Page 71 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T hree knocks is all it takes.

“The price is doubled after midnight!” Valous declares. He flings the door open, with a smile that quickly fades. He scans me from head to toe, with Nida hanging off my neck.

Only one word manages to slip out of me. “Help.”

He smacks his lips, stunned. “Well, the view counts as an entry fee,” he says. And then he steps to the side, opening the door for us.

“Cashmere!” Valous yells out. “Get me some liquor. The clean kind.”

I carry Nida across the threshold, a wince escaping her. Her face—pale and grayed and dulled. She’s lost a lot of blood. I’m not sure how Valous is going to help, but he’s the only hope I’ve got.

Cashmere sprints toward us, another man with a similar build beside him, short, black hair, and one blind eye.

“We’ll take it from here,” Cashmere says, reaching out for Nida’s other hand. I hesitate. But what choice do I have? I let them take Nida to another room.

“Over her dead body indeed,” Valous says. My fingers hook into his crew neck, yanking him toward me—but cold steel flashes at my throat before I even get a word out.

“Baah-buh-bup!” he exclaims, raising his free hand in defense. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds. And I can tell you’re hungry.”

I stare at him, threatening. Then ease my grip. He’s enjoying this, but for Nida’s sake, I’ll let him.

He clears his throat, smoothing out the creases on his collar. “And watch the shirt next time.”

“Can you help her?” I ask, clenching my fists, carefully watching the corner she disappeared into—hoping she’ll emerge in good health in mere seconds. He draws in a breath.

“Already on it,” he responds, shoving his hands into his pockets.

I’m going to owe him. At a glance, I’m not really sure why he’s helping me so easily. But I don’t want to keep questioning his motives. My gaze returns to the corner where Nida disappeared to.

Two years of promising myself I’d never forgive him—not after his lies and deceit shattered a trust that could never be rebuilt. But for this—for taking us in without question—I might actually reconsider.

White fabric blurs my vision, disorienting me for a beat. I grab it before it hits the floor, feeling the rough texture under my fingers. My eyes stray to Valous, looking at me up and down.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” he says and turns sideways. “Blood’s hard to get out of wood.”

I hesitantly take a few steps forward, unsure where to go and unwilling to smear the floor any further. Valous clicks his tongue, then points to the door across the hall.

“Need a map to find a bucket?” His voice is low, concerned.

I shoot him a glare—my cheeks slightly flushing.

I’ve never been this distracted before. Right now, all I can think about is Nida.

I’m silently begging the Divines that she’ll be fine.

Divines I never believed in before. Whatever it is that I’m feeling now, the only thing I can turn to is them—no matter how strange it feels.

Though, it’s somewhat comforting. And I hate admitting that.

Valous’ eyes burn into the back of my head as I cross the hall into the room he pointed at.

I still have a hard time believing he managed to build all of this himself.

A life in the shadows, yet out in the open without the Corps breathing down his neck.

I guess this is how little the Corps actually cares about what happens in the Front.

As long as it doesn’t stall the expansion, people can pretty much do whatever they want here.

The room is small—more of a closet—filled with pails and buckets of water, smelling of rain and dirt.

The shelves are divided into two—one side holds clean water, while the other is stuffed with half-filled buckets of murky water.

I reach for the closest thing at hand and perch on a wooden stool wedged in the corner.

Water stings my skin as I move the damp cloth over my arms and legs. The cuts are deeper than I thought.

A scream tears the air apart. Nida. I jump from the stool, pulling my shirt up again.

The bucket tips and falls with a dull clang, and water soaks my boots.

I let out a startled grunt, launching myself at the door.

The gnawing feeling of guilt creeps up my throat when I catch a glimpse of the softly swaying bucket on the now wet and muddied floorboards.

“Damn it,” I curse as I ease the door open, peering through the slit before glancing back at the floor.

I run my hand down my shirt, attempting to straighten the creases as I step through the door.

Across the hall, Valous’s eyes stare back at me, swaying a glass of brown liquor in hand as he leans on a chipped wooden pillar.

He arches a brow. I feel unmoored, like a stranger in my own skin—as if all the years of discipline, of burying every flicker of emotion, have unraveled in an instant.

I used to know who I was—stoic, unwavering, a soldier with a clear sense of right and wrong with no room for doubt in my heart.

But now I return to my roots. A lost, weak boy trying to find his place in this world.

And I’m very lost right now.

Valous clicks his tongue, casting a glance at the door to his left, and then pushes himself from the pillar.

“She’s going to be fine,” he says, raising the glass to his lips. “She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that.”

I let his words press down on my shoulders, heavy with relief. The thought of Valous—or anyone tied to him—laying their hands on her makes my stomach twist with revulsion. But if it means she’s alive and taken care of… then I’ll bear it. I’ll bear all of it.

“You look exhausted,” Valous comments, and I swear I hear worry in his voice. It’s as if he cares.

The floor creaks with Valous’ heavy footsteps. He takes a sip from his glass, the sharp, biting scent hitting my nose as he gets closer. He stretches out his hand, offering a sip of the strong concoction he no doubt made up himself, but I raise my hand to decline.

He only arches his brow and says, “Your loss,” and takes another sip. “It’s way better than counting sheep.”

I ignore his comment, return to the closet, and clean up the mess I’ve made.

When I step out of the washing area thirty minutes later, I spot Cashmere and the other man sitting on a broken bench shoved into the far corner of the hall—deep in conversation.

Valous sits next to Cashmere on a chair, his head tossed over the crest rail, a refilled glass in hand.

I’m not sure I feel comfortable with my only help getting drunk for the night.

But I’m not the one to tell him what to do in his own home.

I step closer, even though I don’t want to intervene in their conversation, but if there’s any update on Nida’s condition, I need to know. Cashmere’s eyes flick to me, his soft gaze inviting. He looks so much like Valous, but the one thing they differ in is their approachable demeanor.

“Anything?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even, hoping they’ll catch the concern I don’t say aloud.

Cashmere pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit.

But for whatever reason, sitting down makes me feel uneasy.

I have to stay guarded. On my feet. Always.

Cashmere catches on quickly and clears his throat.

“There’s damage to the tissue in her leg that’ll take time to heal,” he says, tossing a look toward the other man with messy, greasy black hair tied in a loose braid. “But it’s good you brought her in when you did. There’s no infection. She’ll live.”

Emotions clash in my chest. She’ll need time to heal… but she will heal. She’ll live.

“What happened to her anyway?” the man with black hair asks, hiding his mouth with his ink-stained hands. He’s probably the one who takes care of the ledgers here in the tavern. And that means he’s someone Valous can trust.

“A dragon,” I say, voice steady—barely. I clear my throat, but the sound does little to mask the weight behind the word.

Valous’ head snaps toward me, his eye catching the light, gleaming with something too close to hunger.

I know that look. I’ve seen it way too many times before.

If he thinks he can barter for this information, twist it into something for his gain, he’s mistaken.

I let the mask slide back into place, emotions intact—not because I want to hide, but because I have to.

Whatever help he’s offering now, I’d be a fool to trust what lurks behind those eyes.

Deception wears many faces—and Valous wears it like a second skin.

He catches my look, and the atmosphere shifts, his eyes losing that glimmer. He smirks as he holds his gaze steady with mine, but I refuse to yield. Not after everything.

“I need to see her,” I say, straightening up.

“She’s resting,” Valous says as he swirls the liquor and then takes a sip.

“Then still let me see her,” I say.

He doesn’t answer right away—just lets the silence stretch between us, long enough to feel deliberate. His stare lingers, measuring me.

I step forward. “I’m not asking,” I say, voice low. “If she’s resting, I won’t wake her. But I will see her.”

The man with ink-stained hands shifts uncomfortably, eyes flicking between us. Valous exhales through his nose, tugging on his shirt. “She’s in the back room. Last door. Don’t touch anything.”

In seconds, I’m in front of that door—my hand hovering just above the handle. Slowly, I push it open. The scent of honey, garlic, and all kinds of herbs hits me. She lies still, somber, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She’s alive.

Something stirs in me—powerful and strong and rapid.

Relief, yes. But also something else. Like I’ve been waiting too long for this moment, and whatever held me together is starting to fray.

I can’t hold it in anymore. This feeling is too much.

And it’s persistent. I quietly close the door and squeeze my eyes shut.

The image of her breathing is burned into my mind. I don’t want to wake her.

I return to the main room, where Valous and Cashmere are still by the table, the other man nowhere to be seen. I breathe slowly, eyelids feeling heavy. I can’t remember a night when I haven’t gotten any sleep, and I don’t feel like starting now. Valous notices.

“Down the hall, turn right. First door to the left,” he says, ripping his glare from mine. “You can stay there for the night. But it’ll cost a hefty coin.” He downs the last drop of his liquor, inhaling sharply through his teeth. “After midnight, the price is doubled.”