Page 4 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

Eryca sits down in silence, digging back into her meal without waiting—or wanting—a response from me.

I pluck the bread piece by piece, its warmth seeping into my fingers.

The smell stirs a memory of the Market, where I helped my father set up shop as a kid.

He sold hinges, locks, and tools that kept the village homes safe.

One of the best blacksmiths in the Front.

I wanted to be like him. But illness took him before he could teach me anything more at the forge.

A year later, a dragon took my mother—and nearly killed me too.

I lift my gaze. A cadet at the next table grumbles loudly, bringing me back to the present.

“This is the kind of shit that makes me glad I’m from the Front, not the Middle,” he says. Then drags a piece of bread beneath his crooked nose and inhales deeply, like it could be his last. He speaks loudly, with no intention of keeping his conversation with the second-year beside him subtle.

“Two lords killed about a week ago,” he continues, running his nose over the bread—its color seamlessly blending in with skin. “A dagger buried deep in the center of each skull—right between the eyes.”

“ Two lords?” whispers the other second-year.

His croaky voice travels far enough for me to hear.

The pale, red-haired cadet nods before breaking a piece of cooled bread and shoving it into his mouth.

He scoffs, running his four-fingered hand through his dark hair.

If I remember correctly, he lost his left pinky when his Hunter accidentally fired a bolt during first-year training.

“There goes the head,” the second-year comments with a shrug, returning to his meal. But the redhead shakes his head and leans in to whisper—though his next words still reach my ears.

“They don’t know who did it. They haven’t caught him yet.”

“Derin, how do you know it’s a he ?”

Derin quickly pulls away. “Because it was those lords.”

Crime was rare a few decades ago. But the Middle grew desperate once their luxury began to slip.

Even the smallest losses—a missing potato, a shorter pearl necklace—don’t go unnoticed.

Most Middle lords turned to new trades to maintain, or even expand, their wealth.

Slavery of the less fortunate became the most common.

I wonder if that’s what they’re talking about.

Beggars and slaves still crowd the streets of both the Middle and the Center.

The Center doesn’t care about us, nor do they join the Corps.

But the Middle still clings to the idea that there’s no greater honor than becoming a soldier.

For lords, having sons or daughters in the Corps brings power and influence.

Sam keeps glancing my way, still watching. Eventually, I turn my attention to him, meeting his stare. He trembles for a moment.

“How was your rest?” He asks, his voice hesitant. “You were gone for three weeks.”

I shift my focus to the loaf in my hand. “I barely remember,” I say. Sam mutters something I can’t understand and returns to his meal. I frown at him. That’s odd.

Growing chatter grabs my attention, and I glance toward the door as a group of new cadets enters. Ilian leans back, peeking over Sam’s shoulder to watch the women among the recruits, while Sam’s eyes linger mostly on the men.

“First-years!” Ilian says cheerfully, his mouth still stuffed with bread. My eyes drift and catch a familiar shade of red. A tall figure moves past, briefly blurring the color before it sharpens again. My stomach drops.

It can’t be.

I squint for a better look and meet sharp amber-brown eyes. My breath catches, desperate, and I’m suddenly aware the air doesn’t reach lungs.

It’s her.

Ilian and Sam follow my gaze and spot the girl in the crowd, standing still as if holding her breath too, her eyes locked with mine.

Ilian’s head snaps to me with a smirk. “Damn, Zel, solid choice.”

“Do you know her?” asks Sam carefully.

“I wish I didn’t,” I say.

I shoot up from the bench, grab my tray, and head toward the drop-off area. Feet shuffle, bodies move aside, and rapid footsteps close in behind me. Divines, I hope it’s not her. As I set down the tray and toss away the scraps, a sudden blur blocks my path.

“Zel.” A voice calls my name, deeper than I remember. Older. Calmer. My eyes stay fixed on the exit, but I already know it’s her. And I don’t want it to be her.

I refuse to look, but that familiar, soft ring of my name can only come from her— Nida .

“It is you,” she says, her voice low and certain. Slowly, my eyes drop to hers—fiery, angry. Her face now shows soft lines of age. I say nothing, which seems to anger her even more.

“ You ,” she says, her brows coming together, eyes slightly darkening. “You left .”

“Get out of my way,” I finally say.

She stiffens as disbelief floods her face. “We thought you were dead. I haven’t seen you since Pirlem.”

“I hoped it would’ve stayed that way,” I respond coldly. I hear her sharp inhale, as if my words pierced her like a dagger. But she’s the last person I want to see in the Corps.

She lowers her head, shoulders tense. Finally, she looks up at me with a furrowed brow. I place a hand on her shoulder, then gently push her aside and head for the exit. This time, she doesn’t follow.

It’s been years since I last saw her. We were kids then, commoners with no thought of joining the Corps.

I wanted to be a blacksmith, and she dreamed of being a botanist. Small dreams—we couldn’t afford anything bigger.

Things have changed. I joined the Corps with one purpose, one goal.

But seeing her here caught me more off guard than I expected, stirring something in me that slipped through my stoic mask.

I left Pirlem and everything behind. I don’t want to remember it.

If I think of it, it will lead to certain death.

All soldiers are weapons. But this one is a distraction.

I pass cadets idling in the halls, moving as fast as I can toward my room.

Once inside, thoughts flood my mind. What the fuck is she doing here?

The Corps isn’t a place for her. I don’t worry as much about cadets dying on expeditions.

Yet somehow, I find myself worrying about her.

But I try to push it down, attempting to slip back behind my usual wall.

Emotions can’t get in the way. Not anymore.

My eyes drift to the nightstand by my bed, pausing there just a moment too long.

I force myself to look away, but the weight of it stays with me. My hand twitches.

Don’t open it.