Page 52 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

N othing’s more frustrating than running across the Stronghold with numb legs. But what’s worse is Ilian hauling me up every time I stumble. Adrenaline’s got him jittery—like a cornered rabbit doing more harm than good.

We pass corridors where flickering lights cling to life, cross the training field to the weaponry, then descend into the basement.

Two guards struggle to hold Eryca down, five more ready to intervene. Her knees bleed from constantly scraping against the rough, stony floor.

“I didn’t do this!” she yells. Pain flashes across her face before her eyes dart between me and her brother—silent pleas for help.

Lieutenant Rylan stands with his arms crossed, his eyes burning like he's already sentenced her a dozen times in his mind. “The evidence shows you did,” he says. He crouches before her, locking eyes at her level. “Your actions have been deemed treason by the Third, and for that, you will be sentenced to death.” His voice is cold and practiced. “If your deeds don’t serve humanity’s best interests, then you are the enemy of humanity—a curse on the world, a stain on the Divine’s creation. ”

The enemy of humanity.

The guards haul Eryca up and shove her toward the door, wrenching her arms behind her back, and she cries out in pain.

I don’t move. Execution is reserved for the worst offenses.

The very worst. In this world, every life counts—that’s why most are denounced, not killed.

Forced to live as ghosts. Exiled. Their ears are clipped, a mark for all of Karalia to see.

And anyone caught speaking to one is branded the same.

Still, they serve a purpose—burying corpses, cleaning horseshit, serving the rich.

“Make way,” one of the guards says, his jaw clenching with impatience.

“Or you’ll what?” I say, darting my eyes to the other guard. “You’ll execute me for treason?” I know they can’t do anything to me. I’m a commander . And as Rylan likes to put it—I’m in General Grogol’s shadow.

The guards tighten their grip on Eryca’s arms, making her wince as she twists, trying to break free. Then her eyes lock with mine—silent begging to stop before it gets worse. Rylan stands nearby, a slow, cruel grin spreading across his face.

“Move, Aaran,” he hisses, stepping forward with deliberate menace. “Or don’t. I’m sure the general will have plenty of questions about how you missed all the suspicious activity in your unit.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I say, keeping a straight face. My ribs haven’t fully healed, and my body still trembles from the seizure. I stare at him, frozen—but he doesn’t flinch either. I flick a glance to Eryca, her eyes wide with terror.

“Treason,” the guard snaps, and Rylan raises his hand.

“She didn’t lace the bolts with tranquilizers,” Rylan says in a low, calm voice, like he’s expecting me to flinch. “Her actions” —he points at Eryca— “led to dozens losing their lives when the Redsnout attacked the Stronghold. And made us lose the opportunity to achieve peace.”

The bolts on the general’s desk. They examined them. Shit.

“How can you be certain she made the bolts?” I snap.

With a slight sneer and a raised brow, Rylan says, “What, you think I’m an idiot, Aaran?” his tone laced with mockery. “We found more unlaced bolts by her station..”

I grab Ilian, planting him in front of the door to block the guards as I move toward the shelves.

Guards grunt with impatience, but hesitation clouds their faces—no one dares act recklessly.

Executing the innocent breeds doubt among the Third.

Something neither the general nor a lieutenant can afford.

A stack of bolts on the shelf near Eryca’s station catches my eye—clearly made some time ago—and they aren’t laced.

From this angle, it’s easy to assume she never laces her bolts.

But on the ground, right by her seat, a few stray bolts lie scattered.

I snatch them up and shake them in the air. The sharp, acidic scent burns my lungs.

Laced.

I stride to the guards and hold the bolts up in front of Lieutenant Rylan.

“Eryca didn’t make these,” I say, my voice firm as I hold the two different bolts in front of them. Eryca’s eyes widen, and she stops struggling.

“What?” Rylan says. “Give me that.” He swipes the bolts from me before I even loosen my grip and raises the bolt to the tip of his nose, inhaling the pungent smell. He turns to Eryca, sneering.

His dark onyx eyes flick back to me. “Then how do you explain these?” he says, reaching for the non-laced bolts.

I notice a wide gap on the shelf. Eryca’s fresh bolts sit at the front, but the unlaced ones at the far end could easily belong to the neighboring station—they share this shelf.

Dust clings thick to them, like they’ve been left to gather for ages.

“It must’ve been someone else,” I say. “Have these examined instead. But I doubt you’ll find this person alive.”

Rylan sneers, giving a quick fake smile in between. “You need to talk to the general about that then.”

I return his fake smile with my own. “You’re a lieutenant,” I say calmly. “Your responsibility is to report on what happens within the Hold. My responsibility is to report what happens on the battlefield.”

“Your unit, your responsibility,” he retorts.

“My unit—is a conflict of interest.”

At first, he’s hesitant. But then he clenches the bolts with his hand before he takes a deep breath.

“I will take these to the general.”

I nod in approval, the tension in the room easing. Rylan signals the guards to release Eryca. She rubs the backs of her arms, wincing as she tries to soothe the bruises. Then her eyes drop to her torn leathers, scraped raw against the stone floor, dark blood seeping through the rips.

The second the guards leave, Ilian rushes toward Eryca and embraces her. Curses form under her breath, managing to call the guards and—specifically Rylan—every vulgarity there is.

“Shit,” Ilian whispers, letting go of Eryca.

She’s shaking, stunned after everything, shutting her eyes tightly to shut off, control the adrenaline in her body. I let silence stretch for a moment before I approach her carefully.

“Are you alright?” I ask, my voice firm. But I can’t imagine how terrifying this must have been for her.

“Yes,” she says, opening her dark eyes. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead.” I let out a breath of relief, and a smile curves on her lips, contagious enough to reach me.

“One day I’m gonna rip his throat out with my own bare hands,” she mumbles, dusting off her leathers.

“Murder will get you clipped,” I say.

“Then I’ll throw him in the hearth and blame it on the Redsnout.”

I smile, letting another silent moment stretch.“Did you do it?” I ask eventually.

“The hell?” she says slowly, furrowing a brow. “You have to ask that?”

A unit should be one and trust each other’s words. But to me, there’s nothing more important than honesty. She bares her teeth, her lip twitching into a frown, ready to defend herself.

“I don’t doubt you, but considering the circumstances and as a leader, I still have to ask. Did you purposely not lace the bolts?”

She inhales sharply before giving her firm answer. “No.”

I nod, and I don’t ask anything after that. I trust Eryca—with her desire to become a lieutenant, she would never risk humanity’s survival. But I wonder who would—and why.

“Why would anyone think it was you?” Ilian asks, staring at the door as if he’s ready to jump a guard.

“How the hell am I supposed to know that?” Eryca snaps.

I look across the dusty shelves. My eyebrows furrow at the bolts in the front of the shelves with an empty gap. I wonder who it was that crafted bolts before Eryca. I look back at the hearth, then the table where Ligerion sat as we crafted bolts together.

Is it him? No, it can’t be. I helped him craft those bolts. My heart sinks.

Shit.

Was it me?

No. Ligerion would’ve said something, or he would’ve laced them himself.

Then who the hell was it?

I’m at the rooftop again.

This feels like the longest night of my life. I inhale the cold breeze that’s tickling my hair, a subtle crispness hiding behind the stench of heavy decay. The air is always so heavy. If only there were more trees around this place.

I close my eyes, feeling my chest slowly rising and falling as I clear my mind.

The rough tiles scrape my fingers. I feel grounded.

Alive. Yet the numbness of my legs keeps reminding me of how close to death I really am.

I don’t know how long I can take this. I don’t know if I’ll be able to save everyone before I’m gone.

A gentle screech echoes in the air—Sarga swirling in the night sky, watching over me. I feel safe with her. We have a bond that can never be broken. I have Kayus to thank for that.

The breeze carries a faint aroma of fresh grass. My shoulders rise, and my heart flutters in my chest, as if coming back to life again. I glance behind me and find amber eyes peeking through the window frame.

“Raumen said you’d be here,” Nida says, climbing onto the roof.

“Did he?” I smile, watching her come closer. “I feel betrayed.”

“Well,” she grunts, sitting slightly away from me, “not without some convincing.” Raumen knows I prefer this place alone, but I don’t mind him telling her about it.

“I spoke with Eryca today,” she says, hugging her knees. “You know, after everything.”

“Is she alright?” I ask.

Nida nods. “She’s strong. But I’m sure there’s a lot of questions in her head right now.”

I press my lips together, and thoughts become louder in my head. Why were they so quick to assume it was Eryca? Dozens of people help Ligerion craft bolts. It’s not evidence—it’s convenience. As far as I can tell, she’s innocent. And I won’t let them use her as a scapegoat.

“I can’t begin to imagine what she must be going through,” Nida says, her eyes on the drip edge.

“She’s safe now,” I say. “I’ll make sure of that.”