Page 3 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T he line in the mess hall for yesterday’s reheated bread is tedious, to say the least, and the smell of whatever liquid is being served today doesn’t make it any better.

The benches are perfectly aligned in rows, each one set with precision to make the most of every inch of space.

It’s a careful balance—tight enough to feel the energy of everyone around, but with just enough room to breathe and feel the subtle tension humming in the air.

A harsh, high-pitched noise fills the room as chairs scrape against the wooden floor.

It digs into my skull, each sound like nails on a chalkboard.

As I wait in line, the weight of foreign eyes bores into the back of my head.

It’s always like this when new recruits arrive—curiosity laced with thinly veiled fear.

I’ve long since learned to ignore it, but deep down it still bothers me.

I glance over my shoulder. A cadet stands two steps behind, keeping his distance and leaving a gap in the line. He stares at my neck, where black veins crawl up, barely visible above my collar.

Shit. I didn’t realize they’d spread that far.

Our eyes lock. He draws a sharp breath, shoulders going rigid like he’s weighing whether to run or draw his blade and take his chances.

Demon, his eyes say. And he’s not the only one carrying them.

Eight years ago, after my village was nearly reduced to ash, I was left with the mark of a dragon—a scar of survival.

At first, they called me a Divine—an immortal being humanity once prayed to.

All because I survived the impossible—venom injected by a Blightclaw, one of the deadliest dragons known to exist. But the longer I breathed, the more the word Divine twisted into something far darker.

Demon. A curse walking on this very soil.

Then came the defense expedition I led two years ago, which only added more fuel to the fire.

I swore I’d never lead again. No one wants to be under the command of a monster.

But all that is falling apart now that General Grogol wants me as Commander. I hope it won’t come to that.

“Look what the dragon dragged in!” A familiar voice comes from behind me, and an arm presses down on my neck and shoulders. A sharp breath escapes me, my body tensing at the unexpected weight of his pale brown, scaled armor. Glancing to the side, I’m met with soft blue eyes staring back at me.

“Raumen,” I say with an exhale. I tap his arm, signaling for him to move it from my shoulders, and rub my neck to relieve the sting.

He blows away a few strands of tousled brown hair from his eyes, stretching his broad shoulders to a sturdy posture. “Glad to see you back up and running. I thought you were dying in that room for weeks. The General wouldn’t let us come see you.”

“Well, he has a twisted way of seeing rest, I suppose,” I joke.

“I heard you’ll be returning to our unit again,” he comments, an excited smirk playing on his face.

“News travels fast.” I sigh.

“Sam told us. He found out from Sayna when she gave him your medical records.” I’m not surprised. All Medics get access to their unit’s health files, so they know how to treat them if they get injured in battle.

He walks behind me, occupying the empty space in the line, adjusting his armor.

“Coming back from your shift?” I ask, eyeing his Defender armor up and down.

“Yup,” he answers. “We just came back from patrolling the battlements. One of the ballistas needed maintenance, too.

“Any dragon sightings?”

“Haven’t been for almost a month. The expedition was the only time they ever saw that thing before it torched half the army,” he says, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “Glad we weren’t part of it.”

Relief sneaks up my throat. I’m quietly thankful they weren’t assigned. I’m not sure how I’d feel if anyone from this unit got hurt.

The walk up the line is slower than usual. I shift to glance over at a cadet in front of me. For the first time, they have to refill the gruel.

“More recruits this year,” Raumen mumbles.

“Double, I believe. General Grogol said there’s over forty.”

“I think more people are going to be left without a unit,” he says, grabbing a tray from the serving area.

“Let’s hope not. Otherwise, you’ll get extra Divisions as reinforcements.” And I don’t feel like getting to know more people—especially if it’s a first-year who’ll have their eyes glued on me.

“You’re probably right.” He shrugs. “More people want to join the Corps, which is good after low recruitment these past two years. But that means some soldiers will wait longer for placement in a Division—not really ideal.”

“I’m sure the general has a plan for that,” I say, slowly moving up the line.

No one wanted to join the Corps after the dragons attacked the Third during the defense expedition I led.

Hundreds were killed. We lost more soldiers in that year than we’d recruited in the previous four.

After that, the Corps barely managed to scrape up twenty new recruits.

But news of one dragon left spread fast, and suddenly, everyone wanted to be a hero.

I’d question why the general accepts so many now, but after such heavy losses, he needs to fill the ranks quickly.

I grab my tray, clinking metal against the wooden counter before having the food served. The smell of charred wood stings my nose as I stare at the muted tones of burned bread and a bowl of gray liquid mixture.

It’s less than yesterday. And the quality has gone down.

I lower myself onto the bench at the table against the far wall, a neglected spot by both company and care, doing my best to avoid any more eyes on me.

The cafeteria is crowded with new cadets, thick with sweat and heat, the occasional sweet scent of unburned bread teasing my nose.

Banners of blue and gold bearing the Third Stronghold’s insignia hang high across the brick walls, barely holding on against the wear of time.

It’s the same insignia I once admired, though that admiration has faded along with the banners’ colors.

The clatter of metal trays echoes through the hall, mingling with murmurs and shouted orders for food—food we seem to be running out of.

I wonder why, and if something’s wrong with the Second Stronghold.

They’re supposed to provide us with a steady supply of food in exchange for tools, weapons, and soldiers from the Third.

I watch the new cadets—disoriented, their faces frail and sunken.

Most come from the villages in the Front.

Soldiers here are fed well, bodies growing strong, while villagers exchange their surplus for protection.

Parents send their children to the Corps, hoping they’ll have a better life here.

They get a bed, food, water. Everything essential.

But to have any real chance at survival, you’d need to be in the Center—far behind the Stronghold—where the rich have the luxury of discarding food at the slightest hint of spoilage.

A loud clang snaps me out of my thoughts, followed by metal trays hitting the table. I dart my eyes to four familiar faces.

“Can’t have the table all for yourself now, can you? We’re a unit now,” Raumen says as he tosses his legs over the bench together with the unit’s Medic, Sam. “Newcomers make it hard to find any place to sit.”

A faint dark blur flickers at the corner of my eye as Ilian, clad in a black leather jacket, drops onto the bench by the table. But my gaze stays locked on brown eyes—piercing like sharp blades, heavy with a deep-seated grudge she’s carried ever since I left this unit. Eryca.

Ilian shares his sister’s eyes but without the bitterness. He shoots her a look, then signals her to sit. She hesitates, shoulders tight, before shuffling to the corner of the table.

“You’ll just have to get along.” Ilian sighs, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth. “He’s in our unit now.” He turns away, focusing on his meal.

Eryca rolls her eyes, lets out a puff of irritation, then slams her tray on the table and sits at the edge. She glares at me, silently cursing me.

“I’ll make this clear,” she says, expression darkening. “You and I, we’re not friends. If you’re going to leave again, I’d rather you do it now, not when we need you the most. And quite frankly, we don’t need you.”

“Eryca—,” Ilian begins, but he’s quickly cut off as Eryca shoots up from her seat.

“Don’t Eryca me, Ilian. Morton’s dead! Valous was cast out and got his ears clipped—the mark of treason . We need a real Hunter and Tracker in our unit. Not him .” Eryca violently gestures at me, sneering in disgust, as if I’m some vermin that deserves to be eradicated.

“Would you calm down?” Ilian says, pressing his fingers against his temples. “All of this feud is giving me a headache. In fact” —he takes a bite from the loaf— “I’ve been having a headache before it even started.” His voice is muffled by loud chewing.

“Wait—did you say Morton’s dead?” I ask quickly, her words finally sinking in.

She narrows her eyes at me, twisting her mouth into another sneer. Sam leans in with a nod, his short golden hair gleaming in the midday sun streaming through the windows—a bright contrast to the worry in his eyes. He’s watching me, but not quite meeting my gaze.

“How can that be? I just spoke to him a few days ago. Did he join the expedition without a Tracker?”

Life drains from Sam’s face, his cheeks nearly blending in with his white shirt. I furrow my brow. Sam doesn’t talk much, but his facial expressions tell a lot. He quickly pulls away without saying a word.

“All of a sudden, you care?” Eryca seethes.

Silence falls over the table, broken only by the sound of chewing and the clatter of silverware.

I don’t want to ask anything else, but worry stirs in me.

I didn’t know Morton was dead. Which means we’ll need a third Hunter in our unit.

And two more Trackers. Damn it. Things are just getting better and better.