Page 41 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T wo weeks. That’s how long we have until the next expedition. Grogol made sure to brief everyone on the plan a day after he informed me. Every unit, soldier, and lieutenant knows their roles for this expedition. And I know mine.

Everyone prepares in their own way. The training grounds buzz with movement. Cadets spar, hurl weapons, fine-tune their aim, or clean the grit from their crossbows.

I sit on the bench, Ilian beside me, both of us still catching our breath after sparring.

He wipes the sweat from his face with a towel while I keep my eyes on the mat.

Raumen sits just to my left, humming under his breath as he polishes his gauntlet.

The scales glint as he buffs them, a small smile forming like always.

Somehow, even in silence, his presence feels like warmth.

It’s Nida’s turn to spar now. She faces Gia, a first-year she met during Assessment Year. The two exchange light punches, testing rhythm more than strength, easily dodging.

They circle one another, throwing sarcastic comments at each other like old friends. In a way, I’m relieved she found someone outside the unit to connect with. If I remember correctly, Gia is one of the few cadets who’s from Nedersen.

They get into position and steady their breathing as they prepare to get more serious with their sparring.

Nida steps forward and launches a kick, but Gia dodges easily.

She isn’t giving her all. At least this time she isn’t telegraphing.

In fact, her stance is completely different compared to the first time we fought.

It’s steadier. She bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, hands down, eyes locked with the cadet in front of her.

Her opponent matches her stance but remains still with hands up.

I narrow my eyes and Nida. She’s too calm.

And I can’t help but recognize this stance.

This isn’t something we are taught. But I don’t remember where I’ve seen it before.

Gia lunges, twisting her hips as she launches a powerful roundhouse kick, her leg snapping through the air in a clean arc, aiming for Nida’s ribcage.

Nida stills, lifting her arms, trapping the kick before it lands.

For a second, Gia is stuck, one leg held out as she’s gently jumping around to maintain her balance.

Nida yanks Gia forward, pulling her off center, and then slams Gia to the floor with a loud thud, pushing Gia’s shoulder down. She gasps but quickly pulls her leg out of Nida’s grip and jabs it toward Nida’s jaw. But before it can hit, Nida arches her back. Gia’s heel barely misses her chin.

I raise a brow, impressed. Nida’s quick thinking and reaction are on point today.

Ilian registers my surprise and lightly nudges me in my ribs with his elbow. “You’ve taught her well,” he says with a smile.

“I don’t think I taught her anything,” I respond.

“Really?” He leans back in surprise, as Nida counters Gia’s punch and slams her down. “Where’d she learn to do that?”

“Apparently, punching and kicking trees back home in Pirlem.” I give a wry grin, a strange feeling swirling in my gut.

It’s hard to imagine little Nida punching trees at daybreak for hours.

In my mind, there are times I know she can be too soft.

Too kind. But watching her more and more changes my mind.

Behind those gentle amber eyes, there’s a burning fire waiting to be unleashed.

The type of fire I carry within me every day.

Perhaps I doubted her too much. She has shown she’s capable of being a Tracker during the dragon attack on the Stronghold.

She was right. She knows what she’s doing.

Gia launches herself again, but Nida side steps and throws an arm around Gia’s head to get her into a chokehold.

A gasp echoes across the sparring ground.

A red curl brushes against Gia’s cheek—her blue eyes snap to it.

A grunt escapes her as she throws her hands up, grabbing onto Nida’s hair and pulling it, forcing a yelp from her opponent’s lips.

My heart jolts in my chest when I hear that sound.

My fingers curl, grabbing the edge of the bench as I sink my nails into it.

That’s not a sound I want to hear from her again.

Nida falls to the ground on her back, and in the next second, Gia is on top, her blond ponytail swaying, nearly coming loose from all the movement as she pins Nida down.

Nida grits her teeth, plants her foot, and with a sharp twist of her hips, manages to throw Gia halfway off—just enough to scramble free.

It’s not clean, but it’s enough to get herself up.

They both stand, panting, staring at each other as they wipe away hair from their faces. A laugh escapes Gia.

“You’re a good kicker,” Gia comments through her heavy breath, rubbing her shoulder. “And a puncher.”

“Thanks,” Nida responds with a soft laugh. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

They both jump off the mat, Nida approaching us as she waves Gia goodbye.

“Nice sparring,” Ilian comments, a grin across his face. Nida smiles, still huffing to catch her breath as she blows a curl away.

“I have Commander Broody here to thank,” she says, jerking her chin toward me.

“ Commander Broody?” I raise a brow. I feel a little bit insulted. I curve a smile that I just can’t stop. That’s her . That’s the Nida I remember—sharp-tongued, quick to smirk, always a step ahead in the war of words, yet a kind smile is never far from her face. It almost feels nostalgic.

“It was either that or General Gloom, but that wouldn’t fit the rank now, would it?” She laughs, rubbing a towel across her face.

“I like it.” Raumen laughs, slapping my back with his large hand. I turn to face him, attempting to glare or brood, as they call it.

That only makes him laugh more. “Commander Broody at your service,” he says, pointing at my face.

“I’m not broody .”

“You’re pretty broody,” Ilian comments.

“A smidge,” Nida says, pinching her fingers together.

Raumen pats my back. “At times, yes.”

I sigh. There’s no point in arguing, and I lift my head to Nida, who’s fumbling with her curls.

“You’ve got to do something about that hair,” I say, launching myself from the bench.

She rolls her eyes, grabbing a chunk of her hair from her shoulders and flipping it back. “I know,” she chuckles, attempting to tame the live fiery mane on her head, pulling a few hand strands away from her round face and mouth.

“Here,” I say, pressing a hand to her shoulder.

“Let me.” I turn her around. She stands still, the soft halo of her curls catching light like fire.

Red—no, copper . Brighter near the crown, deeper near the nape.

It’s wild. Beautiful. The smell of coal and salt and soil after rain makes its way to my senses, calming my rapidly beating heart.

Soil. Coal. She smells like Pirlem. She smells like home.

I hesitate at first, fingers hovering just below her nape. It’s thick and springy, soft between my fingertips. I comb through it with my fingers, teasing apart tangles that twisted during the sparring. Careful .

I separate it into three sections, trying not to pull too hard. The curls resist a little, coiling back like they’ve got a mind of their own. At first, the sections aren’t of equal size, so I try again. My second attempt is more successful.

I breathe in, and when the smell of the river hits, it's as if I'm there again, the fields of blue flowers around me. A vision. As if I’m there again.

How does one do this again…

Slowly, I weave them, one over the other, the same way she taught me years ago. The sections of wild hair begin to tame into a thick, long braid. It’s not perfect, but it will do.

“There,” I say, tying the end with a strip of cloth and smoothing the ends with my fingertips. “Tamed.”

She looks over her shoulder to face me. “How did you know how to do this?”

I grin. “I didn’t. I just figured braiding hair would be like weaving a bracelet. The ones we used to make.”

Her eyes glimmer, lips parting, and a subtle hint of shock clouds her face. She holds her breath. “I can’t believe you remember that,” she says, her voice shaky.

“I never forgot.” I raise my left hand, pulling down the sleeve, revealing a sun-bleached twist of dried grass around my wrist. I’m surprised it held on for so long. But her craftsmanship was always better than mine. And I’m hoping it will remain strong for a long time.

Her eyes dart to the bracelet. She blinks and takes a slow, deep inhale.

Her smile is different this time. The contagious kind.

She blinks again, rapidly shaking her left hand, and a similar bracelet to mine peeks out from her sleeve.

And all I can think about is the river and the sharp scent of salt, the way blue forget-me-nots wove through her copper hair like pieces of sky tangled in a fiery flame.

The commandants of Hunters and Trackers emerge from the opening, making their way to the heightened platform.

Behind them, five guards drag in a wooden contraption that’s new even to me.

I wonder if this is some type of new training machine.

It has several cogwheels and a long, extended log that presumably spins if the contraption is engaged.

Curious and excited whispers fill the room as the cadets gather.

One of the commandants raises his aging hand to hush the crowd so he can speak.

“One of the most vital weapons you have against a dragon is your speed,” says Commandant Lorren, head of the Hunters.

“If you are quick on your feet, you’ll be able to dodge incoming attacks and calculate their behavior with precision.

Too slow, and you die.” His gray eyes darken, looking down over the cadets crowded next to one another, some pushing and shoving to get a closer look at the machine.