Page 5 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T he room is sparse—one bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and my old crossbow hanging crookedly on the wall since I slammed the door the moment I walked in, knocking it off-center. My jaw locks, teeth grinding. Thoughts—persistent.

Why is she here ?

Shit.

The room may be large, but the walls feel like they’re caving in. There’s no air left to breathe. A surge of adrenaline makes my hand twitch, followed by a sting that shoots from my fingertips all the way to my throat.

I need to calm down. What did Sayna say?

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat six times.

I do just that. The first inhale feels like heavy, poisonous smoke enters my lungs.

The second, no different. But the third is lighter, letting me find the strength to unclench my fists.

My breath is still uneven, but it’s slowing down.

This time, I manage a deeper breath—steady, controlled.

The final inhale feels like rain-washed air rushing into my lungs, chasing out the last traces of stress before I let it all go.

My shoulders roll back, and the stinging sensation from my throat fades.

I push the thought of Nida deeper into the back of my mind, hoping it won’t resurface.

Then, I sit at the table, grab the Dragon’s Atlas, and trace the carved name etched into its cover.

Augustus Flannyel. The name is barely visible, picked and rubbed at.

Its rough edges feel like dull blades, worn out by those who had it years before me.

Pages stained with dirt and blood and sweat—an eternal mark of the cadets’ struggles as they spent long nights studying dragon behavior. Cadets who are no longer here.

Each page presents everything we know about dragons. Every species and skill they possess. Each one of them, more deadly than the other. I study the sketches and drawings of the Highspine Redsnout, the last dragon we’re facing. A dragon that’s been a thorn in the Corps’ side for years.

A gentle tap on the window breaks my trance, pulling me to my feet. I walk toward the sound, catching a glimpse of blurred brown shapes shifting through the stained glass. As I open the window, a hawk creeps in through the narrow gap.

“Sarga,” I murmur in relief, and signal her to hop on my arm.

She flaps her wings, enough to take flight and expose her talons to gently grasp my arm.

She lets out a quiet cry, then nudges her head into my other hand.

I scratch her russet-brown feathers, muttering a soft, “welcome home,” and close the window.

“Now, where have you been?” I joke, gently extending one of her wings to examine her feathers. She’s fine. The blood on her talons suggest a recent hunt.

“Got yourself a mouse?” I reach for a leather pouch of rat meat given by the kitchen workers from the other day, but she doesn’t show interest.

“A rat then.” I extend her other wing, checking for anything unusual.

It’s an old habit that I’ve long forgotten the importance of.

A routine that feels familiar yet foreign.

Her feathers are sleek, patches of dust clinging to them.

I trace her wing, brushing off whatever excess dirt I find.

A sharp pain pierces through my head as my thoughts begin drifting to the past—the past I desperately try to bury.

But the sight of Sarga’s feathers and the sound of her gentle calls has a way of drawing me back to the time I was at my weakest. A weakness I can’t afford again.

Not now. Not with the weight I have to bear on my shoulders.

If I’m named Commander, I must use whatever strength remains in me to lead humanity to freedom.

I guide Sarga onto the bird perch and scatter dried insects in a small wooden bowl in case she gets hungry when I’m down in the training grounds.

She puffs up her feathers, resisting the meal.

I roll my eyes at her and approach a table piled with several old books.

Books I loved to read when I was a kid. Stories about a paradise.

With water and trees, different creatures like deer and elk.

Thousands of bird species with colorful feathers and unique songs—a world shaped by the Divines.

But the older I got, the harder it was to imagine that such a world ever existed.

Now it’s just fairytales that most people have already forgotten, and only a handful wish were true.

I push the books aside and search for a box of goods for Sarga, then freeze at a sudden thud.

I notice a book on the floor—its spine upright, balanced awkwardly.

It must’ve slipped from the edge when I moved the others.

The green leather stands out against the grayish floor, like moss sprouting from stone.

I reach for it, brushing off the thick dust that dulls the golden embroidery.

Tracker’s Guide.

I haven’t read it in a while. Inside is an old map, designed to be used with a compass that always points toward the Black Mountain in the Center. The only place we still call safe. The book belonged to Kayus—my tracker that died two years ago.

A knock on the door snaps me back to reality, and Sarga puffs her feathers as if she’s about to claw whoever comes through the door.

“Easy now, girl,” I say, raising my hands to calm her and close the book. My brow furrows as I stare at the handle, wondering who it could be. Visitors are rare.

I open the door just enough to peek through the gap. Tired eyes that are slightly obstructed by thin strands of graying hair stare back at me. The courier. He raises his eyebrows as he sees me through the gap, but I don’t open up the whole way.

“Hi,” he whispers nervously, smiling with crooked, stained teeth. “Ligerion would like to see you.”

My brow creases. “Now?” I ask. Perhaps he has the new bow ready for me. The man frantically nods.

“Yes, yes. He’s in his chambers now,” he says, clearing his throat after every sentence.

“Alright,” I say. “Thank you.”

The man nods several times again and then disappears into the hall.

I close the door, turning to the bedframe where my satchel hangs. I grab it, and the weight feels off in my hands. I haven’t used it in a while—only when I tracked dragons on my own.

I toss the grey bag over my shoulder and adjust it over my chest. Sarga puffs her feathers again.

“I know, I know,” I smirk, approaching her. “I just got here. I’ll be back later.”

She releases a gentle cry, her feathers returning to a calmer state. I brush my hand over her little head, and she bumps into it again before nibbling on my finger as punishment for leaving her. I stride toward the door, taking another glance at her, and a smile curves on my lips.

“I’m glad you were able to meet with me on such short notice, lad,” Ligerion says as he opens the door wider.

The moment I step over the threshold, the smell of burning coal overwhelms me.

Heat radiates from my left, soft embers illuminating various metal tools hanging from the walls, giving light to an otherwise dark room.

He strides toward his workbench with practiced ease, the dull clang of his boots echoing through the stone-walled room.

A crossbow rests there, half-shrouded beneath a worn blue cloth.

I shut the door behind me with a soft thud, my eyes never leaving Ligerion as he peels back the fabric with reverence, revealing polished steel and carved wood.

A quiet sigh escapes him—equal parts pride and relief.

“Your new crossbow,” he says, his voice threaded with joy as he cradles the weapon like something sacred.

In truth, everything he crafts is sacred for him.

He wobbles slightly under the weight of excitement, making his way toward me.

I slip the bag from my shoulder, letting it fall with a soft thump at my feet, and reach out.

The weapon is warm from his hands. My fingers curl around the tiller, surprised.

“You managed to make it lighter,” I utter, running my hand over the smooth handle—freshly carved, oddly balanced. Even though it will take a while for me to get used to the weight, it feels more satisfying, unlike the crooked bow I always had to adjust to my own liking.

“I hollowed out parts of the stock, foregrip, and barrel,” he says, eyes sparkling. “It takes longer to manufacture, but it’ll be worth it in the long run. I can manage a few, though for now this is the only prototype.”

“The string?” I ask, my fingers brushing along the edge of the bow, noting the fine tension in the line.

“Processed from dragon scales,” Ligerion replies with a proud smile, his voice still buzzing with excitement. “Lightweight. Durable. Resistant to flame. Just like you said. Took a while to get it right.”

“Excellent.” I cock the weapon with a quiet click and lifting it to eye level, testing the aim. “I’ll need time to adjust. The balance is different.”

“It should suit your fighting style,” he says, wagging a finger at me like an old scholar reminding a student. “ Up close, wasn’t it?”

I uncock the string and flash a faint smile, letting the weapon rest in my grip. “Not anymore.”

He shrugs with an amused huff. “Can’t blame you. No one wants to be face-to-face with a Redsnout. One hundred and fifty meters and you’re already ash.”

“If they ignite,” I add, sliding the crossbow to my side.

Ligerion shakes his head as he paces, rubbing a hand through his silver-flecked hair. “I feel sorry for the poor soul who had to figure that out first,” he says with a dry chuckle. I return a smile.

Ligerion snaps his fingers. “Right! Almost forgot.” He limps toward the hearth, rearranging metal scraps and unfamiliar objects and mysterious inventions.