Page 10 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

I jerk away from a nightmare. My body is slick with sweat, dripping down my eyebrow and cheek and chin.

The sun tickles my face, and I ease the grip of my blanket.

It’s morning. Today, I have to demonstrate how crossbows work for the recruits and teach them maintenance.

General Grogol assigned me to it last year.

A gentle coo sounds from my left. Sarga’s feathers are puffed as she watches me carefully. I must’ve startled her.

The dreams have become less vivid, but they visit me nearly every night. The smell of iron and smoke only intensifies. I still remember the days when all of this happened—the blood, the burning bodies. Even when I try to forget, the nightmares won’t let me.

I sit up, shoving the blanket away with my foot and dragging the back of my hand across my forehead. My body feels hot—hotter than usual.

It’s probably nothing.

Just the sun.

The sharp edge of the bedframe digs into the backs of my thighs as I shift to the side of the bed.

I let my legs hover above the cold floorboards for a moment, trembling before I set them down.

My gaze lingers on the dried bloodstain beside the nightstand, then drops to the drawer.

I almost reach for it—almost. But I don’t.

I leave it shut and move on. Old memories have a way of clawing their way up, but I press them down like I always do. Like I was taught to do.

I slowly rise from the bed, running my hand over my damp hair, feeling the warmth of the rising sun against my skin.

Across the room, there’s a bucket of clean water with a clean cloth hanging by its edge, and a stool that creaks as I sit on it.

I have to shift my weight, putting more pressure on my heels than my buttocks to ensure it doesn’t break.

I might have to ask Ligerion for a new one. Maybe I can craft one.

I dip the cloth, the cold water soothing my warm body. I stay there for a while, watching as the ripples fade and my face is perfectly reflected in the ice-cold water. The reflection feels haunting, like I don’t even recognize myself anymore. An animal drained of life.

My body quickly turns cold. An icy feeling creeps along my spine, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. I wring the cloth of the remaining water as it drips back into the bucket and onto the floorboards, then rub my hair and face with it. I repeat until I feel like I no longer smell of death.

When I dry off and dress, I grab my new crossbow and I stand by the door. I don’t open it immediately. Instead, I just stare at the handle, the wood around it slightly splintered.

I don’t want eyes on me.

But what I want or don’t want does not outweigh my duty as a soldier.

With a sigh, I reach for the handle and fling the door open, shutting whatever feeling I have behind it.

I cock the crossbow with a sharp snap, the sound slicing through the quiet. All eyes turn to me, finally focused.

“This is your primary weapon,” I begin, holding the weapon up for everyone to see. “Built specifically for dragon encounters. Lightweight alloy, reinforced limbs. Precision over brute force.”

I turn the bow slightly, letting the morning light catch the twin grooves etched along its frame. “You’ve got two bolt channels. It gives you one extra shot before you need to reload. That’s either your second chance... or someone else’s last.”

A few of them shift their stance. Nervous energy. I can work with that.

“The bolts are laced with a tranquilizer. Non-lethal to humans, but to dragons, it hits their nervous system fast. Slows them down, clouds their instincts. But only if you hit the right spots.”

I scan the line of fresh Tracker and Hunter initiates. Nida is there. No one meets my gaze aside from her. The rest are focused on the weapon. I let our eyes meet and stay for a breath longer than I should. Then I look away. I realize now that she’s a Tracker, and my gut twists.

“Weak spots,” I continue. “Eyes. Ears. Nostrils. Behind the wing sockets. Back of the knees. If you can’t memorize that, don’t step into the field. And don’t think you’ll get time to aim for all of them. You’ll be lucky to get one. Make sure to choose one and don’t doubt your decisions.”

I reset the crossbow in a clean, fluid motion, barely feeling the trigger against my fingertips.

It’s like these weapons are a part of me.

“Now, the Redsnout is smart. It learned what we focus on, so the weak points are harder to catch.” I steady my grip, take aim at the wooden target to the right, and let the bolt fly, hitting a bullseye.

The crossbow clicks, shifting to the second groove.

I pull the trigger, and the second bolt slices through the air—splitting the nock of the first with a crack.I take out two bolts from my quiver attached to my thigh.

“Reloading looks like this.” I demonstrate, pulling the string and placing two bolts in their grooves, the limbs flexing under pressure.

“Cleaning protocol is in the Hunter’s Manual.

Read it. You won’t have time to ask questions when your weapon jams mid-fight. ”

I set the crossbow aside and turn toward the Trackers. “Now, I’m sure some of you are wondering why you’re even here. That’s because your job is just as important. If not more.” My eyes sweep across them as they nervously shift and look at each other.

“The Hunter can’t do their job without you.

You study the dragon. Their movement, their posture, their patterns.

You track them, push them, manipulate them.

You predict their attacks, and when necessary, you force them into positions that expose their weaknesses.

Distract them just enough so they flare their wings or shift their weight.

Long enough for your Hunter to take the shot. ”

I step back and let the silence stretch. No one dares to speak. By the look in their eyes, it gave them just enough to keep going. The crossbows aren’t outdated training models for initiates anymore. Now they’ll use the real thing.

“Know your roles. Know each other. And don’t waste time out there trying to be a hero.

You’ll just get people killed. Now, take your weapons, get to know them better.

Spar with a partner.” I wave a hand to signal the demonstration is over and watch how cadets scatter to their mats or the shooting range.

I step back to give room for cadets to roam.

Lieutenant Wain approaches me, her dark eyes gleaming.

“Impressive,” she mutters. “You might be a better Lieutenant yet.”

“Being a lieutenant means you need to be good with people,” I comment.

A dry chuckle rumbles in Wain’s throat. “You only have to be good at telling them what they’re doing wrong.”

The corners of my mouth lift before I can stop them.

It reminds me of the days Wain constantly criticized my sloppy punches—and how I always used my illness as an excuse.

But she was one of the few who never saw me as a lost cause.

I could never tell if that was how she truly felt, or if the general had told her to treat me that way.

We stand in silence, watching Hunters line up in the corner to receive their crossbows and practice bolts from the other lieutenants.

Those who already have theirs are practicing, some even hitting near bullseyes.

They’ll need more training, but I’m confident Commandant Lorren can teach them how to wield the weapons properly. I only gave them the basics.

On the other side of the room, mats lie scattered for sparring, and cadets have already begun. For Trackers, split-second decisions are crucial. They must solve problems instantly while keeping a close eye on their opponent.

I catch a glimpse of Nida on the mat, warming up her wrists.

She stands opposite another cadet, probably someone she met during the Assessment Year.

Most likely a tracker like her. I lean back to get a better look at the other cadet.

She’s of similar height and build to Nida.

I wonder what her Division is and if she’s Nida’s Hunter.

“Someone you know?” Wain’s voice snaps me back, and she gives a gentle laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I clear my throat. “An acquaintance.”

The smile on Wain’s face grows wider. “No acquaintance makes a legendary soldier stare and become unfocused.” Her voice rises slightly at the end.

Unfocused.

I’m as focused as I can be. Perfectly focused.

“She was a childhood friend,” I admit, forcing my head to drift to the opposite side of the room.

“I had a lot of friends come and go since I became lieutenant,” Wain says, straightening her back. “One of the mistakes I made was getting myself attached to them.”

I nod. She gets it.

“However,” she continues, “an even bigger mistake is trying to rip them out of my heart when they’ve already planted themselves there.”

I narrow my eyes. “I thought you were a firm believer in avoiding our emotions.”

“Only when necessary.”

Her voice is cold, and I get the hint that she wants to avoid this conversation.

It seems to have stirred something inside her—memories long buried, reopening like a box secured by hundreds of locks.

Instead, I remain silent, my eyes briefly wandering, curious to see how Nida is sparring.

But instead, she’s sitting on the mat, a towel pressing against a split lip, while the other girl sits beside her.

Both laugh and smile, making my stomach twist with irritation.

My gaze returns to Lieutenant Wain. I need to focus on something else.

“Why didn’t you accept the role of Commander?” I ask. Not accusing—just curious. But it comes out sharper than I mean it to.