doorstep eight years ago—soaked to the bone, starving, desperate.

Fourteen, all elbows, sharp angles, and no muscle, demanding he let me join the Corps.

He said Kazelius was too harsh of a name for a kid who looked like he’d snap in the wind. Kazele has stuck ever since.

“There are others more suited for the title of commander,” I say, forcing my spine straight. “Lieutenant Wain is one of them.”

He nods once, unreadable. “I offered it to her.”

I pause.

“But she declined,” he continues, tone like stone. “Said she belongs where she is.”

My brow creases. Wain is precise. Efficient. A natural leader with the kind of discipline that shapes raw recruits into soldiers. If anyone should’ve stepped up, it’s her. And yet… she didn’t. I wonder why.

“I’m assigning you to a unit again, too,” he says, eyes sharp.

“What? No!” I blurt out. I clamp my jaw shut, biting down on the rest.