Page 47 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

M orning. The soldiers are already in formation, the heat pressing down.

Dust clings to their boots, the air thick with the scent of sweat and leather.

The sharp twang of a bowstring in a Hunter’s grip as they load their bolts.

The clink of glass vials jostling at a Tracker’s belt.

A trace of herbs wafting from the Medic’s satchel.

The grind of scales against stone as Defenders shift in heavy armor.

Everyone waits for the command to march.

Wain approaches through the haze of sweat and muffled talk, a folded note in her hand. “No sighting,” she says, her voice flat as she offers the paper. A simple ’X’ beside the letter ‘D’—no dragon.

I hold the note a heartbeat longer, as though reading more than what’s written. Then I fold it and hand it back, silent. The paper is light, but the news settles in my chest like something heavy. No sighting, yet the tracks seem fresh. I’m missing something.

“Anything from our Scouts?” I ask.

“Nothing around the perimeter. Not even tracks.”

“Send out a hawk to General Grogol and tell him that we’re moving forward. Next is Medyn.” Wain nods and strides toward the Scouts.

I glance around, taking in every soldier who’s adjusting their bags, tightening their bootstrings, or stretching.

Theo marches around, carrying several canteens of water around his neck, offering them to soldiers.

He’s too far into the formation. He needs to stick to the wagons.

His eyes meet mine, his grayish cap dampened from sweat.

“Theo,” I say. He fidgets with his hands, and trots to me. I can’t help but glance at the ground, ensuring no stones are peeking out so he doesn’t trip.

“Yes, sir?” he says, a smile on his face.

Before I say anything, he’s already reaching for a canteen, unhooking it, and handing it to me.

I take it, unscrewing the top and pressing it to my lips.

The first sip is jarring—thick, metallic, like it’s been sitting in the sun too long.

It hits my tongue heavy, not refreshing but stale.

It’s warm. But it’s still water. Theo stares at me, satisfied, proud of being useful.

The look in his eyes reminds me—just a little—of myself when I was younger.

“You need to be in your spot, kid.” I hand the half-empty canteen back.

His smile only grows bigger, more proud. “The sun’s really heavy today,” he says. “I thought, ‘hey, maybe there’s someone who needs water’. I took the chance since the formation ain’t moving yet, of course.”

I give him a gentle pat on his shoulder. “You’re doing well, kid.” He bows as a thank you, and runs off to hand out water to other soldiers. I can’t help but feel that if a dragon attacks, he’s going to be the first to go.

I hope he won’t.

And if he does—that it’ll be quick.

I shiver at the thought.

Sam runs up to me with scrolls, and notes, and ink-stained hands. A pen juts out between his teeth. He unfolds a paper, jagged at the edges, ink and dirt smudged at the corners, with different signatures of various Medics from each unit.

He pulls out the pen and says. “Three soldiers are suffering from too much sun exposure. Heatstroke.”

“That’s three soldiers less.” I clench my teeth, disappointment crawling under my skin. “Anyone from our unit?”

Sam glances at me, then back at the parchments. “How are you?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, and he quickly takes note of that. He doesn’t ask anything more. He knows I’d be honest with him if I didn’t feel well.

“Anything else?” I ask once he’s done with his notes.

He shakes his head. “Everyone else is fine, sir.”

I furrow a brow. The mention of Sir coming from Sam’s mouth takes me aback.

Commander , I remind myself. He takes note of my displeasure and presses his lips into a tight smile before stepping back and returning to formation.

I glance around once more. Everyone is in their rightful spots. Including Theo. Good.

I wave my hand in a circle and yell out. “Formation! Medyn!” The lieutenants repeat my words from each direction—spreading my command. As if pulled by the same thread, everyone begins to march.

Long hours pass. The sun climbs to its highest point, glaring down from the cloudless sky.

Sarga swirls around, casting a shadow with her large wings for some soldiers to take refuge in from the merciless heat.

Most soldiers try to lift their feet more instead of dragging them around, to prevent more dust from mingling in the air and suffocating our lungs.

Each inhale tastes like sun-baked iron and burned wood.

Even Redsnout’s fire is less oppressive than the noon sun.

I walk with my unit tucked in the back of the formation, with elite soldiers—those that have been in the Corps longer than six years—flanking us.

Hawks glide calmly through the air, no threat in sight.

Raumen strides beside me, fanning his face. His armor must be brutal in the heat.

“Need water?” I ask, not looking at him.

He chuckles, peeking to the farthest side of the formation. “Already got plenty.”

His gaze lands on Theo, scurrying to keep up with the formation and the wagons pulled by trotting horses.

Then his eyes return to mine. I smile. Raumen’s kind.

Maybe a little too kind for his own good.

He’s the type that wouldn’t take the last piece of bread even if he starved.

Because he knows if he’s starving, someone else is too.

I look up at Sarga again, soaring through the sky, doing a little loop to entertain herself. I feel warm—her calmness has a way of keeping me in check. Raumen shoots a look in my direction once more, then looks at the sky.

“Sarga’s closer than the rest,” he says with a grin

“She has a fondness for me, I guess you could say.” I smile.

He purses his lips, clearing his throat. “Can’t believe she stuck with you for so long.”

I don’t respond to that, but a sense of emptiness settles in my chest, the type of void nothing can fill. I glance up, watching a feather fall from Sarga’s wings.

You shouldn’t be here with me. But I’m grateful that you are.

Ilian peeks around Raumen’s shoulder, darting his eyes from me to Nida to Sam. Then his eyes linger on me for a bit. With a smile, he pulls out dried meat from his satchel.

“Sheep, anyone?” he says.

Nida’s eyes grow wide. “Where did you get this?” She reaches for the thin strips of mutton as Ilian hands them out to everyone.

“I asked one of the Scouts to bring one back for this purpose. I thought we’d need some. Good to get some energy before Medyn.”

“Depends on whether we’ll need to stop at Medyn,” I comment.

“We won’t be stopping?” Ilian exclaims, the strip nearly falling out of his hand.

“I’d rather get us to safety as fast as possible.”

Ilian shrugs. “Fair,” he says and takes a bite of the mutton strip.

I tear a piece and bite down. It’s tough at first, like leather, and my jaw aches as I chew. The salt stings my tongue, but later the taste of meat comes through—strong, gamey, and a little smoky. It’s good.

I take a breath and welcome a much needed breeze while enjoying the residue of meat covering my tongue. Soon, we’ll be near Medyn. Soon, we’ll be behind the safety of the Stronghold’s walls.

But something tugs on the strings of my heart, and I glance up at the sky.

Sarga’s gone.

I inhale sharply, a soft twitch traveling across my hand, and I swallow. I freeze. Listen. The clattering of horses’ hooves, the creaking wheels of the carriage, the wind rushing past me.

“Halt!” I yell, stopping the formation in its path. The lieutenants immediately raise their hands, signaling the other two squads to halt in their path, but they stopped the second I yelled.

I signal the squads to take their positions, and my arm twitches again—this time harder—like a small ray of lightning courses through it.

Shit .

To ease my rapidly beating heart, I take a deep breath.

But before I can yell out any orders, the wind rushes, sending dust into our eyes.

And all I hear is a faint, clicking noise, like flint and steel.

I yell out orders to scatter, hoping my words will reach soldiers faster than dragonfire.

But it doesn’t. The fire blazes above me, heat swirling around me as I drop to the ground as the shadow of the beast flies above us, burning others in its way.

Screams rip through the air—sharp, panicked, soaked in pain.

My vision returns just in time to catch flames devouring the wagons ahead, wood splintering and cracking in the heat.

A sudden, high-pitched screech scrapes across my nerves like metal on glass—Sarga.

I unsling the crossbow and whip around, tracking her screech bouncing off the cliffs.

My eyes dart across the chaos, but before I can spot her, another wave of fire surges overhead toward the front lines as it flies high.

It’s circling above me. I’m too close. I’ll burn if I don’t move.

I bellow, driving the others to move before the giant Redsnout breathes fire again.

We have time. We still have time. I hurl myself to the side, attempting to create more distance between me and the dragon—bow still in hand.

Glancing back, I catch sight of a large crag towering over us with claw marks etched deep into the stone.

The dragon circles the crag, then lunges, planting its claws deep into the jagged stone as it crashes against the rock face. The hairs on my arms rise.

It’s a resting spot.