Page 29 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

I look away and focus on the rusty door handle right across the room, eyes narrowing.

“That’s the thing,” I say in a low voice.

“I see perfectly fine. If not better.” I look at her as she adjusts uncomfortably.

I always hid them—the scar, the veins. But the more it spread, the harder it was to keep it away from prying eyes.

People still noticed it. They either pointed in awe or disgust. It made me feel self-conscious about how I looked.

She clears her throat. “Can I see them?” Her voice is soft, a whisper even, as if she’s hoping I wouldn’t hear it. I hesitate at first, but there’s nothing really to hide. Everyone knows.

I remove my shirt. The soft fabric slips from my shoulders and pools in my right hand, twisted tight into a ball.

Dark lines snake across my skin—veins turned black like ink running beneath fragile glass.

They trace the map of my ribs, winding from the left side of my neck down toward my heart.

Ironic. The heart is what gives life, but it pumps death beneath my skin.

Her breath catches. I catch the shift in her—fascination mixed with something sharper. Fear, maybe. Reverence. Gently, she presses her finger on my skin, circling blackened lines—hesitant, like touching ice. Then she pulls away.

“It’s… incredible,” she breathes. Her trembling fingers hover above my skin. Only a flicker of warmth radiates from her movement.

I glance down at my hand—fingers pale—no marks creeping over. Just pale, white, normal hands. The type of normality I can only wish to have all over my body.

She halts, taking in a deep breath, her eyes full of sorrow. “Is it spreading fast?”

I shake my head. “No. Slower than what it usually does.”

Her face lights up with something. Something like hope. “Maybe they’ll find a cure—an antidote.”

I smile at her optimism. “No, this thing is part of me now.” I pull the shirt over me again, gently tugging on the sleeves to hide my veins. Why did I choose a short sleeve? Out of all days…

“They’ve studied me for years. Like a test-animal.

” I sigh. A distant memory of the chambers where I was kept for days creeps in.

“I didn’t mind it. Anything to help humanity move forward.

But nothing they’ve done has yielded any results.

” I bite the inside of my cheek, watching the lines of my palms as if they have some answers.

The weight of exhaustion presses down like a stone on my chest. Nida pulls back, but I catch her gaze, the quiet understanding in it.

We both know the venom isn’t just lines on my skin. It’s a countdown.

“I only wish I got to see you,” she says, breaking the silence that I wish stretched just a little bit longer. “Back then in Pirlem… after the attack.”

I clear my throat. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

She furrows her brow—a flicker of hurt.

“I wasn’t in the right place for that. I didn’t want anyone to see… I didn’t want to come back. That place… Home or not—it reminds me of what I lost. Not only a home. But a life. Now… I just wait for it to end.”

She releases a hitched breath, as if my words somehow wound her even more. And perhaps they do.

“You outlived the odds after taking a hit from a Blightclaw,” she says slowly. Softly. There it is again.

Hope .

Hope should never be given to a dying man.

Because once he tastes it, dying isn’t the hardest part anymore—losing the chance to live is.

I once had hope. Aris gave it to me, claiming she’d find the cure with Sam, even though she was only a second-year Medic.

But then she died. And all hope died with her.

After that, I never let the thought of getting old plague me ever again.

Yet here I am, fooling myself into believing that living three years longer than the average survivor of the venom actually means something.

I shrug the thought away. I raise the barriers that are slowly crumbling. The barriers that I’ve built to not let in things like hope.

“What happens to you?” Nida asks, clearing her throat. “In what ways does it affect you?”

I don’t even know where to start. Excruciating pain? Dizziness? The feeling of drowning?

“Under extreme pressure, the venom disrupts every motor function,” I say, pressing my thumb in my palm.

“I’m unable to move. It feels like being buried alive inside my own body, every muscle locked in place, lungs burning for air.

” My voice lowers. Talking about it is like reliving every second of it.

“Sometimes they’re minor. But sometimes…

sometimes it’s not just the body—it’s the mind that suffers too. ”

Her palm rests on my shoulder, warmth radiating through the fabric and into my skin. It’s somewhat soothing.

“I’ll look out for you,” she says.

I shake my head as I meet her amber eyes. “No. If I ever seize, you need to run .”

“But you—”

“You have to save yourself. Because I won’t be capable of protecting you.”

“Zel—”

“Do you understand?”

She doesn’t say anything, only gives a nod. The one that feels like a lie, but at the same time, a painful acceptance.

“You should get some rest,” I say, rising from the bench, brushing away the dust from my pants.

There is no dust. Just an attempt to conceal another twitch in my hand. They’re always subtle. Always painful.

I don’t glance back. I only hear a small shift on the bench, and moments later, a clicking noise of boots against stone.

I may not like the idea, having to rely on someone else in battle—of watching their movements, of focusing on their weak spots.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she can handle this on her own.

Maybe it’s not so bad to have a Tracker after all.

If there’s anyone I’d trust my life with right now, it would be her.

My stomach twists a little bit—like a tickle. It’s like a feeling of missing a step on the way down a staircase. Or tripping on a flat surface. The type of feeling I used to get when I was younger—every time I looked at her.