Page 7 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

E very year, when the Corps welcomes new soldiers, the outer training grounds fill with recruits, all ready for Division Day—the day they choose their Divisions based on recommendation letters from each Division’s commandant after Assessment Year.

It’s when the general takes his time to debrief and introduce the newcomers.

We all have to be there, new and experienced.

It’s to remind us of our duties, why we are here, and to remove any doubt that builds up over the years.

The grounds stretch wide and open, lined with flags and blue banners of the Third that snap in the wind.

At the far edge, the stone wall of the Stronghold rises high, its towers casting long shadows over the drill fields.

And on that wall, the Corps’ watchword is carved in bold letters, visible to all who enter the training grounds. Glory for humanity.

We stand in line as General Grogol paces, speaking of the Corps and how humanity would have died out centuries ago without it.

A story I’ve heard countless times. And every time I’m met with the same curious new eyes.

This year is no different. Cadets glance my way from the line with a mix of fear and awe.

Either way, it’s a place I hate being at the most.

General Grogol faces the new recruits, with several of us older soldiers scattered in the line with them. To be role models for the initiates.

“Upon application for the Corps, you have been tested for speed, strength, accuracy, and decision making. You have spent a whole year training and improving before the commandants assessed you in the final stage.” The general’s voice booms. “Based on your results, you received a recommendation on which Division would suit you best. And today, you will choose said Division. Each one has specific roles within a unit, and duties one must complete for the sake of humanity.” He turns to face the five blue banners hanging on the stony wall, each bearing a different insignia.

“Hunter, skilled in accuracy and speed. Tracker, skilled in split-second decision-making and emotional control. Defender, skilled in strength and weapon maintenance. Medic, skilled in botany and pinpoint accuracy. And Scout, skilled in stealth and navigation. Some of you received more than one Division as a recommendation, but ultimately it is up to you which one you want to be part of.”

The general pauses, taking in the crowd as some shuffle their feet, uncertain which Division to choose, while others stand firm. After a brief pause, the general continues.

“One thing that is for certain here in the Corps,” he says.

“Our focus is humanity. Our focus is survival, and we are the front of humanity’s survival.

Only one dragon left. A Redsnout male that’s been alive for centuries.

This beast is vicious—deadly.” His voice is firm, and the air fills with silence.

Every cadet listens attentively, swaying with impatience or excitement.

General Grogol’s pale eyes sweep throughout the crowd, making sure that everyone is included in his speech.

Because once this is said, he won’t repeat himself until the next Division Day.

“For training in strength, speed, and emotional control, lieutenants will be supervising you, teaching you, and making you sweat blood. They are crucial so that you feel prepared for expeditions. You saw the names carved in the wooden banner. A loss for us all. You will undergo intense training of both mind and body to ensure your name won’t end up there.

But be warned,” he says gravely. “Anything can happen at any time. And that means the moment you applied, the moment you were sworn into the Corps, is the moment that you set aside everything you ever were, and became a soldier. Now , you are all soldiers.”

Confident shouts ripple through the crowd in agreement.

A large number of cadets began training long before they turned eighteen.

Others spent the years between eighteen and twenty preparing relentlessly—to earn a place in the Corps and be sorted into a Division the moment they arrived.

By the time they’re first-years, most have already shed who they used to be.

But some are still holding on—gripping tightly to scraps of their old lives, old names, old dreams, as if they haven’t yet accepted what this place demands of them.

Some still flinch when the bell tolls in the morning.

Some still sleep with letters tucked beneath their pillows.

Some still hope they will return home when all of this is over—go back to their normal lives like none of this ever happened.

But the Corps doesn’t train you. It reshapes you.

Makes you the closest thing to inhuman. And they all chose to be here.

The general continues. “There are rules you must follow, tasks you must complete, and protocol you have to keep. One misstep, one doubt, can be the end of you. The end of us all. But there’s one rule you must never forget.

” He surveys the newcomers who eagerly await the Corp’s creed, his hands behind his back.

He straightens. “Do not doubt.” The words linger in the air. Words that have been drilled in me ever since the start and have become the foundation of who I am today.

“If you let yourself feel—you doubt. If you doubt—you’re dead.

” With those final words leaving the general’s mouth, cadets proudly shift their stance, puff out their chests as if already shedding any doubt they had before lining up.

Their eyes carry pride—something I never felt.

For me, it was hatred for the beasts, not the honor of being a soldier.

Among the crowd, I catch a flash of familiar red curls. Shifting slightly, I lean back to peer around the head of the man blocking my view, craning for a clearer look.

Nida .

Her eyes track General Grogol, focused and alert. She’s taller. Her hair is longer. Different. My trance shatters the moment she glances back and meets my eyes. We hold it—just for a breath—until the General’s steady pacing pulls my attention away.

“Now you think about that well,” he says, satisfied with the cadets’ reactions. He steps to the side, fully revealing the words engraved in the old brick wall. Words all soldiers must live by.

Glory for Humanity.

“Let this remind you why you stand here today. And you will carry them with you until the day you draw your last breath.”

Proud cheers and salutes thunder across the courtyard. For decades, the Corps has recited those words, reminding us all of what we fight for.

“Any questions?” asks the general when everyone settles down, and hands shoot up in the air. The general turns to a new recruit in the first row, whose hand shakes with doubt. The general nods at him.

“When will we know what unit we are assigned to?” he asks, his voice shaking and faint. The general purses his lips and straightens himself, turning to face the entire crowd.

“New units will be formed a week after the Division slips have been handed in. This gives us time to assess how many have chosen which Division and adjust as needed. Some units have lost members. Perhaps there’s a Tracker in need of a Hunter.

This means you might have a chance of being placed in an existing unit.

Each unit, as always, includes three Trackers and Hunters, with all other roles limited to two per unit. ”

Unit seventeen—my current unit—is still short on a few roles.

It’s always been hard to fill since the new cadet needs to match our level to a certain degree.

As long as we’ve got at least two Trackers and Hunters, we’re functional.

But there’s always a chance for a new cadet to be placed in our unit—another one to circle me like a vulture, breathing down my neck, trying to know me. Can’t wait.

Another hand shoots up behind me. I glance back. A young woman stands tall, posture firm, determination written all over her face. She’s built like Eryca—same sharp frame, same fire. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were sisters.

“Will the rest be sent out to the other Strongholds?” she asks.

The general pauses and narrows his eyes as the crowd’s low voices churn with excitement.

“If it comes to that, yes,” he says flatly.

”But we need all the soldiers we can get after losing so many in the previous expedition.

” His eyes scan the crowd, and the whispers rise about the other Strongholds.

Every year, the Third sends cadets out to reinforce the other four, offering protection from dragons.

Since the Third specializes in weaponry and armor, we’re trained faster, sharper, and deployed in smaller, more efficient units.

But those who are sent out rarely come back.

People say they’ve built new lives out there and have forgotten this one.

In return, the other Holds send us materials—wood, stone, grain.

Lately, though, those shipments have thinned.

Even I noticed that. Less food. Less support.

But soldiers get priority to grow stronger, while villagers give what they can, helping humanity to expand into the Unknown, knowing they were dragon bait.

Just like my village. Just like my mother. Just like me.

Murmurs roll across the crowd, questions flying. I scan the newcomers, wondering who’ll be the first to die—because someone always does. Though their sacrifice will be honored. For a day. Then, they’ll be forgotten, just like all the names carved in the board that eventually gets burned.

The general’s eyes lock onto mine, searing with unspoken command. I freeze, every instinct screaming to resist. My chest stirs knowing what he expects of me. There will be eyes on me.

“Now, I know many of you are curious about a soldier—the face of the Corps, as many of you call him.”

Perfect, he’s using that. I click my tongue in annoyance.

“I’d like you to hear a couple of encouraging words from someone who has battled dragons and has exceeded the Corps’ expectations,” says the general, pausing to glance at everyone. He sharply inhales and says, “Kazelius Aaran.”