Page 57 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T he next day, I’m back in my room, gathering the things I need for today’s training session. Nida is here, discussing what she needs help with. After training, I’ll have to meet up with the general and lieutenants.

“I’m good at making snares, and I’ve gotten good with my dagger,” she says, pacing my room and brushing against the bookcase with old stories I’ve read when I had time.

“And I gained more muscle,” she says, flexing and then chuckling.

That pulls a reluctant smile from me. I drop the bag on my shoulder. “What about crossbows?” I say. “Or a regular bow. Maybe practice your aim?”

She places one hand on her hip, then slowly traces her chin with the other, letting out a soft, thoughtful hum. “I’ve tried a bit with the bow. But it feels... different. Harder to get the timing right. I might prefer daggers.”

I nod, watching her carefully. “It’s all about patience and practice. No rush.”

She shrugs. “Maybe if you help me, I’ll get better faster. You’re the most skilled with crossbows anyway.”

I catch her gaze and nod, feeling a quiet determination settle between us. “Alright.” I approach her, looking her up and down. “Maybe more endurance training. You need to run far and fast as a Tracker.”

“I’m pretty fast.” She furrows a brow, as if my words insulted her.

I grin. “You want to test that theory?”

She lets out a chuckle, and for a moment, the room feels lighter—like maybe training won’t be so tough after all.

When we step out of my room, I spot Sam, shoulders stiff. He stands frozen in the hallway, as if the weight of something invisible is anchoring him to the floor. His green eyes lift halfway to mine, then drop again. He’s hiding something.

“Sam?” I call out softly, but he doesn’t answer.

Just stares at the ground, jaw clenched, mouth twitching like he’s trying to form words and failing.

He twirls a fabric belt from his robes, medic vials and herbs still attached.

What’s got him like this? Someone who’s usually decisive when she speaks—this is so unlike him.

“Sam,” I say again, firmer now. The knot in my gut tightens. Sam never hides the truth from me. Even when it shatters him. Even when it breaks me. But once—years ago—he told me there might come a day when the hardest thing he’d ever do was tell me that—

“It’s Pirlem,” he stutters. “It’s gone.”

My world flips upside down, and it’s as if all the air is sucked out of the hall. Nida takes a step, her breath hitching, body shaking. And like her, I hope I misheard Sam’s words. But then, from behind, Lieutenant Wain emerges. The look on her face confirms it.

We haven’t misheard.

The long walk from the room to the quarters is filled with silence. Only our footsteps echo from wall to wall. Lieutenant Wain’s tense posture makes me feel uneasy as she walks.

We reach the Commanders’ Quarters, where other commanders stand around a giant round table.

I glance around the room and notice several cadets, commanders, and analysts from various units—people Sam and I have worked with briefly. Sam moves toward the table, avoiding my gaze.

“How many?” I ask.

“Most likely, few to no survivors,” Wain says.

“Dragon attack?” I ask. Sam looks at me. Then he nods.

“How did we not know it was there?” I seethe through my teeth.

“It happened last night. It… killed our Scouts. There was no way of knowing. We found out this morning. A Scout responsible for switching posts with one of the others discovered what happened. She was the one to send us the message. ”

My stomach drops. For how long have they suffered? Now we have to plan an expedition. We’ll have to go to Pirlem, not to kill a dragon, but to bury people. Our people. My people.

Nida draws in a shaky breath, her eyes darkening, but she’s trying to contain herself, and I can already guess what’s going through her mind.

A soldier is a tool. Not a sentimental being.

Shut it off.

Not a sentimental being.

But we are.

“Are you sure there aren’t any survivors?” I ask, hoping that their answer will change.

But Wain shakes her head. “We’ve sent out scouting units around Pirlem and to other villagers. Hawks returned not too long ago. They found nothing.”

Nida stares at the map on the table, then shifts her gaze to Sam, who refuses to meet hers. Wain catches on and loosens her posture.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says. I’m grateful for her words.

As a high-ranking lieutenant, she’s not allowed to show any emotions—even during The Memorial.

But she’s willing to put that aside and offer comfort.

Nida gives a nod, her muscles tense as if every fiber in her body tells her to scream and yell and rip everything apart.

But now she has to pretend that none of this hurts her.

Pretend that none of this even happened.

Hold on to false hope that she’ll see her family again.

I’ve been there. I’ve felt the same way. But is she strong enough to contain it?

If Pirlem is destroyed, it sets us back years.

Everything they had, materials or food or any hope in rebuilding gone—lost in dragon fire.

No Pirlem will make it difficult to expand.

My fingers dig into my palms. I’m sure there are survivors.

Even though my gut urges me to trust Sam and Wain, I refuse to abandon hope.

Maybe some villagers escaped in time. They must have. I beg the Divines they did.

Without Pirlem—without our protection from the northwest—the Stronghold is far more vulnerable now.

“You and Sam will have to go through these reports,” Wain says, tapping the stack of papers on the table. “All soldiers will have extra duties until we get a clearer picture. Until then, Zel, you’ll plan the next expedition.”

I swallow hard, the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. My mind races—there’s no room for mistakes now. I nod, forcing myself to focus. This isn’t just about survival anymore. It’s about leading them through what’s coming next.

“Understood,” I say, voice steadier than I feel.

Soldier first. Soldier first. Soldier first.

The walk back toward the training grounds is excruciating, shattering every bit of hope I had left.

Tainting the only moment in my life that felt real, into something horrifying.

Nida hasn’t said a word. I just follow, trying to find something to say.

But nothing comes out. Instead, I watch her red waves sway over her back, and she passes hall after hall like a ghost, until she’s met with a dead end.

Her cries pierce the air. I want to say that there’s still a chance they’re alive. There’s still hope. But that’s a lie.

“I lost them, Zel,” she says with a cracking voice. It breaks my heart. Sage. Bram. Her little sister—Isra, I think her name was. She was nine years old. Divines, Maira. I can’t even imagine what Ligerion must be feeling. Does he even know?

Silence takes over, and I watch her turn her head in defeat, searching for something that’s not there.

Lit torches illuminate the tears traveling across her freckled face.

I can’t hold back. I can’t shut it off, the feelings I so desperately try to conceal.

I cup her face in my hands, bringing her closer to me.

She needs to know I’m here. That I’m never leaving her side again.

She needs to know how I feel. But words fail me.

I don’t know how to say it, what to say, or what this flutter in my chest even is.

But I want to protect her in every way I possibly can. Mind, body, and soul.

“You still have me,” I say, wiping her tears from her cheeks, the amber glow in her eyes drowned beneath the water. I’m trying— trying —to bring the right words from my heart to my lips. “You still have me.” But the way she looks at me tells me that’s not enough.