Page 28 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

M y thoughts don’t stop circling by the time night comes.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and counting seconds between breaths.

No amount of pacing in my room helps. I’ve already opened the window three times to get somewhat fresh air.

But my lungs still collapse and my throat still squeezes at the sound of her voice.

Redsnout female.

It keeps coming back to me. And even though my mind tries to shut it off—shut her off—every bone in my body trembles at the thought that maybe she’s not wrong.

But I quickly change to maybe she is . This uncertainty bothers me.

Especially now. Of all the times and places.

Things are not adding up. Alex knows, yet I don’t remember seeing him on the battlefield.

Was he? Did he see the same thing Nida did?

The Frost Shawl.

The Redsnout.

Pirlem in ruins.

Everything seems like a lie woven to keep me in control. To not panic. To keep us all in control. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s my insanity creeping its way into me. Maybe this is what Sayna meant—that I’m slowly going insane.

I give up trying to fall asleep and step toward the table where my Tracker’s Guide and Dragon’s Atlas books rest. I skim through the pages, and when I reach the Redsnout, I carefully read word for word, hoping that there’s some information I’ve missed.

But I know this book like the back of my hand, and eight years of reading it tells me otherwise. There’s no way I missed something.

I trace my fingers across the pages, the candlelight illuminating the words just enough for me to see.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the Redsnout.

No mention of different behaviors or looks between genders.

I shut the book, letting out a sigh. But my mind doesn’t calm, and pressing my fingers on my temples doesn’t soothe the throbbing headache.

Two breaths. Three long breaths. Nothing. My heart still races. My hands still twitch. My head still screams. And I feel the walls closing in.

Keep calm, I remind myself. Shut the emotions off. No doubt. Perhaps a walk around the Hold will ease me. I grab the nearest shirt and pull it on. The sleeves are short, but I don’t bother to get my leather jacket. I don’t want anything clinging to my body.

The Stronghold is empty, but there are still soldiers awake—patrolling the ground, watching the night sky for any threats or signals from night scouts. I keep to the emptier side of the Stronghold where no eyes can follow, and no one cares enough to ask why.

Staircases spiral around thick stone columns, the air colder with every level I climb. Torches flicker from wrought-iron sconces, casting trembling shadows across the walls. Somewhere deeper in the halls, I hear muffled footsteps—too far to matter.

She said the dragon was female.

I grit my teeth. The words repeat, looping in my skull, relentless and persistent.

She was so sure. Too sure. But it doesn’t line up with everything I know—everything I’ve been taught.

Every briefing, every whisper told us all one thing.

The last dragon is male. Yet her voice is louder than thousands. Louder than General Grogol’s.

I stop at the curve of a stairwell, pressing my hand to the cool stone. The torchlight above me casts shadows across the floor like ghosts. I could go back, pull out the book again. Reread every line. But I already know what it’ll say.

I shake my head and keep upward, ascending the stairs until they give way to a long corridor. It narrows the deeper I go, swallowed by stillness. Dust dulls the edges of the floor. No one patrols here. No drills. No shouting. Just stone and silence. Silence . The type of silence I need right now.

A muffled sound comes from the end of the hall that leads to the training grounds.

The closer I get, the louder the sound becomes.

A sharp thud. Then another. Rhythmic, heavy.

The dull snap of impact against packed weight.

A grunt between strikes. It carries along the stone walls, warping in the quiet, like the Stronghold itself is breathing through someone else’s rage.

Is someone training? Hours after midnight?

I slow my pace before the entrance. There’s a short pause—then another flurry.

Three quick hits. One harder than the rest. I round the corner, a flare of red mixed with the leathery brown.

Nida. Alone. Focused. Jaw set. Hands wrapped in worn tape.

Hair up. Her knuckles are already bleeding, but she doesn’t stop.

The bag swings on its chain, creaking with each blow.

She throws three more punches, then throws a kick before the bag swings hard enough that she needs to steady it. That’s when she notices me.

“So this is how you spend your nights,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets, and I lean against the doorframe.

She lets out a heavy breath, panting. “Well, I need to get to your level, don’t I?”

That stings a bit.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, but she turns to the bag and releases another punch.

At first I didn’t notice it, but the second punch is clearer.

She’s not forming the fist before the strike—she’s forming it during.

Right before contact. Fingers dragging inwards, knuckles tightening mid-motion.

It’s subtle, but it’s dangerous. A habit that’ll shatter her hand the second she hits someone harder than a wooden wall.

“If you keep punching like that” —I clear my throat and step into the low light— “you’re going to break your knuckles.”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she glares at the bag, slowly folds her fingers in again and throws another punch.

“I said I was going to train you.” I catch her mid-punch, right before it hits the bag. “And that means I need you whole.”

She snaps her head to me, eyes nearly blazing, but they soften a moment later. She weaves her hand out of my grip.

“Let me show you.” I step closer to the worn leather bag.

“You need to curl your fingers tightly, the thumb always on the outside of the fist. Wrap it around the fingers like this.” I demonstrate how to form a fist, and she attempts to mimic it. I take her hand in my palm, gently curling her fingers and giving a few taps on the knuckles.

“The strongest part of your fists is the first two knuckles,” I say, gesturing toward the fist. “You want to hit with that, not your whole hand.”

She listens attentively, watching my hand and her own, but her eyes stray for a moment. Like she’s doubting.

“Focus,” I say, snapping her back to me. She gives a quick nod.

“Power comes from your hips, not just your arm. You twist your hips and shoulders into it—like you’re turning your whole body into the punch. That way, you don’t tire out your arm, and your punch hits harder.” I turn to the bag, focusing on the worn-out midpoint where most punches occur.

“Watch,” I say, curling my fingers tightly, adjusting my stance and putting my hips into it.

I keep my wrist straight and firm, not letting it flick or bend.

My feet shift slightly, weight balanced between heel and ball, knees soft but ready.

I twist my hips, driving all the power from my core.

Then I throw the punch, feeling the pressure between the bag and my knuckles—solid against the bag.

The metal chains creak as the bag swings upward, nearly reaching the ceiling before falling back into my palms.

“Like that,” I say, breathing steady. “You try.”

She lifts her brows, then clicks her tongue. “Alright.”

She squares up to the bag, curling her long fingers into a tight fist. Properly.

I reach out before she throws the punch, my hand landing lightly on her hip to steady her.

She shifts her weight, hips moving just a bit under my hand.

I feel her body tremor—just for a moment—then her muscles relax.

Her breath catches, but steadies just as quickly.

I lift my fingers from her hips, but my hands still hover in the air, inches away from her.

Warmth radiates from her. I still feel it weaving between my fingers, followed by the scent of soil and rain.

Then I step back, a sudden chill filling the gap.

She steadies and then throws the punch, knuckles hitting the bag with a solid thud.

“Better,” I say, my hand twitching as I step closer, eager to fill that cold gap.

She grins and throws her hair back. “I knew how to do that.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure you did. But I think practice would be better during the day. Right now you’re probably worn out.”

She glares at me, then rolls her eyes. “No, I’m fine” she says cockily, coaxing a laugh out of me.

“Alright then.”

She throws a few more punches as I sit at one of the benches, watching them become more and more stable. Eventually, she wears out.

It’s way past midnight, but the large windows in the ceiling let the moonlight in. I glance up, the cracks from the dragon attack barely noticeable in the now covered ceiling—patched by on-duty Defenders and blacksmiths and masons.

Nida approaches, wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel, and sits beside me. Her eyes aren’t focused on me, but on the dark veins twisting all over my arm and neck. She stares at it in awe, as if unable to grasp it all.

“It’s the venom,” I say, flexing and stretching my hand as my left arm rests on my knee. “That’s how much it spread in just a few seconds before Sayna found me.”

“So she stopped it?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No, she didn’t stop it. She only delayed it.”

She furrows a brow in thought and then lifts her gaze again, tracing the scars on the side of my head and the cloudy white eye. “So with your eye. You can’t see?” she asks.