Page 11 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

Wain turns her head toward me. Her eyes stray steadily, narrowing slightly, like she’s weighing the cost of answering.

Then she looks away, to the training ground.

To the soldiers sparring. To the initiates fumbling with their crossbows, sweating through drills while waiting for orders. For someone to notice them.

She tips her chin in their direction. “Because someone has to stay with them.” Her voice is quiet.

Almost too quiet for the chaos around us.

“Everyone’s so desperate to climb the ranks.

To be Commander or Commandant now that Lorren’s growing too old.

” Her eyes track a younger soldier adjusting his stance.

“They want the title, not the burden of teaching people how not to die.”

She turns back to me, her voice quieter. “When they leave for battle… I want to believe they might come back.”

That lands harder than I expected. Because I know what she means. I look down. Then back up.

“But as Commander,” I murmur, “you’d still ensure they return.”

Wain’s lips curve in a slow smile. “As Commander, I’m handed soldiers who are ready. Soldiers who already know what they’re doing. They inherit the product of a lieutenant’s work.” Wain shifts her stance. “That’s where I want to be. That’s the change I want to make.”

I don’t answer right away. I watch the soldiers move. Sweat on their backs, fire in their hearts. Her words ring in my head again, and something inside me coils.

“I’m not fit to lead an expedition,” I admit. The words are dry in my mouth. A truth I’ve known for a while. But saying it aloud burns.

She arches a brow my way, and disdain clouds her face, but her lips curve wickedly. “You’re making it sound like I didn’t do my job training you.”

A rough laugh escapes me. “Should I drop to the ground and give you twenty?”

She snorts, eyes glittering as she shakes her head. “Twenty? From someone like you?” She folds her arms across her chest. “I’d want to see two hundred. Fourth-year.”

I laugh. From the corner of my eye, Raumen and Ilian come into view. Ilian is here because he’s a Hunter, training in crossbow maintenance. But seeing Raumen here confuses me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask when they approach, both grinning in a way that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.

“Well, since you’re now officially in our unit, we figured it would be fun to officially accept you!” Ilian laughs, but his words just make my eyes furrow and my jaw slightly unhinge.

Raumen notices the confusion and irritation on my face. “We’re heading to Nedersen in a few days. I don’t have a night shift, and my next shift doesn’t start until late at night the next day. So we thought it would be a great time to let out some steam!”

Something bubbles in my stomach. I can’t tell if it’s irritation or something else entirely. “You should be training,” I advise coldly. “Not going out to blow off some steam.”

This… annoys me. Of all the things they’re supposed to do, this should be the last. They need to focus on their training. The dragon can attack any time, anywhere. And the next expedition might take place any day.

Ilian sneers, rolling his eyes. “We have been training, Zel. For four years. There’s nothing more we can do. Those who need more training are the first-years. We’ve done our part.”

Before I can say anything, Raumen steps in. “Look, the offer stands. Take it or not. It would be nice to have you around. Like the old days. And you said it yourself once: as a unit, we need to know each other. We’ll benefit from it in battle.”

“Well, I have Disciplinary,” says Ilian and pats Raumen on his shoulder.

“You still go to those?” I ask, raising a brow. Disciplinary is a one-on-one session with a lieutenant or commandant to help regulate emotions. Oftentimes, it’s for newcomers. It’s a slower process to break one’s mind, but more efficient than being yelled at.

“Not all of us are machines, Zel,” Ilian says, crossing his arms.

I don’t say anything. Instead, I let the silence drag on long enough for them to leave. Ilian yanks a bow from a first-year and shoots a perfect bullseye, single-handed. Then he shoots a glare at me. He raises his brows, shrugging, as if trying to prove a point.

“Four years,” Ilian mouths, giving the bow back to the startled cadet.

A breath escapes me, but irritation stays.

Wain—still beside me—gently laughs. “You should be with them more,” she says. “You’re a better fighter when you are. And a better person.”

I understand what she means. A soldier gains a lot by staying close to their unit—thoughts align, instincts sharpen, and in a real fight, everything flows more smoothly.

But for me, being around people was never easy.

One or two, I can handle. Easier to control.

Anything more, and it starts to feel like I’m drowning.

My eyes drift to Nida again. I watch her laugh and tighten the wraps around her hands with ease as she jumps on the mat again, sloppily getting into a fighting stance.

She brushes a rogue curl clouding her face, only for it to drop forward again.

Then she blows it out of the way. She lifts her hands, and a cuff slips out from under her sleeve—a bracelet woven from dried linen.

And I feel like I’m drowning.