Page 20 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T he night grows heavy, and thoughts plague my mind louder than any night before. Like a moth circling a flame, eager to come close yet terrified to get burned.

There’s no point in trying to sleep. Fresh air doesn’t help. Pacing my room makes it worse. Breathing techniques can go out the window. It’s trying to pull me out of my room.

Curiosity .

A frost shawl—here, in the Third. Only one person comes to mind who’d bother to involve himself in the black market, but the rarity of the shawl makes it unlikely. Don’t think of him. Don’t think of his name. You’re not allowed.

The door beckons me. The hall begs me to find the answers. I don’t want to, but at the same time, I know the whispers in my head won’t settle. So I give in.

I reach for the serum on my nightstand and press the syringe to my arm.

Just in case. The needle bites, and a cold sting crawls through my veins before fading away.

I pull a long sleeve shirt over me, tightening my belt and slipping into sandals I’ve barely worn.

I’m sure nobody is going to see me out of my leathers at night.

Even if they do, I’d doubt they’d recognize me.

Sarga releases a gentle cry, puffing up her feathers when she notices I’m moving toward the door.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, pressing my hand on the cold door handle. “You stand guard.”

It’s cold in the hallway—even for the time of the highest sun. The chill spills across my skin. The hairs on my arms raise, and I rub them without thinking. Keys chime from the guard’s uniform somewhere in the distance, and I press myself against the shadows clinging to the walls.

For a moment, I just listen—waiting, watching, making up excuses in my mind if anyone were to see me. Displaying doubt or acting out of self-interest instead of serving humanity is punishable regardless of your rank or experience. And I’d rather not get caught.

Finally, there are no footsteps. No voices. Only the stillness behind the stone and the soft crackling of torches above me. Once I’m by the door to the record room, I turn the handle slowly, releasing a click that feels louder than it should.

The record room is dark, high-shelved, and windowless—the sun can destroy delicate paper, and ink fades fast. Dozens of shelves and crates spill over with scrolls and notes, recording the history of the Corps for centuries.

I light the nearest candle, illuminating the endless room.

I shudder as I take careful steps, weaving between crates scattered across the floor.

A small cupboard comes into view, beside a desk set up for inkwork, blotched with old, black stains.

“This is it,” I whisper, tracing my fingers across the desk. My heart stirs once more. It’s like I’m doing something wrong, doubting the Corps, betraying humanity. But it’s just the records of a dragon. I’m sure it’s all in my head, and I’ll only find a reasonable explanation.

I shine the light over the notes and books, their spines inked with various titles.

“Which one is it…” I mutter under my breath, laying a few of them out.

I skim quickly through the pages, looking for any dates that go beyond our current years—but nothing stands out.

Just more old records, more dead ends. A crate coated in dust peeks from under the table.

Maybe it’s in one of those? I hesitate, then shake my head.

No—those are from years long past. If there was a Silverscale in recent times, it should be in the newer notes, not buried in ancient archives.

Still, I crouch down and grab the handle—just in case.

My body tenses, bracing for the heavy load about to come, but the moment I pull, I stumble backwards, nearly dropping the candle. I pry the lid open. Empty.

What?

My breath catches as I stare at the bottom of a crate that’s supposed to contain records—or at the least something—about the Corps. I drag out another crate. Then another.

They’re all empty.

That’s strange. Did they move them somewhere?

I can’t think of any possible place. I scan the tall shelves with smaller crates stacked on each other.

A glint from the spines of two large books catches my attention.

Shadows dance on the walls as I approach.

I reach for one of the books and thumb through the pages.

Most are still blank—proof that the records are recent.

Perfect.

I flip to the page that has the last notes of the year.

Year 393 A.TGB. Redsnout. Slain. 12 Units, 56 soldiers.

That’s three years ago. I skim further through the pages, but none of the information sticks out. Right before I put the book away, something in the records makes me pause.

Year 394 A.TGB. Stonetail. Slain. 10 Units, 27 soldiers. NOTE: The Gate.

Year 394 A.TGB. Wingtail. Slain. NOTE: The Gate.

Year 394 A.TGB. Redsnout. Slain. NOTE: The Gate.

Year 394 A.TGB. Horntongue. Slain. NOTE: The Gate.

Year 394. A.TGB. Redsnout. Slain. 1 Unit. 3 soldiers. NOTE: Second Stronghold March.

Three soldiers.

Wait. No. That can’t be right. It was four .

I search the shelves for the golden book where every fallen soldier is recorded—their names, their units, their final mark.

My fingers glide along the spines until they settle on what I’m looking for—a large tome, nearly half the size of my torso.

Its cover gleams gold, woven with dark red braids of embroidery. Book of The Fallen.

I hesitate to flip through the pages at first, but it quickly fades, and I fling the book open.

The leftover dust hovers in the air, creating a small cloud that I blow away.

This book carries countless names that I have known over the past four years.

Names I hated to hear. Names I wish I could hear again.

I trace the latest ink written in the pages, still fresh enough to smudge. Flipping back to the year 394, I read names I’ve heard many times. And then I find it. Or rather, I find what’s missing . Kayus. His name isn’t here.

What on the soil we walk on?

My mind races, flashing through memories, my head pounding. I wince at the pain, words I don’t remember being said to me echoing in my skull.

Take care of her.

This doesn’t make any sense. Why, out of all people, would his name not be in the list?

It can’t be a coincidence. The reports have been written on two separate occasions.

And I was there to give the report. I named him.

I saw his body. I stare at the words inked on paper.

This is probably a mistake. Maybe if I look at other names.

I flip a few pages back to year 393. There are a couple of dozen pages filled with fallen soldiers. A lot happened back then. A lot of people died. I search for a familiar name and I quickly find it.

Joseph Ward. Death by Redsnout dragonfire. Nida’s brother.

My heart sinks. Nida didn’t even get a chance to bury his body. I can’t imagine what that must’ve felt like—the helplessness, the grief cut short. If Pirlem never recovered, I doubt she even knew he was dead until years later.

I slam the book with a thud, taking a deep breath as I try to rearrange the thoughts in my head. I’ve spent weeks being harsh on her. But the thought of her getting herself killed bothers me more than it should. At the very least, the idea of her death bothers me more than my own.

I grab a pen and the closest ink jar and tap it on my thumb.

Good enough.

I roll up my sleeve and begin taking notes from the book. The dates. The names. The dragons. Everything I can remember that I have just read. Yet I can’t grasp why I’m doing this, but I let my instincts take over.

I set the quill back, turning around to only find myself staring at the rest of the crates stacked up on the other side of the thin room.

There’s no sign of a Silverscale dragon report in the last few years.

Nor have I heard about it. Then why would a shawl be circulating?

It has to be the black market , I remind myself, trying to shut down any part of me that might look for a different answer.

The door screeches as I exit the records room and wander down the hall back to my room. I don’t let any thoughts in. There’s no point. There are hundreds of ways to explain why the shawl is here or why Kayus’ name isn’t in the records. A mishap. A misplacement. Human error. All of it possible.

It’s already getting dark, but the large window in my room still lets some light in.

I take the quill and a piece of paper with my sleeve rolled up, following the notes I’ve taken from the record room.

If I so strongly believe that there’s nothing weird going on, then why am I doing this?

Why am I writing down notes as if what I saw might fade out of my head any second?

It’s like I’m paranoid. It’s as if it’s a habit I have long forgotten.

It’s as if I’m not the one doing this—like someone or something else is controlling my mind.

I set the pen down, inhaling deeply, calming my beating heart. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably lack of sleep or the pressure of the day piling up on me. I just need rest. More rest.

I glance at Sarga, perched on her tree as if nothing matters. Silently, I am hoping for that time of peace to come my way as I attempt to drift to sleep.