Page 18 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T he sun is gleaming high. Folks from villages around the Third gather behind the safety of the Stronghold walls and hold Market Day in the largest yard.

It’s a day when villagers from the Front and the Middle gather to trade or sell whatever they can offer—fresh produce, trinkets, materials.

It used to be annual, but after the dragon attack in Pirlem eight years ago, people were too scared to come in.

It was canceled, and the villagers focused on rebuilding Pirlem.

At least that is what I believed. But now I can only assume they lived in rot and ruin. I clench my teeth at the thought.

But now the Market is finally reinstated. News of one dragon remaining is the reason why. And aside from mourning during the Memorials, the Market is the only other time we’re allowed to be human, with the weight of a soldier’s duties lurking over our shoulders.

The yard is filled with small, rickety wooden stalls, their sun-faded cloth awnings barely holding on against the gentle wind.

Merchants lay their goods like fruits, vegetables, and handy craftwork across the tables, pitching their best products to potential customers.

Some stalls are from villages that are closer to the Center, with extravagant accessories created for only the rich.

The closer you are to the Center, the richer and safer you are—you can never grasp what it’s like in the front of the war.

They spend their time meddling with gold and silver that is being dug up in the mines by villagers from the Front.

People who do not care about the riches buried under them but instead focus on the means of humanity’s survival.

Even if it means being bait—a sacrifice the Center couldn’t care less about.

The smells of sharp spices and freshly baked bread fill my nose. I haven’t experienced this in nearly a decade—something I didn’t think I’d miss until I stood in the middle of the yard, nostalgia tugging at the memories tucked deep within my mind.

My father and I used to come here to sell different types of gear for soldiers, as well as materials other villagers needed—metal hinges, nails, sickles and plowshares, hammers, and other artisan tools. He even fixed gates in the Third.

The place is crowded, people jostling shoulder to shoulder.

Children run around, laughter echoing as they step on my toes in their rush to continue a game of tag.

Shopkeepers hold up unique trinkets, promising great quality at cheap prices.

My eyes sweep back and forth between the crammed stalls, my guard still up for any pickpockets eager to inflict damage on the less fortunate.

I pass the bustling stalls from Garta, a town known for its cattle and quality food. The sizzling meat fills the air with a mouthwatering aroma.The onion- and garlic-laced smoke makes my eyes water as I stroll.

A child with deep green eyes tugs on my arm, gently dragging me toward a stall with cooked mutton.

I hunch as she shows me samples. A smile tugs at my lips as she grabs one for me, glazed with butter and crushed garlic, and asks me to try it.

I take a bite—the mixture of sweet and salt rolling over my palate.

“It’s good,” I say around a mouthful, savouring the taste. “The best I’ve had in a very long time.”

The little girl squeals and jumps, clapping her hands with a large smile on her sunburned face. I reach for my pouch. Without attempting to haggle the price, I place five copper coins in the shopkeeper’s hands.

“I’ll take two,” I say.

“You won’t regret it!” says the shopkeep, his dark, thin hands quickly grabbing a piece of parchment to wrap the venison in. “It’s the finest from Garta!”

“So I’ve heard,” I respond, offering a smile. Ilian used to talk about it all the time. Mutton and beef are standard in Garta.

“Two copper coins.” Quickly, he rummages in his pouch.

“No change,” I say, and his eyes widen. Then he bows his head low. He wraps the meat in salt-soaked vellum, tying it carefully with thin twine before giving it to me.

For a heartbeat, it feels good to be here—seeing the townsfolk still alive and well, somewhat thriving. But enjoying their presence isn’t a luxury I can afford for long. At least not yet. Not until we’re free from the dragons.

A few steps from the stall, a man cloaked in midnight black stands with his palms up, his face covered in a hood. I scrunch my nose in annoyance once I make out the words he preaches.

“Praise The Mother! In the shadows, she sleeps while the darkness consumes those who have not followed her path. Sacrifice! And she shall shield you against chaos! Turn away, and you will feel her wrath! Banished to the void. In darkness she dwells, whispering for you to join her. One day she shall rise, her power awakening like the black dawn! Praise The Mother! Praise The Mountain! The reckoning is near!”

Acolyte .

It annoys me knowing they let these religious scum into the Market. They often mingle in the Center, but every now and then, they crawl their way to the Front, only to spread the word about something as make-believe as Divines and The Mother—the deity they’re obsessed with.

In the crowd, I notice Nida standing by one of the stalls, exploring the jewels crafted by Middlers.

She turns and meets my gaze and my chest twists as I realize I’ll be limping my way through the Market.

She gives a soft wave, and I glance to the side.

She’s waving to me . I let out a sigh, straightening up in an attempt to conceal my next few steps. I hope I won’t be limping too much.

“I thought Faith is frowned upon,” Nida says when I’m close enough. We both turn toward the cloaked man chanting his sermon to ears that do not listen.

“It is.”

Raumen stands next to his father by a small stall that’s barely holding together. His father waves his hands, breaking the freshly baked bread to lure the townsfolk into purchasing. I’ll give them a couple of hours before that bread is completely sold out. It’s the best you’ll get in Karalia.

“I’m surprised to see you at the Market,” Nida’s voice rings, soft red curls cascading over her face. “When I saw you here, I thought I was seeing things.”

I shift my legs to the side as we walk, rolling my eyes. “As if anything could stop me,” I say, attempting to hide my smile. Of course I’ll be at the market. No matter how much it hurts.

She turns to face the crowd, people rushing from one stall to the other, baked goods in hand.

“Wow,” she whispers. “I don’t remember seeing so many people here before.”

“After eight years, I assume everyone has something to sell.” I look around, slightly disoriented. Every move I make feels like I’m walking on uneven ground. “It’s safer now—with Defenders manning the battlements and ballistas, and Scouts still patrolling the outskirts.”

She smiles. “I remember when we used to go to the Market. You with your father’s steel, me with my mother’s herbs and plants.

” She nudges me, causing a deeply buried memory to resurface.

A painful memory. But there’s laughter in her voice.

I exhale slowly. “I remember that,” I say, glancing at her curls.

“You used to weave through the carts like you were racing time. And dragged me into it.”

“We got into so much trouble then.” She laughs.“At least the red hair made it impossible to lose you.”

“I had to wear a large hat to cover it up whenever we’d play hide and seek!”

“It made you look silly.” I pause. Try to. But the memories don’t stop. Even though there were market days without her—without my father—the ones that stayed with me are the ones where we ran between crates and stalls, laughing, chasing shadows, and causing more trouble than we could ever explain.

“That’s rich coming from you—you tried to bribe a merchant with a button!”

“And a beetle.” I chuckle.

“Oh, right, the beetle.” She giggles, slamming her hand into my back.

A scoff escapes me, and I shake my head. Her laughter only grows louder. Why does it… feel this way? Why does it feel like I can let go of things so easily? Like we’ve never been apart? Like words just come out of me without having to think.

I let out a breath that might almost be a laugh. “He accepted the beetle.”

She grins. “Out of pity.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the laughter to settle into something quieter. Long enough for the silence to be tainted with shouting merchants and the clang of metal striking metal. Someone’s selling knives. Someone’s arguing over the price of bread.

I blink, and the memory is gone. I’m back here. Back to reality. And the subtle twitch in my fingers ensures that I stay in reality. She doesn’t say anything. Maybe she feels it too—that sharp edge beneath the noise, beneath the laughter. The idea of never being able to go back.

“Come on,” I say quietly, nodding toward the path forward. Before I remember more than I should.

A faint yell of my name comes from across the yard. Raumen waves at us. Nida dashes toward him, with me trying to keep up with her pace.

“This smells absolutely divine ,” she says, sticking her nose close to the bread Raumen is holding in a red and white checked cloth.

A small crowd gathers near the stall. The smell envelops the entire yard.

Townsfolk yell out praises, and I can’t help but smile again.

For a second, I don’t feel like I need to strain myself about my duties.

But only for a second. The metal clanging from the Defenders on the battlement snaps me out of this trance.

I can’t.

I can’t let my guard down. I can’t let my deeply tucked-in desires resurface. Not even for a second. Not again.

Nida and Raumen continue to converse about the bread’s origin, how it’s made, and the process of the yeast. How he sometimes sneaks in bread for us during midday meals. His father offers a small taste. Nida shoves a piece close to my nose, the aroma filling my senses.