Page 21 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

“ S peed is essential if you want to survive a dragon attack.” Lieutenant Wain’s voice booms through the training grounds early in the morning the next day.

She paces in front of the lined-up soldiers.

“Today you’ll get the chance to practice your speed.

” She halts, turning to the cadets. “Against each other.”

A low hum spreads as cadets exchange uncertain looks.

Wain smiles. “Try not to get hit.”

The cadets choose their mats and start warming up.

Nida is paired against Eryca. A good way for them to learn from each other.

Eryca still rolls her eyes at me for not telling anyone about having a tracker.

Or that I’m now Commander. Sayna’s assessment passed quickly to the General, and I officially have the title weighing on my shoulders.

Rumors don’t take long to catch fire in the Third.

Within days, everyone seems to know. But I’m certain the one who opened his mouth first was Ilian.

And he must’ve heard it from Sam, who may or may not have gone through Sayna’s medical files looking for something about me.

Have gone through might be unfair to say.

He has access. He’s supposed to know our medical histories, so he can treat us if something goes wrong.

Eryca circles Nida as she puts her red curls up in a ponytail, hands up, and eyes sharp.

She rakes her with her deep brown eyes, analyzing her stance, like a Tracker would a dragon.

In the blink of an eye, Eryca sweeps Nida’s leg, but Nida hops back just in time and counters with a jab to the ribs. It’s soft. Eryca barely flinches.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Eryca comments, raising a brow.

Nida takes a quick step back, hands up. “It’s just a warm-up,” she says, grinning. Lieutenant Wain slowly passes by our mat, pointing at Nida’s legs and back for a better stance. When Nida adjusts, Wain stalks away to the other cadets.

A couple of mats further into the training hall, Lieutenant Rylan barks orders at the cadets who are fresher.

Those who weren’t sure which Division they wanted to apply for during the Assessment Year.

He’s responsible for breaking them into shape.

Both physically and mentally. Though I don’t always agree with his methods.

Sometimes, even for me, they go a bit too far.

He grabs a cadet who fell over the mat and lifts him up so high, only the tips of his toes reach the floor. He spits a few words in his face, then throws him on the mat again. I sneer, annoyed. Hopefully, I won’t have to send another cadet to the infirmary.

My gaze drifts back to Nida, while Ilian and Sam sit hunched over on a bench, watching another soldier—a sixth-year, Vera—spar with her teammates.

“She’s good,” Ilian says, nodding toward Vera as she takes down her Tracker smoothly, without effort.

“Rumor has it she’s aiming for a lieutenant title,” Sam says, his fingers curled around a set of scrolls—updated medical records for our unit, I assume.

“Really?” Ilian comments. “Well, I’m not surprised. With that many recruits this year, we need more lieutenants to train the newcomers.”

“Vera would make a good Lieutenant. She’s one of the few I’ve had the chance to spar with, and I learned a great deal from her.”

A grunt makes my head snap to the side. Nida’s on the mat again, back first.

“Don’t forget your stance,” Eryca says, one hand on her hip, the other loosely resting by her side as she watches Nida rise.

Eryca’s dark skin glints with sweat, curls pulled back but still escaping around her face.

Nida grins, breathless, and blows a strand of hair from her eyes.

Eryca rolls her eyes and extends a hand.

Nida grabs it without hesitation. Sweat clings to the black fabric of their short-sleeved shirts, dampening the cotton and darkening it at the seams.

“Again?” Nida asks.

Eryca nods, offering a smile as she slips back into her stance. “Try not to lose so fast this time.”

I spot Alex leaning against a pillar near the entrance.

It’s a good spot to observe the sparring and learn visually, but it’s also where those cast aside by their unit tend to linger.

Even from afar, I notice bruises around his neck.

He most likely got into another fight and lost. Without a doubt, he deserves it.

The moment he notices me, his mouth twists into a mischievous grin, and I feel like I’ve just invited him into another feud.

I try to ignore it but I can feel his stare on me.

What does he want anyway?

I glance back at the pillars, but he’s gone.

I scan the crowd, the mats, the corners where he might’ve slipped away, but the flicker of curiosity fades.

Instead, I focus on Nida’s and Eryca’s sparring—in case I need to give Nida any more tips on areas of improvement.

But there are moments when I feel like she doesn’t have anything to work on.

Eryca pivots, positioning herself in a perfect stance before landing a roundhouse kick.

Nida’s arms block it, before she twists her right arm around Eryca’s leg, pulling her to the ground.

Nida’s left arm curls into a perfect fist, inches away from Eryca’s face.

It only takes a couple of seconds for Nida to bring her to the ground, which surprises me.

I’ve witnessed firsthand what Eryca is capable of; her speed and analytic prowess are something I’ve always admired.

Her hot-headed temperament often leads to a sharp tongue, and she never backs down from a fight—physical or verbal.

Eryca draws her leg in, pressing one knee to her chest before snapping it out toward Nida’s shoulder.

But Nida quickly sidesteps, tugging the trapped leg with a sharp twist. Eryca lets out a yelp, dark brown curls clinging to her damp forehead, her deep bronze skin glistening under the overhead lights.

She slaps the mat in surrender, one eye squeezed shut, breath catching in her chest.

“Okay, okay, you won!” she says before a laugh escapes her.

Nida rolls onto her back, blowing away a red strand from her face as the ponytail begins to come undone.

A smirk forms at the corners of my lips, relief taking over my body every time I watch Nida fight.

It refutes my fear of her being here. But my body quickly tenses as slow, deliberate claps echo from behind my shoulder.

“Well done, ladies.” The voice, cold and sinister, reaches me, and I immediately twirl on my heel. “You can definitely survive a catfight.” It’s Alex, no longer leaning on a pillar across the room, instead throwing comments at others, most likely to make himself feel better.

“What’s your problem?” Eryca hisses, leaping to her feet before jumping off the mat. “Didn’t have enough during Division Day?”

He barks a laugh, now an arm’s length from Eryca, who stands ready to strike, a fist clenched and ready. His golden eyes dart my way.

“I don’t think the circumstances were fair then,” he says, completely ignoring Eryca’s presence. His mouth curls into a smile, eyebrows pushing down, his eyes darkening. It’s an invitation. One I refuse.

“I won’t entertain your theatrics,” I say, shifting my legs from his direction. “Go back to your unit or wherever you belong to.”

He lets out a scoff, laced with venom and bitterness. “That’s the thing.” His voice is low. “I don’t have one.”

We stand in silence for a moment, listening to the grunts and triumphant sounds of the teams, and my eyes fall back to him. “Well, guess you’ll have to wait a little longer for the general to scrape one together for you,” I say, lifting my one shoulder in a shrug.

He clenches his teeth. “Every time I try to talk to anyone, they just mock me for what you did during Division Day,” he growls.

“You mean what you did to yourself?”

He grits his teeth, stepping closer as he forms fists at his sides.

“I did nothing to you,” I say, eyes locked with him. “I just said what’s true.”

He lunges forward, fist drawn back—but Eryca steps in, shoving him away before he can swing.

“Move,” she grunts, irritation seeping through her teeth.

Alex sneers. “Letting others fight your battles? What are you, a coward or just clueless? Either you cheat your way through everything, or you let others fight for you without even realizing the shit you cause—with no sense of responsibility.”

I slowly turn on my heel, meeting his dark eyes.

Have I done something to him? This kid is filled with anger, only directed toward me.

But I’ve never seen him before. He’s from the Middle.

Pale skin carrying a history of purposely avoiding the sun for the sake of beauty, and dark, wavy, voluminous hair with a hint of fresh mint.

Sharp, chiseled jawline, not a single wrinkle, blemish, or scar across his cheeks.

He’s thin yet muscular, indicating that he has been well fed.

Luxury, I remind myself. But it’s also the type of luxury not everyone can afford in the Middle.

He’s rich. Or was rich. Why would he join the Corps?

He clearly doesn’t have humanity’s best interest. He’s here for other reasons.

“What are you fully called?” I ask. It’s the last name I’m after.

He’s taken aback by my question, eyes slightly relaxing. At first, he’s hesitant to respond, but parts his lips to answer. “Alex,” he says, voice slightly low. “Alex Moitar.”

I let those two words linger in the air for a moment. Moitar .

“Hm.” My eyes are still on him. “I’ve never heard of a name like that before.”

“Proof you don’t give a shit about others outside of your circle. It’s either the Front or the Hold. Too much fame up your ass.”

“Watch it,” Nida hisses. “Unless you want a bruise on your lip.”