Page 22 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

I shake my head, unwilling to deal with this, but I know that, once and for all, I have to get this settled.

“You want your five minutes of fame?” I say, clenching my fist. “On the mat.” I feel my body tense up, fingernails digging into my palms. A pathetic smile appears on his mouth as he shakes his head.

Once I’m a few steps away from him, I hear a quick shuffle of feet and rapid steps coming my way before slowing down right behind me.

I turn to face Alex, his eyes sharp, mouth twisting into a smile—determined to take me down at all costs.

Vengeance brews in his eyes. It’s best to get this out of the way now, before his attitude gets someone killed.

We step on the mat, and a crowd begins to gather, yelling out Alex’s name in a mocking manner, attempting to get into his head. But that doesn’t discourage him, he’s still desperate to prove himself. Prove something .

I take my stance, my legs slightly apart, arms lined up with my head.

He falters, clearly distracted by countless eyes staring at him, countless voices calling him names.

He takes a few steps back, unsure whether he should swing first, showing doubt .

And that’s the first mistake he makes. You should always swing first.

I take a step and swing at him—not too hard, but enough for him to dodge my punch. He nearly stumbles over the mat.

“Is that all you got?” I say with a dark voice. “How did you even get in?”

Those words trigger something—he is distracted by hatred toward me. He sneers, showing his pearly teeth, his firsts forming until his knuckles whiten. He retakes his stance, his arms still not well aligned, and his head frantically darting around at the crowd that is building up.

“Beat him up!” yells a voice from the crowd. It roars louder and louder, and some whistle or shout my name with encouragement. They think that this is an actual fight. I take another swing at him, this time faster. He dodges it but doesn’t expect my leg to swirl under him, dropping him on the mat.

My face remains stoic. “Want to embarrass yourself more?”

Is he a coward? Just all bark and no bite.

But I know that there’s something in him I’m not fully understanding.

I scan the crowd, faces blurring between the familiar and the new.

But it’s Nida’s eyes I catch first—sharp and worried and slightly angry.

Everyone else leaps and shouts, but she stands still, lips set hard.

I’m hoping this will explain to her what doubt can lead to.

Alex jumps up again with a more controlled stance, his feet light on the mat as he adjusts. He blows away his curls from his eyes, focusing on my arms that are lying to the side of my waist to rest. The crowd begins to calm down when Alex takes control of his emotions.

It’s like he’s morphing from an annoying brat to a ruthless soldier. Controlled. Determined. Deadly .

I stand tall, and before I take a swing, he rushes toward me and hits a blow.

I block it with the back of my arm, but it stings.

He takes another swing from the other side, and I manage to dodge it in time, but it grazes my hair.

He’s fast, with controlled breathing and an eye for detail—for weakness.

The crowd is no longer cheering, instead, it’s quiet, with only breaths and crashing leather echo in the large, stony room.

He thinks he’s winning. But I’m already bored.

I don’t linger. I watch him scramble to regain his footing.

I don’t have time for this. But he apparently does.

He quickly stands, breathing heavily. He moves faster now, no longer underestimating me.

Every strike comes harder, sharper—there’s no room for hesitation.

I block one blow, then another. This time, I’m on the defensive, and with every passing moment, his strikes quicken.

Just as I grab his shoulder and lock his arm under mine, a sharp sting presses against my side.

I glance down and catch the bright gleam of steel reflecting the sun, momentarily blinding me.

He drew his dagger.

A smile tugs at my lips. This is new. Nobody’s drawn a dagger on me before. Not during sparring, at least.

“You got your five minutes.” I grab his hand, twisting it with a small crack, and the dagger thuds to the floor. He yells out, his knees bending and slamming into the mat.

“If you need another warning, so be it,” I snarl, my face inches away from his.

“If I see you again, even remotely close to my unit—” I squeeze harder, and he twists, just enough to grab the dagger with his other hand.

I kick it, the dagger skittering across the ground.

In the same motion, I press down on his other hand with my foot. He howls in pain.

“Not keen on listening.” I scoff, anger filling my chest. “I think I told you before, if you want to keep your hands, don’t come near my unit ever again.”

I calmly release him, watching him stumble into another stance. When controlled, he’s useful. Strong. Fast. I know exactly who he would pair well with. But regardless of how controlled he can be in battle, he’s still a loose cannon.

Once the sweat fades and the crowd goes their own way, I find a seat on the bench not far away from the mat.

Nida and Eryca continue to spar, completely forgetting the last few minutes.

Alex, a few benches away from me, is adjusting his wraps around his hands and wrists, knuckles bleeding from when I stomped on his hand.

He seems to have a tolerance for pain—not a single wince as he wraps them.

I assume he’s trying to assert dominance out of fear of being alone.

Something he probably feels the most. But his skills are well-trained, and judging by the faded scars on his hands, he’s been training from a young age.

Or fighting something, since the scars weren’t caused by a random branch scraping his arm—they were straight and clean, as if from a dagger.

He notices me, sneers, and then turns away.

I observe the sparring teams and lieutenants providing tips for improvement.

Others practice their aim with crossbows and daggers.

The room is filled with the smell of sweat and the taste of iron.

The commandants would often say we need to build tolerance for pain because if we get injured during a battle, we’d still be strong enough to get ourselves up.

But not to flee. To finish our duty, or at least try until our last breath.

The sun is at its highest, peeking through the small openings that light up the room, illuminating the dust particles that enter its rays.

It shines right on my face. I close my eyes, the tickling sensation of warmth increasing every moment as I take a breath.

Suddenly, the sun ray blinks, the shadow sending a cool sensation through my body, but it reappears just as quickly.

I open my eyes, glancing at the windows.

Small particles of debris fall to the ground.

It must’ve been a hawk that flew by, and yet, it gives me a feeling of unease.

My muscles tense as I rise. A faint disturbance outside of the Stronghold shakes, and my heart begins to beat faster in my chest, a steady increase of adrenaline. Something’s wrong.

I drag my eyes across the interior training ground. Then a massive chunk of rubble crashes down one of the mats, crushing and killing two trainees beneath it.