Page 14 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

She wraps the leather harness around her and adjusts it to fit her body, tightening it around her waist. “Is this fine?” she asks, forcing my gaze to wander over her.

One of the holsters isn’t properly reinforced. I lean in, inches away from her, and firmly pull on the straps, tightening them. She releases a soft whimper.

“You need to keep this tight or it’ll fall off if you run. If that happens, you’d trip—and die.”

“Has that ever happened?” she asks, turning to face me.

“Not in this century, but if they teach us that, it means it has. Learn from mistakes, kind of thing.” I shrug as I wave my hands in the air.

I pack a couple of glass vials into her satchel.

Redsnouts may be dangerous with their fire, but they’re extremely sensitive to water.

The moment water hits their tongues, Redsnouts lose their spark—no fire, no threat.

Those vials have saved me more times than I can count.

I scan her head to toe. Boots, leather pants with small holsters and pockets, and a leather jacket made from Redsnout scales—resistant to fire. At least for a few seconds—enough to help soldiers get out alive in case it ignites. What else does she need?

I draw my fingers across the dusty shelves.

Since she’s my Tracker, I need to make sure she has everything that can benefit both of us.

Irritated, I bite my lip at the thought— my Tracker.

Somebody else’s life is my responsibility now.

One mistake by her can get both of us killed, and one misinterpretation by me can get the entire unit killed.

I have to rely on someone else—something I was never good at. Doubt I ever will be.

Rows of daggers line the shelves, each with distinct curves and edges tailored for different needs and preferences. Nida picks up one of the lighter blades, turning it over in her hand, her thumb brushing the engraved metal handle.

“Careful,” I say. “That’s the sharpest dagger.”

She meets my gaze, and a subtle smile appears on her face. “So these are the famous daggers you use to slay dragons.” Her smile fades, and concern flashes in her eyes. “ Up close .”

I nod—my face remains cold. That was one time. “There are times I run out of bolts. Having an accessible dagger laced with tranquilizer can make a difference.”

“I heard stories,” she says, slowly coming up and turning to me. “During Assessment Year, you jumped on top of a dragon and pierced its spine with a dagger. Is that true?” She waits patiently.

I want to resist at first, but as part of a unit, I know sharing our pasts can help us work better together in the field. “Yes.”

Fear lingers in her eyes, but not of the battle, not of the dragons.

It’s me. The same look everyone’s given me since the Gates.

Not just a soldier anymore—in their eyes, a monster.

I turn away, though her eyes pierce deeper than they should.

I focus on restocking bolts and arrows. But her presence stirs something in me.

Tugs on a thread buried deep in my chest. Like it’s trying to make me human again.

“How does one distract a Redsnout?” she asks. Perhaps she noticed how annoyed I was and decided to change the subject.

“Shout and scream at it,” I say. “Throw rocks. Just remember to freeze the moment it looks at you. And keep your distance. This male Redsnout is more agitated than most.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cadets’ footsteps and the soft scrape of metal against leather belts echo off the armory walls. Now and then, a sharp yelp breaks the air—a recruit nicked by an eager blade. Nida paces slowly, fingers trailing over the rows of weapons, pausing at last before the shelf lined with Tracker compasses.

“How?” She breaks the silence. “How can you be so fearless ?” She doesn’t look at me, but continues to follow the sharp edges of the dagger.

How?

There are about a million ways to answer that question. But only one of them would be the truth.

“It’s what we’re taught,” I respond coldly, hoping she doesn’t ask for details. She clicks her tongue, as if trying to find the right words, but I don’t let her. After a while, curiosity begins to bubble, and I can’t stop wondering why she’s even here.

“What made you join?” I finally ask.

Her eyes snap to me, but soften almost immediately. “My brother was here once,” she says, brushing the dust from the shelves. “Joseph. He died.”

“I’m sorry,” I say without thinking. I completely forgot Joseph joined. He wasn’t in my unit, or any unit I knew well. She pauses midstep, as if considering whether to speak again, but simply smiles and moves on, plucking daggers from the shelves as she goes.

“Training grounds,” I say, jutting my chin toward the opening.

As we move to the large room, I notice commandants of Trackers and Hunters deep in conversation.

They point at some cadets lining up to practice shooting crossbows.

By now, most Trackers and Hunters have already been paired, leaving only a few cadets on standby.

That usually happens when one Division outweighs the other.

In those cases, cadets can be reassigned or placed in different units without a Tracker or Hunter.

In the meantime, they contribute in other ways—like standing guard outside restricted zones—until they’re placed.

But there’s no guarantee they’ll get a partner.

That happened to me on several occasions—this time, though, I know I’m stuck with unit seventeen. And I’m stuck with Nida.

Bodies continue to slam into mats, lieutenants barking orders.

The air reeks of sweat and adrenaline. I sit on the bench with Ilian as I scan the room.

My gaze stops at Rylan moving through the field of sparring first-year cadets like a shadow—boots heavy on concrete, arms crossed, and a bored scowl on his face. Waiting to be impressed.

“I wonder which cadet is gonna have a bad day this time,” Ilian comments, also focusing on Lieutenant Rylan.

Rylan’s eyes flick from cadet to cadet, raking them from head to toe. He briefly stops near a mat with two men sparring, one of them landing a punch that drops his opponent—coaxing a brow lift from Rylan. I have a bad feeling about this. Whenever he scans the cadets, things always end up badly.

From the far left side of the corner, Eryca approaches Ilian, her gaze on Rylan. She’s fuming.

“That bastard forced my sparring partner to get off the mat,” she hisses, fists clenched at the sides.

Ilian raises a brow. “For what?”

Eryca’s attention snaps to her brother, then flicks to me and back again. “Because she took one step too much. Telegraphing her punch. Apparently, that’s not acceptable for a first-year.”

Muscles tighten in my face, the anger coiling low before rushing to my throat. But I can’t let it take over.

“People are scared,” I say, my voice low, barely opening my mouth. “It’s only fair that cadets will make a mistake when their lives are going to be on the line in a couple of days.”

Eryca’s lethal gaze burns into the side of my head. “I thought you were a firm believer that you should shut off your emotions. You know, soldier first?” She mocks, voice sharp as a dagger.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “Not when it comes to new recruits. The idea of being a soldier hasn’t been firmly drilled into their heads. Not yet, at least. They need to break first.” I look back at Rylan. “Just not like this.”

I follow Rylan’s slow, deliberate movements. The closer he gets to the new cadets, the more nervous they get, his gaze nearly pinning them down. Occasionally, he stops, commenting on their stance. Then his head snaps to the far side of the room.

A pair of cadets circle each other like nervous dogs. They’ve been doing that for some time now. They’re new, but still trying. One of them flinches before contact is made—stepping back toward the edge of the mat. His footing slips, making him fall with a thud. That’s not good.

Rylan tilts his head and stops walking, uncrossing his arms. Not good.

“Are you kidding me?” His voice cuts through the noise, and every grunt—every kick—halts in an instant.

Two, three, four steps is all it takes for Rylan to be standing near the young cadet—who’s still rolling on the floor, getting himself up.

I stalk closer, ready to jump in. Just in case Rylan tries something, like he did the first year I got here.

He crippled a cadet. And I’m not going to let that happen again.

He towers over the new guy, eyebrows raised in fake surprise.

When he looks away, he lets out a little chuckle, motioning with his fingers for the cadet to stand up.

The recruit hesitates, brushing a few strands of his ash brown hair from his face, and then gets up, facing Rylan up close. The kid’s no older than eighteen.

“Do you know where you are?” Rylan asks, voice monotone.

“Yes,” responds the cadet, barely meeting Rylan’s penetrating look.

A low laugh escapes Rylan as he raises his hand toward his right ear. “Huh? I didn’t hear you.”

The cadet clears his throat. “Yes, sir.”

Rylan drags his tongue against his teeth, a sharp sound cutting through the air. A low, irritated laugh rumbles from his chest. “What is your name, cadet?”

“Leyon.”

“Leyon?” Rylan says with mock surprise—letting out another snort. “Not much of a lion now, are we?” Rylan rubs his nose, eyes on the cadet.

I breathe in, my muscles tensing. The script’s repeating itself.

“Listen, Leyon , being a soldier in the Corps means you are not supposed to flinch. You get that?” He raises his arms to the side.

“We all have to learn that. Many of your fellow yearlings have already learned that. Especially since they know that if they don’t—they’re going to die.

Scorched by a dragon, am I right?” He turns to the growing crowd.

Leyon flicks his brown eyes between the ground and his feet, shuffling with nervousness. I feel bad for him. I’d hate this many eyes on me, too.