Page 19 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

“Try it!” she says, one cheek stuffed like a greedy squirrel.

I take the piece and bite. The crust releases a burst of gentle warmth as my teeth dig deeper into the soft, sweet interior.

Flour clings to my lips. I savor the taste, a groan escaping me.

It’s even better than what we get from Raumen during the day.

“This is good, Mr. Pines,” I say.

“Glad you enjoy it,” says the man with a hushed voice.

“It’s the finest in Nedersen,” exclaims Raumen. “I have yet to even begin making it as good as my father.” He grabs him by the shoulders, pulling him into a warm embrace. The old man is a head shorter than Raumen, his back slightly hunched with age.

“You’ll get there.” The old man chuckles, waving his wrinkling hands. “It runs through you!” There’s pride in his voice.

“I’m certain you’ll surpass your father one day, Raumen,” says Nida, her tone warm. A faint blush appears on his face.

“You should come with us to Nedersen.” Raumen’s eyes light up. “Zel will be there!”

“I never said—”

“I’d love to,” Nida says, elbowing me in the gut. “Zel can show me the way! Right?” She looks at me with a smile.

Well, I guess I have to go now.

A bell tolls, and Raumen grabs a helm from the side of the stall. “My shift at the battlement,” he says, hugging his father tightly before waving his goodbyes.

I thank Mr. Pines for the bread, purchasing a few small bagels before parting ways.

We continue to zigzag through the crowd, pointing fingers at different stalls and their merchandise.

Just like old times. An empty spot by the farrier made my stomach drop.

The cobblestone is still tainted black from when a piece of hot metal fell as my father worked on a dagger.

If it were occupied by someone else, I most likely wouldn’t have noticed.

Nida glances at the empty spot, letting out a sorrowful sigh.

“That’s where he used to sell his tools,” I say, approaching the black stain burned into the stony ground. She places her hand on my shoulder in comfort, but I quickly shake off the warmth she attempts to give.

The sun hangs lazily in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground from the Stronghold’s ramparts.

A figure stirs within the shade, drawing our gaze upward—Raumen, on duty.

The light blazes, leaving only the faint outline of his silhouette as he lifts a hand in greeting, peeking through the embrasure.

“Hey!” Nida frantically waves back and jumps up and down as she shields her eyes with her other hand. Laughter rings from above. “Shouldn’t you be looking out for dragons!?” Nida yells.

Raumen’s wave falters, as if he suddenly remembers he’s on shift.

“Oh!” his voice echoes. “Thanks for reminding me!” He disappears behind the rampart’s columns.

I arch an eyebrow, my eyes darting to Nida as she shrugs.

Before we know it, Raumen’s head peeks back again, his armor clanking as he moves around.

“Yeah! There’s like five of them heading this way!” he shouts, grinning.

My heart pounds, but relief washes over me—we’re far enough from the market crowd now. They shouldn’t be able to hear him. Hopefully. I roll my eyes and let out a yell of my own. “Don’t joke about that!”

Raumen’s laugh carries as he shakes his head, slowly returning to his post as a faint whisper escapes him. “No fun.”

I let out another yell. “I heard that!”

Raumen leans around the corner. “Man! How good is your hearing?!”

I laugh, shooing him with my hands.

Nida looks at me with a smile tugging her lips and arches an eyebrow. “You heard that?”

I shrug, still laughing without giving it a second thought.

The day passes quickly as Nida and I walk around the market, full of beautiful trinkets that have no worth within the secluded walls of the Third.

I notice that each stall is more sparsely stocked than usual.

What was once ten pieces of head-sized bread is now three pieces the size of a child’s palm.

The Center has its own food supply, and our trade with the other Strongholds doesn’t seem good. I assume it’s the reason why.

The Center started feeling too warm and comfortable once they heard about one dragon remaining. They stopped rationing food. But with that came a price—neither the villagers nor the Third Stronghold is capable of producing enough food this fast. And we’re the ones that suffer from it.

“It’s nice to see some familiar and new faces,” Nida says. She takes a deep breath through her nose. “And familiar smells.”

“I haven’t seen anyone from Pirlem,” I comment. “Not even your parents.”

Nida gives a soft smile. “It will take a long time until they’ll be able to come. Right now, their focus is to survive until the King decides we’re worthy to rebuild.”

Anger spreads through me. “Pirlem is worth rebuilding.”

“Not in the eyes of the King. Our voices mean nothing to him.” She lets out a soft gasp, approaching a colorful stall which I assume is from Velerum—the richest village on the outskirts, and the closest to the Third.

A town my father traveled to the most, trading his gear as a blacksmith.

They have processing mills for armor and cloth, suited for soldiers.

Jewels and shawls spill across the stall, with trinkets of all kinds and a beautiful white shawl made from linen on display. Nida eyes the trinkets in awe, but her steps soon falter. She gently elbows my side, grabbing my attention.

“Zel,” she whispers, her widened amber eyes meeting mine. “The crate under the merchant’s tilted table.”

She clears her throat, ripping her gaze from me, and smiles at those who pass by.

As if trying to act natural. I draw my brows together, confused.

Slowly, I flick my eyes toward the crate she’s talking about and notice a bright white-blue shimmering fabric clamped between the lid.

Nida senses my unease, since her eyes shift back to me, drawing a quick breath.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asks.

I nod carefully, still staring at the soft fabric. I don’t want to believe what I’m seeing, but the gentle shimmer it’s casting around the crate seems real. As subtle as it is, to me, it’s like a thousand torches lit up in one place.

“What is a Frost Shawl doing here?” Nida leans in closer, pressing against my arm and shoulder to get us both out of sight, behind the carts.

My heart thunders in my chest. What is a Frost Shawl doing here? They’re processed from Silverscales, a dragon that’s known to be long extinct. I glance over Nida’s head, making sure that nobody’s watching us. This has to be a mistake.

“It could be an old one,” I reason. “It’s probably from the Middle.”

Nida presses her lips. “The market is to sell new things, never old.” Her eyes stray to the ground. “I’m curious. I have to check the quality.”

“How are you gonna do that?” I say, grabbing her arm in case she strides away and does something stupid.

“I’ll just go on and check.” She shrugs, smiling.

“What?”

“You distract the merchant. That’ll give me enough time to feel the fabric between my fingers.” She makes me let go and ducks between the wooden boxes behind the stall. I stand there, raising a brow as I observe her.

“Well?” she says, pressing herself against the wooden crates. “What are you waiting for?”

I roll my eyes and approach the stall, scanning the different commodities scattered over the wooden counter. I look up at the linen shawl hanging, the wind playing with it.

“Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat, “Can I take a look at that?” I point at the shawl.

An old merchant faces me, her hair covered in a dusty green shawl that has seen better days. She smiles and carefully detaches the fabric from the wooden pillar. “Thinking of giving it to someone special?” she says in a hoarse voice.

“My mother,” I lie, reaching for the pouch filled with coins attached to my belt.

The merchant gives it to me, the fabric rough against my hands. “It’s a perfect gift for hot spring days such as this,” she adds, spreading a few more shawls with different hues of gray and brown across the table. “Dozens of sizes and colors, and the fabric is quite durable.”

My eyes flick to the corner at the back of the stall. Red hair peeks out, and I’m met with amber eyes. I quickly clear my throat, returning my attention to the merchant. Instinctively, I point at the next item that catches my eye.

“Can you tell me more about this?” I blurt.

The merchant furrows her brows, squinting against the sun. “The apron?” she asks.

I nod. Yeah, sure, the apron. She approaches the wooden pillar where the leather apron hangs lazily.

She unhooks it from a crooked screw and pats the dust off.

I toss another glance over my shoulder, craning my neck to get a better look inside the stall.

Nida rummages inside the box, dragging out a shimmering blue shawl.

Our eyes meet, and a sudden jolt of panic shoots through my chest. I watch her pupils dilate as her long fingers wrap the fabric in her hand. Her eyes tell me everything.

Freshly crafted.

I return to the merchant, only then realizing she’s been telling a story about the manufacturing process of the gray leather apron.

“...he puts a lot of time into working on the details and the quality,” the merchant finishes and hands me the apron.

I quickly scan the stall. Wooden trinkets, handcrafted with precision.

Wooden bowls, metal spoons, miniatures in the shape of the Divines from old stories we rarely talk about these days.

They’re crafted by someone’s experiences.

He , she said. And she sells them. My eyes return to the merchant.

“Your husband’s talented,” I say, feeling the sturdy, thick surface. “His hard work is definitely reflected in this apron.”

She offers a gentle smile, waving her hands in front of her aging face. “If only his cooking were as good as his craft!”

I laugh, glancing behind the crates. Nida is nowhere in sight, the shawl tucked in as if it hasn’t been touched.

I pull out a few more coins from my pouch—enough to cover the costs of the linen shawl and the apron.

The woman bows in thanks, waving goodbye and bringing in other customers.

Nida emerges from a stall further down the street, casually walking toward me.

She shows absolutely no emotion, drawing absolutely zero attention to herself. I admire that.

“And?” I say. Slight irritation builds up when I fail to fold the textiles nicely.

“Freshly made.” She draws out her words as if fighting between telling me or keeping it to herself. “Frost Shawls are made from Silverscales. Rare . Not to mention expensive.”

“Was there anything else?” I ask, scanning each walkway of the market, ensuring no one is noticing us. She nods, grabbing my arm, merging us with the flow of visitors walking by.

“A mark—engraved on the crate, small and subtle. Wouldn’t notice it unless you’re up close.”

“Marked for what?” I ask, my heart beating louder.

“It’s to be shipped to the Center,” she adds, slowing down her pace. “Why would there be a Frost Shawl here?”

I think for a minute. “Black market?”

She clicks her tongue. “Here? But how would they make one?”

“Maybe the scales were preserved.”

She scrunches her nose. “You cannot preserve dragon scales for that long. They disappear if not processed immediately, and nothing can save the scales and make a shawl of this quality. The fabric is smooth and silky. It shimmers in the light, creating sun reflections everywhere.”

I take in her words, watching her brows furrow in concentration as she tries to piece together a puzzle, and for a heartbeat, it feels like she’s forgotten I’m near.

“When was the last Silverscale slain?” she quickly asks.

“Must be around thirty years?”

“Then how—”

“Stop,” I say, annoyance at the edge of my voice. Tugging on another memory that I don’t want to remember. Not even the name. “If it’s a black market, then I have an idea of who might be fooling with this.”

She looks me up and down, startled by my sudden snap. “Who?” she asks carefully.

“Not someone you want to meddle with,” I say, gently pulling her closer. I wouldn’t be surprised if he let his crew around the market, but I would be surprised if he were here .

She scoffs, pulling herself out of my grip. “I think I can handle myself, thank you very much.”

I shake my head. “Not against this type of threat. So drop it.”

She looks at me, confused, then glances back, watching the merchants bustling around the grounds.

She wants to be in the Corps—fine. Tracker—fine. Fight dragons—be my damn guest. But no one should meddle with him .