Page 72 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

I ’m wide awake before the sun peeks through the windows.

I trace the cracks in the wooden ceiling, and I swear I see them get bigger.

Or I’m simply staring for too long. I toss on clothes on—clean leathers Valous left—and walk into the main room.

Surprisingly, my back doesn’t ache. The beds are far more comfortable here than in the barracks or my own quarters.

The tavern’s warmth closes around me like a blanket I’ve been too proud to beg for.

It comes with the scent of bread—real bread—crusted and hot, laced with rosemary.

My gut twists so hard I brace a hand against the nearest beam.

I can taste the salt of it in the back of my throat, an ache blooming behind my ribs.

Days without food or the gruel at the Corps taught me to ignore hunger, yet now it bellows like a war-horn.

Across the room, Valous sits, and I force my feet forward. Splinters nip through my thin shoes, but I stand before him all the same.

“Nida?” I ask, and that’s the only word I can force out.

He gestures to the chair. “She’s fine,” he says. “Food first.”

I stare at him, cautious. I didn’t think he’d do this. I didn’t think he would help or even feed us. What game is he playing?

“I need to see her first,” I say. Valous sighs. Right when he lifts himself from the chair, Cashmere enters the room.

“She’s awake,” he says, and I dart past him, bursting into Nida’s room.

She sits up on the bed—cuts and dried blood all over her. Her leg is wrapped in bandages, her skin pale.

When I process that it’s her, alive, a tremble stirs in my gut like wings brushing against my ribs. The venom has already creeping upward to claim my sanity. But when I look at her, what takes hold of me comes from somewhere deeper within—a place untouched by venom or carefully crafted lies.

My heart’s made up.

I drop to my knees beside her, the breath torn from my lungs.

My fingers shake as I reach for her. I need to know that this isn’t an illusion of my wicked, broken mind.

She reaches for me too, brushing through my hair and over my cheek.

A touch so soft it feels like a ghost—and yet it’s real. She’s real. She’s alive.

“Are you okay?” I ask. A stupid question.

But it’s like I’m unable to find anything else to ask.

I just shake. She nods—a whisper of movement that makes everything in me crumble.

I should say something more. Anything more.

But all I can do is stare at her. At the grime on her skin, the blood dried at her temple, the exhaustion in every slow breath she takes.

And still, she’s the most vivid thing I’ve ever seen. And the feeling grows stronger.

I swallow. “I thought—” My throat closes. I try again, my voice raw. “I thought I lost you.”

Her fingers are still on my cheek. Warm now. Grounding. And I lean into the touch like I’ve forgotten how to hold myself up.

“I don’t—” My voice cracks. “I don’t know what I’d—”

I couldn’t finish that sentence. I couldn’t even take another breath.

Because her lips are now on mine. Kissing me.

My heart stumbles, stutters, then slams against my ribs.

Her lips are chapped, a little rough, but warm— real —and the second they touch mine, something in me shatters.

The way she makes me feel—it spreads through me like poison.

And even if she is—if she is poison—then I don’t want the antidote.

The world narrows to the feel of her mouth on mine.

The tremble in her hand tangled in my shirt.

The way her breath hitches like she’s been drowning too, and only now remembered how to breathe.

And I kiss her back like I’ve waited a lifetime. Because I have.

I find myself waking up in the middle of the night, neck sore from having it against the wall with Nida resting on my lap. The world feels warm. But it’s not the kind of heat anyone would want to go away. It’s the kind of heat that cloaks you during cold winter nights. Peaceful.

I watch her sleep, taking in slow breaths.

I run my hand over my face, her curls between my fingers.

The thought of the kiss makes my chest flutter.

Is it joy? Anxiety? Stress? I can’t make sense of it.

But this feels as close as I can get to being alive.

I guess this is how Father felt, whenever he came home late at night—warm supper waiting on the table and a candle lit in the hall.

Mother always knew when he’d return home.

We lived slightly uphill, able to see all the way to the forge.

When the last torch was blown out, she’d warm up supper.

And if it was a cold winter night, she’d boil warm water in a basin.

Even though the forge wasn’t far, Mother knew it would take longer for him to get home.

Because he’d stray to the fields and pick wildflowers for her.

With dirt and roots and all. And as he sat to eat his supper, she would trim the roots and clean up the dirt, sitting opposite him.

Every day, he would feel the love of my mother without a single word spoken to him. And so would she.

I can only assume this is what it felt like. And I welcome it, almost as if I remember how.

I glance at Nida again, peacefully lying on my lap.

The memories of our past flash before my eyes.

Her laughter, her rebellious manner, and eagerness to teach.

How she used to tease me by the river, how she would slap my hands whenever I’d weave the crowns wrong.

I remember how my heart used to hammer in my chest whenever I’d see her.

I never really understood why—until now.

And it didn’t hurt until now. It didn’t matter until I had something to live for.

It didn’t matter— until her. I know I can never live a life I truly want, and I know I can never give her the life she deserves.

But I can try. Even if that life doesn’t involve me.

Somewhere in the corner of the room, evening’s warmth slips through the wooden slats, brushing the dust in golden streaks across the floor. It sinks slowly—over the mess of bandages, up the edge of the bed—and finally, across her face.

Her breathing is steadier now. She shifts, a small sound catching in her throat before settling again. My arm tightens around her waist on instinct, like I can keep her safe with just the press of my fingers.

I tilt my head back, letting it thud against the wall. The ache in my neck flares sharper now that I’ve noticed it.

The slow beat of her heart pulses against my leg, and my mind brings forth the memory of her lips on mine once more.

I want to stay here forever if the world lets me.

Just sit here and pretend that the hard things—decisions, promises, loss—don’t exist outside this room.

That if I keep holding her, nothing else can touch us.

That the world might forget us here. But the truth settles like a weight in my chest. Grogol will be looking for us— he won’t forget us.

Another memory surfaces—Raumen’s voice, low and rough and kind, echoing around the campfire, reminding me that feelings like this—hope, love —are what keep us going.

I hope he’s right. I think he’s right. I want him to be right.

Because this feeling—this burning, aching, overwhelming thing blooming in my chest—it’s the only thing I never want to shut off again.