Page 6 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

“I’ve been thinking of a new way to adjust the balance and weight of the new crossbow.

You can even do it mid-fight,” he continues, stretching over a large counter as he grabs a few bolts.

He grunts as he pushes himself upright, shooting a scowl at the counter like it’s personally responsible for highlighting how short he is.

“I bolted together scraps that usually are melted down to make movable weight attachments for the crossbow. That way, anyone who’s having trouble with the bows being too light can just attach them and be on their way!

” He twirls on his heel, a proud smile spreads across his face, with eyes gleaming with that familiar spark—half genius, half madness.

“Since I already have the pieces, no time is wasted on casting!”

“That’s brilliant, Ligerion,” I say. Excitement ripples through him as he bounces on the balls of his feet, barely able to contain it.

“Of course it is! But there is something I need your help with, Zel.” He grabs three metal weights in the shape of the hollowed-out parts of the bow. “Since you’ve been helping around a lot with bolts and crossbows and whatnot—I need you to quickly test these!”

He hands me one of the weights, eyes sharp with focus, and instructs me on how to attach it.

“Push this in from the side of the stock, any of the holes work—yes, there. Excellent!” His voice is eager, like a craftsman watching his masterpiece come alive in someone else’s hands.

“Now lock it in with the spring-loaded hatch.”

I secure the weight in place, fingers moving with careful precision. Then I lift the crossbow, slowly, testing its balance. Up. Down. The shift in weight is immediate—more than I anticipated.

Surprise tugs at my features. “It feels familiar,” I say, angling it in my grip. “Almost as heavy as my old bow.”

He furrows a brow, head tilting slightly.

“ Almost ?” he repeats, voice edged with mock offense.

“Did you get stronger or something, lad? My calculations say it should be exactly the same weight with that add-on.” His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me like I’m a faulty number in an otherwise perfect equation.

I offer a faint smile, shrugging one shoulder. “I guess I did get stronger.”

His frown splits into a grin, and he lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

“ Ahh , well that’s why I made several !

” he exclaims, glancing at the pile on his workbench and rubbing his palms together like a merchant guarding secrets while counting coins.

“More customizable, more adaptable! Smarter , really.” He’s clearly talking about himself.

Then, his frown turns again as he waves both hands toward the crossbow.

“Well, go on then, lad!” he urges. “Try it out. Let’s see how she sings. ”

I raise the crossbow, its weight now familiar in my hands.

I focus on one of the woven targets propped against the far wall, a crude circle stitched at the center shaped like a dragon’s eye.

I shift my stance, making sure nothing precious or irreplaceable lies in the bolt’s path.

The last thing I need is to destroy something Ligerion actually cares about.

My finger finds the trigger, settling with ease. I steady my breath, feel the tension of the string. I pull the trigger, the stock jutting into my shoulder. The bolt whistles through the air and strikes into the center of the target with a satisfying thud, dead-center in the slit of the eye.

Ligerion whoops behind me, his laughter booming through the workshop.

“ Ha! ” He claps, the sound loud and proud as he strides over and smacks a hand against my back.

“My best work yet!” he crows, still grinning like a man who’s just forged his first masterpiece, as if forgetting that he always does.

“You really are a genius, Ligerion,” I say with a smile, my eyes lingering on the bolt buried clean through the bullseye. Precise, powerful, perfect.

“Not without your help, I’m not,” he replies. He pats my shoulder with a rough hand—the kind that’s seen too much work and too little rest. A rare softness tugs at his mouth, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just as good of a blacksmith as your father.”

The words hit low. Not like a strike, but like a memory.

His smile fades, and for a breath, there’s only the sound of crackling embers in the hearth behind us.

The ache those words stir in me twists through my ribs, but not in a way that hurts entirely.

Not anymore. There’s grief in it. But there’s also something steadier.

A strange sort of peace. Because even here—even now—I can still do something to continue my father’s legacy. And somehow, that’s enough.

I sit down across from Ligerion, surrounded by walls darkened by soot and smoke.

Wood shavings drift down in slow spirals, settling onto his lap as he carves a handle.

He hums a quiet tune—the same melody my father used to hum in the forge—pulling me back to those late nights spent by his side.

Nights when he taught me how to bend and unbend a nail.

How to measure and mark with a knife to ensure precision, or how long metal should rest in the forge before it is ready to be shaped.

One night, the storm was too violent to travel home, so we stayed at the forge instead, talking through the hours while thunder rattled the windows.

We slept near the hearth until the fire died.

That night, I swore I’d take over his forge when I grew up.

Continue his hard work through my hands.

A vow I repeated as I held his hand on his dying day.

But now the forge lies in ruins in Pirlem, buried beneath the splintered beams and shattered stone that dragons left behind. When the building fell, so did every promise I swore to keep.

Ligerion knew my father. They grew up together and were partners in the forge. They were both welcomed in the Third to work as blacksmiths. However, my father chose to stay in Pirlem, while Ligerion acted as a liaison from his forge in the Stronghold.

“The general wants to name me Commander,” I say, tugging on the pointed tip of the arrow to check stability before setting it aside.

He glances at me without lifting his head, halting his carving mid-stroke. “That’s good, isn’t it? Valuing what you helped achieve.” He resumes his carving.

“He wants me back in my old unit, too.”

Ligerion clicks his tongue. “Is that what you want?”

I shift, resting my elbows on my knees. The fire pops. “My condition isn’t going to help the unit,” I say, quieter now. Ligerion sets the blade down. This time, he does look at me.

“Didn’t stop you then,” he says. “What’s making you think all this?”

“Time,” I respond.

“No, you’re just being stubborn.”

I let out a sharp breath through my nose. “Stubbornness is what’s keeping others alive. Besides, I don’t want anyone to deal with the consequences when I seize mid-battle like before.”

He folds his arms. “And? You’d rather die alone than with people who’d bleed beside you?”

I hesitate, fingers tightening around the stack of bolts I just took.

“Being alone is easier,” I say. “No one watching you rot. No one blaming you when you fail them. Eryca made it clear.”

Ligerion scoffs, grabs a strip of cloth, and wipes his blade. “You think Eryca blames you because you left?”

“She does.”

“She’s angry because she cared. All of them did. Venom or not—a unit is a unit.” He places the cloth to the side. Heat radiates from the hearth. “You’re family. And you don’t abandon family.”

I stare into the fire. It crackles, and for a second, I imagine the hiss is from the venom under my skin.

“The general believes in you, right?” he asks, observing the freshly carved stock.

“He claims he does.”

“Then that’s enough for you to start believing in yourself. I’m not fond of the man, but he has a good eye.”

“I can’t lead them. I don’t know how much time I have left.”

“None of us do,” he says, voice low. “But while you’ve still got breath, you can choose what to do with it. And maybe… maybe they need you more than you want them to.”

I don’t answer. I don’t want them to need me. Relying on me is the biggest mistake they could make.

I reach for another bolt, testing the fletching with fingers. I glance over my shoulder at the shelves near the entrance—freshly carved bolts and arrows, grouped in tidy clusters of ten. Eryca’s work.

The scent of ash and oiled wood clings to the air. I used to take comfort in this place—the soft rasp of sharpening stone, the heat of the forge, Ligerion’s quiet presence. Here, I could pretend I was just another man with calloused hands and time to spare. Not a dying weapon waiting to crack.

My gaze lingers on the arrows. So clean and ready. And I wonder how many of them will be wasted if I go back—how many shots will be fired under my command. How many will die?

A familiar sting runs through my arm—subtle but deep, as if something inside me is tasting iron.

The venom again. I press my palm flat to my thigh and try to breathe through it, jaw tight.

I let out a sigh. How am I supposed to lead, command, hunt, and endure , when every breath could be my last?

The pain fades. I blink through it, fixing my eyes on the rows of bolts again.

I rise slowly, brushing ash from my palms. The ache lingers in my bones, but I’ve learned to move with it. Work around it. Pretend it’s not there.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, voice rougher than I meant.

Ligerion doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile. Just meets my eyes and says. “Don’t think too long, lad.” He stands, crosses to his workbench, and picks up another crossbow.

“Here,” he says and hands it to me. “The new bow is just a prototype. It’s not ready for battle yet, and there are some adjustments I’d like to make.

Take this one instead.” He nods toward the one he gave me.

“It has the same modifications that your old one had. That one you can use on the battlefield. I’ll bring you the new one when it’s ready. ”

I step toward the door with my new bow in hand and leave the prototype on the workbench.

The night’s wind is already whistling through the outer halls.

It snakes past me like a warning, sharp and cold and alive.

My fingers brush the doorway. The stone is cool beneath my skin.

Familiar. I glance back once at the soft glow of the forge, at Ligerion hunched over his work again, as if I was never here.

Then I step into the dark. And it feels like someone—or something —is watching me.