Page 45 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

We move forward, following the line the general traced on the map.

Everyone is on their toes. I look up at the sky and watch Sarga calmly soaring together with other hawks—no indication that any threat is near.

The hooves of the horses and the wooden wheels of the carriages send clouds of dust into the air.

Time has passed so fast that I can’t even remember when it rained enough for the soil to be soaked through.

There are green patches of grass clinging to life, but I wonder for how long.

A little streak of grass and a large boulder on the horizon make my stomach twist. With every step, I’m getting closer.

Pirlem.

I take a slow, deep breath, dirt and smoke and wet moss make their way up my nose. It takes more effort than I thought to keep myself focused. Of all the places I thought I’d be, returning here was the last of them.

Just a few more steps.

When I pass the small, crooked wooden gates and enter the village, my body tenses as I brace myself for the scent of the forge—warm metal and soot—to wrap around me like it always did.

I listen for the sound of laughter from the children who used to gather by the chipped old well in the village center.

But as I follow the worn footpath, expecting to see the familiar patchwork of footprints—small, large, some half-faded—I’m met with a different type of familiarity.

The ground is dark.

There are no boot prints anymore.

The ground is dark with scorch marks.

No laughing children.

No patches of grass.

Just burned houses.

There’s no one here. Not even a hint of home.

My chest tightens, the kind of ache that digs in behind the ribs.

Beside me, I feel Nida’s gaze, quiet and steady—watching me as a breath scrapes its way out of my throat as if it’s made of steel.

Then her fingers graze my arm—barely a touch, but enough for me to shudder.

I hate the fact that I cannot mourn now.

That I shouldn’t mourn now. That I never got the chance to.

This place isn’t how I remember it. It’s not where I grew up. Not where I met her. It’s a ruin . Burned and broken, just like the day I left it at fourteen. Perhaps even worse.

A rustle to my right snaps me out of grief and forces me into a straight posture. Into a soldier. From the remains of a half-collapsed house, its roof bowed and held up by splintered planks, a figure emerges. An old woman. Dark hair streaked with gray, eyes filled with hesitant worry. I know her.

She steps forward slowly, scanning the soldiers as if gathering the courage and searching for someone to speak to. But no words come. Not until her round, familiar eyes find mine. Maira. Ligerion’s sister.

“You’re back!” Her voice is breathless, startled—like she never truly believed she’d see me again.

Her eyes soften, a ghost of a smile pulling at her lips.

She pushes a few graying strands beneath her kerchief with hands covered by dry soil, wiping them on a faded blue apron clinging to a skirt patched at the hem.

I manage a smile in return as my shoulders sink forward. “Maira,” I say as she approaches me, putting her hands in mine.

“It really is you, little lad!” Her voice trembles as she lifts her hands, cupping my cheeks like she’s afraid I might disappear again.

“My, you’ve grown.” Her fingers travel from my face to down to my shoulders, tracing the muscles I’ve fought hard to build.

“You’re even taller than your father. Oh… you’re not a little lad anymore.”

I let out a gentle breath, feeling guilty over the subtle warmth seeing her gives me. I guess home was never about the place. It was the people.

“What happened here?” I ask, even though I know the answer. But I didn’t think it was this bad. Perhaps if I took my time to listen to Nida or actually visited instead of locking myself in my room, I would have known this sooner.

She lets go of me, stepping away, realizing there are soldiers around.

“Well,” she says slowly, trying to keep her smile.

But the light from her eyes died as I asked the question.

“It’s been like this for eight years now, Kazelius.

Slowly we ran out of food… I— well… This is how we live now.

The crops… well, there’s not much left of them now. ” The smile fades.

Anger boils inside of me. The subtle tastes of iron spread inside my mouth. I’m gnawing on the inside of my cheek.

Lieutenant Wain approaches us, shifting her gaze between me and the aging woman.

“Everything alright?” she says, putting her hands behind her back. I don’t say anything, just look at her. She catches on to me.

“Unfortunately, Commander, we must keep moving.” Wain places her hands to the sides. “Night will fall soon. With the Redsnout being diurnal, it’s a good chance to make camp outside of Pirlem.”

I give her a low nod before returning my focus to Maira.

She’s worried and confused, her eyes darting between me and Wain, as if she’s trying to find a way to tell me not to go.

I’ve known Maira since I was little. She would have berries from her garden whenever my father would take me to visit Ligerion.

That was before Ligerion took the job as the Corps’ blacksmith.

Everyone knew Maira. She’d find ways to make everyone’s day better—even while carrying her newborn around.

But judging by her state and the village’s, the child didn’t make it.

“I’ll come back, Maira,” I say softly, reaching for her hands.

“I expect nothing less,” she says with a subtle smile. Her words sting. Eight years, and they still see me as their own.

I let go of her hand and return to formation, Nida right next to me.

I walk with my head down, watching my boots dig into the ground of a place that was once my home.

We walk forward, passing houses, sunken in and crumbling from decay.

This place used to be beautiful even in the harshest conditions.

The villagers always came together to take care of it.

They lit the lanterns outside, guiding each other back through the dark.

Now it’s dulled and grayed, just like the faces of the people that still live here.

“Do you think Ligerion knows?” I ask, realizing the question is more for me than Nida.

She clears her throat, sniffing through her nose as if gathering courage to say the one word I already know she’s going to say. “No.”

The fact that Grogol lied about even putting any effort into rebuilding Pirlem makes me nearly go feral.

I clench my jaw, the muscles of my jaw flex.

Nails dig into my palms, stinging like needles.

Even though I’m a soldier—loyal to humanity and its survival—I doubt I can forgive him for this.

Perhaps I can put it aside, tuck it deeply into my mind, ignore it when I least need it.

Because this is personal. And during duty, I shouldn’t let my emotions get the best of me.

Yet… my walls are cracking. And I’m unsure what to feel. What’s appropriate to feel.

Lieutenant Wain stands at the front of the formation, her back straight and her look piercing. Now that we’ve reached Pirlem, we have to change direction to the west, in a bow-like path toward Medyn.

As I walk, my eyes stray to a small opening to my right, where two children crouch in the dirt, hunched over a dead rat. One clutches it to her chest like a doll, while the other claws at it, crying. Bile rises in my throat. Something inside of me snaps.

I turn to the ration wagon that’s being pulled by a horse and halt it. I look at the other wagon beside it.

“These two wagons—leave them rations,” I bark. “Now.”

One of the soldiers strays from his formation. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a crooked nose and dust in his hair. Third-year.

“Leave them rations?” he says, irritated, his voice flat and brittle. “Why would we leave them rations?” He waves his hand around lazily, a scoff escaping through his scarred lip. “They’re as good as dead anyway.”

Two steps—that’s all it takes for me before my nails are digging in his throat. And only a blink of an eye before my fist meets his gut, and he’s rolling on the ground.

“Look at them!” I snap, as I haul him up from the ground with ease, his tall figure feeling like a sack of air in my grip. He trembles under my fingers, gasping for air as he finds his balance.

“Are you blind?” I growl, gritting my teeth, my hand wrapping around the back of his neck.

“No, sir,” he says, voice shaking.

“Are you stupid?” My grip tightens.

He shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“These people are starving. They haven’t eaten in days, if not weeks,” I hiss, my jaw throbbing from clenching my teeth.

My fingers knot in his collar, and I haul him close enough to feel his breath stutter.

“They’re among the last souls still breathing in these ruins. Tell me—what do we fight for?”

Terror ripples through him. He squeezes his eyes shut, drags in one shaky breath, then forces the words out between clenched teeth. “Humanity, sir.”

I release my grip, slow enough that he feels the choice in it. “That’s right. Humanity .” I turn to the wagon behind me. “Leave two wagons. Now.”

Some hesitate, as if they didn’t hear it.

“I command it!” My voice thunders, and soldiers move to the wagons without a word, boots crunching over dry, brittle ground.

One by one, they start unloading rations—dried meat, sacks of barley, and a few battered tins of food.

It’s not much, but it’s more than these people have seen in weeks.

I stand still, watching. Ensuring everything stays on the grounds of Pirlem and no soldier takes anything for himself.

From the edge of a burned house, a few children inch closer. Cautious. Curious. They keep low, eyes flicking between the soldiers and food. The smallest one hesitates, glancing up at me, with the rat still at her chest. Dirt and dry blood cling to her face. I don’t think it’s her blood.

I glance back at the soldiers. Nida stands silently, watching how people emerge from destroyed homes.

A sigh of relief escapes her when a man and a woman caress her arms from behind.

Her knees tremble, her posture falters at the sight of the couple.

I barely recognize them, but the amber eyes they all share tell me enough.

They don’t hug, they don’t move. They hesitate.

Nida jerks her head toward the rations. “Go,” she says silently, yet her eyes are still locked with her mother. “I’m fine,” she says. “Go.”

The couple slinks away, eyes still on Nida as she drops her head down, trembling.

For a brief moment, their eyes meet mine and they take a startled step back as if they didn’t see me at first. Their faces gleam with gratefulness, a faint smile spreading.

Sage. Bram. Names I’ve almost forgotten. Names I don’t want to forget again.

Soon after, a little girl emerges behind Nida, small and frail, tugging on her hand.

“ Nini ?” she whispers. Nida freezes. As if yanked by some invisible thread, she spins around and drops to her knees.

Her hands reach instinctively, shaking as they push back the wild copper curls clinging to the girl’s dirt-smudged cheeks.

The child looks up with hollow eyes—dim, dulled versions of Nida’s.

She shakes, and her clothes hang off her small figure like loose paper, stained with old sweat and filth.

“Hey there, little mouse,” Nida says, voice breaking around the edges. She runs her hands gently over the girl’s tiny shoulders, pausing to squeeze her thin arms. Is she checking for muscle? For bruises? Illness?

The little girl parts her lips—cracked, caked, dirt clinging to the corners. They’ve been eating tree bark. My heart sinks at the sight.How the fuck did we let this happen?

“Go to mama,” Nida whispers, reaching for the cheeks and wiping the dirt off. The little girl looks up at me, her frown becoming more prominent.

“That man’s scary,” she says, her big oval eyes returning to Nida. I slump my shoulders—just a little bit—to seem less threatening. I guess she got scared when I yelled at the soldier for not wanting to leave rations. Not really an impression I want to have on little kids.

She hesitates to move.

“He won’t hurt you,” Nida reassures, running her hands over the little girl’s curls. She gives a few nods and then slowly walks toward the carriage, where the rest of the villagers gather supplies, food, and rations.

Once this is done. Once this is all over. I’ll do everything I can to make sure Pirlem not only survives, but thrives.

The autumn breeze reminds me that I’d better do it soon. Fast. Or they might not survive another winter.