Page 59 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

I need to clear my head before I go to the General and tell him our theories. It’s a risk—but a risk I’m willing to take. I’m certain he’ll listen to me.

I sit on the rooftop, feet dangling off the edge, staring at the spiked barricades under me. If I fall, I’ll most likely die.

Shit.

I shake the thought away and gaze out to the horizon, savoring the quiet morning while soldiers move about below my feet.

If only when I got off this rooftop, I didn’t have to turn into something that I didn’t want to be.

Up here, memories of my old life have a way of infiltrating my mind, reminding me of what I used to have, who I used to be.

I know that this is some type of longing, hoping that one day I can go back.

That all of this suffering is going to end, and I can smell the smoke rising from the forge, and hear the bubbling of melted metal being shaped into a dagger, or an axe, or a horseshoe.

Or feel Nida’s soft hands raking my hair or weaving bracelets.

I thought I had forgotten my old life, but Nida gave me something a dying man should never have— hope .

That is a powerful tool here at the Corps.

To hope for freedom, to hope for victory.

It’s a drive that leads soldiers into bloody battles without them thinking twice of turning around and hiding behind the stony walls of the Hold.

But hope—for me in my condition—is deadly.

The rooftop is a place where I can escape the thought of that. To breathe.

But with the expedition, Pirlem, the dragon, not even the rooftop manages to completely silence the voices in my head.

The weight of everything starts to feel heavy again, and I find myself scraping for whatever ability I have left to shut my emotions off.

There’s no time—no place—to feel anything.

I need to focus. I have to focus. I have to lead.

It’s what people expect of me.

I spot a small figure limping toward the Stronghold’s entrance. The figure doesn’t seem threatening, but the soldiers draw their weapons. I squint my eyes against the sun. That’s not an ordinary limp. I’d recognize it from miles away.

Tyras.

I jump up from the ledge and dart through the window.

Old Man Tyras is a farmer and a miner, not far away from Pirlem.

I used to go there to watch him care for his animals.

My father crafted tools for him. In exchange, he would give us a handful of potatoes and some other resources like stone and fertile soil.

I can’t believe he’s still alive. I thought he perished with everyone else in Pirlem.

When I get there, Lieutenant Wain is already listening to the man, frantically telling his stories.

Wain looks confused. She catches a glimpse of me and waves me closer, cocking her head with a raised eyebrow at the poor man.

He’s disoriented. I tense, noticing the fearful look in his eyes as I approach.

“Old Man Tyras,” I say. His eyes find mine, and relief floods his face as he strides toward me, shoulders rolling back.

He shoots his hands up in the air, clasping them together.

“My dear boy!” he says with glee, but worry clouds his face, and my heart begins to pound in my chest. Why did he walk all this way alone?

Where is his family? “It is so good to see you!” His voice shakes as he attempts to catch his breath.

“Yes,” I reply, slightly disoriented myself.

“It’s been a long time.” He grabs my hand and clasps it between his old, wrinkled ones.

Grit grinds against my skin as his dirt-caked palms brush mine.

He must’ve been working in the mines today.

If that’s the case, then his family is probably safe.

Maybe he doesn’t even know what happened to Pirlem.

In any case, I’ll have to find a way to keep him safe before the dragon attack his hut.

His thin gray hair is streaked with black dust, and dirt smudges his once-yellow straw hat, now dulled to gray.

He releases my hand and wipes sweat from his forehead, leaving a black smear across his skin.

He was definitely at the mines—despite swearing years ago he’d never return, leaving the work to his sons.

The sons that are now crippled, and a daughter too weak to swing a hammer.

“What’s wrong, Old Man?” I pat his back, guiding him into the safety of the Hold. His hands twist together, his gaze darting over his shoulder, words caught in hesitation. But when his eyes meet mine, it’s as if he knows—whatever he says, I’ll listen. I’ll understand.

“There is something in the mines.” He shudders. “I have… heard things. I cannot really explain what it was, but I am certain there is something there.”

I arch a brow, unease knotting in my stomach. The old man has always been sharp, steady—never once showing signs of madness. So why does this feel different? I guide him inside, making sure he’s out of harm’s way.

“What have you seen there?” I ask as heavy doors close behind us.

“Oh.” He exhales, attempting to catch his breath. “Oh, I didn’t see anything there, I only heard things. I heard whispers—in the mines.”

“Whispers?” I repeat, needing to be sure I heard him right. He nods, worry etched deep across his face as he fidgets with the straw hat.

“Alright,” I say finally. “I’ll take a few units and I will check out the mines.”

His eyes light up as he looks at me, though his brows remain furrowed. “My family,” he stutters. So they’re alive. “They’ve gone to Pirlem.”

Damn it. Nobody should go there. I thought the Scouts informed everyone. But I guess they missed his hut. Right now they’re probably finding refuge in ruin.

“I’ll send a unit to ensure your family is brought in safely during the inspection. For now, I need you to stay inside the Stronghold. Once your family arrives—if you’re ready—Scouts will escort you home safely.” I rub his hunched back, a knot of worry tightening in my chest.

His eyes soften with relief. Nida stands a few steps from the barracks, locking eyes with me. I gesture toward a lieutenant, signaling I need a few units to scout the mines—there’s been a possible dragon sighting. The one that burned down Pirlem.

The journey doesn’t take long. The sun had just risen when he heard strange noises in the mines and came straight for help, so we arrive just after noon. His mines are, after all, closer to the Hold than any other village.

Armed to the teeth, we spend hours searching for tracks, scanning for any sign of… anything. But there is nothing. Every unit pours its energy into scavenging, tracking, and exploring the caves, even setting bait to lure out dragons. Still, nothing.

What’s strange is that the old man specifically said the sounds came from the mines.

But we all know no Redsnout would enter a mine or cave—it prefers the light.

Still, Nida points out that while the dragon likes being out in the open, the cave might be warm enough for its presence to attract it.

The two lieutenants who came with us report finding nothing, so I order everyone to pack up and head back to the Hold.

The journey back to the Hold is longer, as we move with less urgency.

The route back passes a forest—one of the few forests that still grows after The Great Burn.

The sound of little birds singing their evening songs still annoys me, ringing in my ear louder the longer they sing.

But Nida listens to them attentively. As kids, she used to tell me what type of birds were singing when we passed the field.

Sparrows, crows, robins—fluttering around the riverbank—our favorite place.

A gentle coo rings out from above. It’s Sarga, twirling and spinning through the sky with the effortless grace she loves. Nida walks beside me, her eyes fixed upward, watching Sarga’s delicate dance unfold against the endless blue.

I look to the horizon. The Third isn’t far. Towers peek through dead trees. But a low roar shatters my relief.

A large shadow passes above us.

Redsnout.

And it’s heading straight for the Stronghold.

Time seems to slow as the dragon cuts through the cloudy sky, wings beating like in silence as it slips back above the clouds. My breath catches, horror sinking into my stomach. And the silence doesn’t make it any better.

“There’s no warning bell,” I murmur to myself. They don’t know. They’re not seeing it.

“We need to warn them!” Nida exclaims, already ready to run. We’re only a few minutes away.

“We won’t make it back in time,” I say. Where did it come from? It appeared out of thin air. No warning, no gust of the wind, no Scouts, no hawks. It flew silently, like a Wingtail, using the clouds to stay out of sight.

I listen—hoping to hear a bell—but there is none. Nobody noticed it.

There’s no time.

I grab Nida’s pouch and take out two red smoke bombs tied with a rope, feeling the tension of the bombs in my hand. I have to warn them.

“Sarga!” I yell. “High!” I toss the two smoke bombs into the sky, and Sarga snatches them mid-flight. One thing I’m certain of—Sarga is the fastest flier of all the hawks.

I aim my bolt straight at the two dangling smoke bombs clutched in her talons and shoot.

Sarga plunges downward in a blur, releasing the bombs just as my bolt penetrates them—a loud explosion scatters red smoke in the air. The sound lingers, spreading amongst the trees, and I hope that someone—anyone amongst the Defenders on duty—will see it.