Page 23 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

S mall chunks from the ceiling hurtle down, injuring trainees as they frantically flee the training grounds.

I grab my leather jacket, hoping it’s enough to get out of this scar-free.

I need to be cautious. I whip my head around, heart pounding, scanning the panicked faces for someone familiar.

Screams blur into each other. Then—hands.

Gripping. Dragging me. I stumble sideways until a blur of red and brown sharpens into Nida.

Her wide, terrified eyes lock with mine.

“Nida, are you hurt?” I ask, eyes raking over her in a heartbeat.

She shakes her head, presses a hand to my shoulder. “No. You need to be steady.”

Her voice is low, urgent, grounding. Another impact slams nearby. Stone rains down like fire. Only then do I realize that fear is clawing its way up my throat again. I need to focus.

A sudden roar shakes the Stronghold’s walls, followed by the low grind of shifting cogwheels as the Defenders reposition the ballistas.

A dragon.

Here. At the Stronghold.

How?

My mind races. Did it destroy the villages? How many have died? Was there a warning, or did Scouts miss it?

I grab Nida’s hand, dragging her with the flow of the crowd as they make their exit, some with frantic screams, others driven by adrenaline and the urge to join the fight.

For some reason, I feel both. A lieutenant barks orders as another commander enters the premises, directing each unit to where they need to be.

I spot a cadet hauling herself up, just inches from the crater made by the first slab of stone.

Her partner’s severed arm lies in front of her.

She quickly jumps up, no emotion in sight.

Lieutenant Wain rushes to pull her free, a Medic in green-gray battle robes closing in, vials clinking at her belt.

“Wain!” I shout, waving her toward me. She rushes my way, dodging smaller debris falling from above, white dust smeared on her ebony cheeks.

“We need to get out there,” she says with a panting breath. I nod, my eyes scanning the chaotic mess by the exit. Pressure tightens around my fingers, and only then do I notice Nida’s hand wrapped around mine. Warm.

Screams pierce the air. A deep roar follows, rattling the stone.

Wain looks at me.

“Can you lead!?” she yells through the roar. In this chaos? No formation, no strategy. Just like last time.

“Yes!” I respond instinctively, even though every bone in my body tells me not to. Now, for this moment—I am a commander.

We push our way through the crowd and into the open halls, soldiers stream from every corner, rushing toward the exterior.

My heart hammers in my chest, and a faint ringing noise fills my ears.

I catch a glimpse of Raumen, dashing inside from the battlements while hastily removing his helm.

His eyes lock onto mine, his expression filled with frantic urgency.

“It’s bad out there,” he says, panting, sweat running down his face as he attempts to wipe it off with his hand.

“My partner’s dead. The dragon slammed into the East Wing, bringing a chunk of the tower down on the ballista.

Without another Defender beside me, I’m useless—the ballistas are too heavy. And there’s no time to find one.”

Shit.

If a ballista is down, it’s more serious than I thought.

“Have you seen Ilian and Eryca?” I ask.

He points toward the West Wing limply, the weight of his armor wearing him down in the oppressive heat. “The field.” He blurts out as much information as possible to me.

Even though it’s fragmented, I can put two and two together. There was no signal. No Scouts. And no preparation work. This happened out of nowhere. I take a step forward ready to enter the battlements but Raumen halts me.

“Listen, Zel,” he says as he tries to catch his breath. “I can’t control the ballista on my own, and I can’t go looking for a spare Defender. I’ll have to go out there.”

I shake my head, hoping he’ll catch on to how ridiculous that is.

“No, you stay here,” I say, my arm on his shoulder. “See what others need, lead them out to safety from the Stronghold. That’s still a Defender’s job. If that thing crashes again, more people are going to die.” His blue eyes waver, unsure. He nods, pats my shoulder, and bolts toward the safe zone.

Another deafening roar shakes the air. The rocks rumble, sounding like they’re barely holding together.

I snatch a bow from the spare rack in the hall.

It’s light, catching me off guard, the handle thin enough to grip fully.

My own bow is still in my room, so this will have to do.

Without a word, Nida tightens her belt and preps water bombs—just in case the Redsnout ignites.

Fighting a Redsnout means fire isn’t as common as other dragons, but when it does ignite, it’s blistering—the type of fire that feels like standing next to the sun.

If the flames don’t kill you, the heat will.

Light blinds me the minute I step outside. The roaring screams and the thunder of catapulting bolts from the ballistas fill the air. Countless soldiers scramble, jostling for space, their formation all but lost. Blood is pooled on the ground, splattered on the walls. It’s chaos.

I need to lead them.

I need to do something.

The dragon circles high above, swirling and diving in the sky, making it harder for the massive ballistas to aim their spear-sized arrows. Nida lifts her finger, pointing at the beast as she analyzes its course and behavior.

“It’s pissed,” she croaks.

“We need to get it to land,” I say, watching Hunters frantically aiming and shooting their arrows, and Trackers trying to distract the beast long enough for it to land. But there’s no use. The beast remains in the air like it knows its life depends on it.

“Look!” Nida exclaims, grabbing my shoulder and turning me toward the beast.

I focus on the bolt buried in the dragon’s left wing socket. Seconds later, another bolt rams into its wing—and the beast doesn’t plummet.

What?

Why isn’t it falling? I grab the nearest quiver and take out a bolt. It’s been crafted recently, but something is strange. I bring the arrowhead closer to my nose—no scent.

It isn’t laced.

I whirl around and draw a sharp breath, steadying myself as I point toward the first ballistas in sight. Command .

“You!” I yell out, grabbing the attention of two defenders loading the ballista.

“Aim at the ground several degrees toward the first marker.” I quicken my pace, passing the first ballista and heading for the second one in sight.

“Extend it to the middle of the first marker but slightly to the top.” Commandant Vine barks orders to Defenders, repeating my words, racing back and forth on the mural tower, bracing on the merlons as the tower above us crumbles.

I glance down. Below, the field buzzes with movement—units attempting to get into proper formation, around the spread out field markers, their yells echoing off the high curtain walls.

A massive ballista groans under tension beside me, aiming toward the outer fields, waiting for the dragon to land.

Some soldiers take refuge behind stone barricades scattered across the field, hiding in trenches dug near the curtain walls.

Commandant Vine approaches me, gray hair damp, sweat dripping as he gasps for air. “Got a plan?” he asks, pulling the winch lever on the ballista beside me.

“The bolts aren’t laced,” I manage, throat dry from the heat.

He shoots me a look, a slight emotion cracking through, but quickly he returns to the ballista. Another Defender grunts as he heaves a massive bolt onto the ballista’s loading track, settling it into the groove between the arms.

“Set!” he calls out, glancing at the commandant cranking the winch, each rotation pulling the thick bowstring farther back with a deep creak. The commandant gives a final twist of the crank and locks it in place.

“String’s set! Ready when you are!” Vine yells.

The defender checks the alignment, adjusts the elevation bar, and rests his hand on the release lever, waiting for the command.

Commandant Vine’s eyes return to mine. “Do we need to set out poles?”

“Not against this Redsnout,” Nida answers. “It’s too angry. If it lands, it will ignite almost immediately.”

“We need to make it land,” I say, zipping up my jacket. “Without laced bolts, we can’t bring it down. And ballista bolts are far too valuable to be shooting blindly.”

Vine nods. “The General is on the other side of the Hold. He’s going to want to hear from you.”

I shake my head. “No time. Make sure that at least these three ballistas are aiming at the first marker. The first barricade from the trenches.”

“Only one can turn at the right angle,” Vine says.

“We can make the dragon chase us,” Nida comments, and I meet her gaze. “Make it ignite, and let it run after whoever’s pissing it off.” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’ll be the bait.”

Vine nods in acknowledgement, but I’m unsure how I feel about that.

“Make sure the beast lands on that marker. The ballistas won’t be able to aim if it’s near the curtain wall.” With those final words, Vine rushes out to the other two ballistas.

We hurry down the stone corridors, two flights of stairs spiraling beneath the battlements, and slip through a side gate that leads onto the outer grounds. The field stretches before us, even bloodier than I imagined—hundreds lie dead, crushed beneath falling tower debris.

The sharp scent of iron fills the air, creeping into my lungs. I pull a cloth mask over my face, but it clings—a smell I know too well, one I never wanted to remember. Still, the scent drags up the memory I’ve buried. The day hundreds died under my command. This can’t happen again. I won’t let it.