Page 74 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

B y the end of the day, Valous tells us everything he knows.

About the mysterious commandant, about Joseph, about rumours spreading regarding the general and how the King failed to do anything fifty years ago, after Medyn was attacked by a dragon, killing hundreds—Grogol’s family included. None of which answers my questions.

Valous leads us through a vast room—a space where people wait for others.

It’s far from polished, closer to abandoned.

Seems like not many make their way to this side of the tavern.

The wooden planks leak wind, and the floor is stained with water, ready to splinter beneath the lightest step.

If someone as heavy as Raumen walked across it, it’d surely give way.

I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought of him. I don’t want to think about him. This isn’t the rooftop. This isn’t the place where we’d sit and eat bread together.

He’s not here anymore.

This is Cashmere’s part of the tavern. Always doing Valous’s bidding.

His bright red hair sets him apart, and though he’s only a few years younger, they move like mirrors.

Valous flicks his long, dark hair to the side, snake-like eyes boring into both of us whenever he glances back.

Rings glint on every finger, black eyeshadow smudged around his eyes.

His black shirt hangs open at the collar, revealing the curve of his throat and a thin chain resting against his chest. He looks like a ghost who learned how to charm the living.

Door after door, he opens new rooms, new halls that we pass.

“What do you do, exactly?” Nida finally asks, breaking the silence that looms.

“Business,” he responds with a smile. “Intel gathering and trade,” he says proudly, puffing out his chest.

“He’s a snitch and a thief,” I blurt. His snake-like eyes flick toward me, completely unfazed.

“That’s what I said.”

He leads us across the back common room and points to a row of doors along the back wall. That’s where we’ll be staying for our last night—together, in one room. According to him, the larger chambers are needed for other guests.

“The general most likely knows you’re alive, so he’s going to be looking for you,” says Valous as he pours another drink from a small table tucked in the corner of the common room. I scrunch my nose as he hands it to me.

A faint smile appears on his face. “It’s water,” he says.

I look hesitantly at him, but eventually I accept his gesture.

“Get some rest. There’s two beds in the room next to the fireplace.

Come tomorrow—” he trails off as he stands, then his eyes flick to me as if he’s thinking whether or not I’m ready to hear what he’s about to say.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sighs when he catches sight of Nida again.

“Just get some rest.” Those are his final words before he stalks away.

I push the door open and step inside. The bedroom isn’t big, but big enough to fit two beds and nightstands.

A small candle illuminates the room, reflecting the yellow straws peeking out from the beds.

A faint smell of warm beeswax fills the air, coming from the candle in the shape of a horse.

Next to it lies a small patching kit for scratches and wounds, with a freshly minced paste of herbs and honey.

I brush my hand against the brown, coarse linen sheets before sitting down, feeling the lumpy, uneven surface of the stuffed mattress.

It’s warm here. No cracks or dents in the walls.

No wheezing wind or stains from the rain.

No smell of piss or spilled liquor. It’s all new.

There’s even a door at the corner of the room leading to a small garden just outside.

It feels like Valous is trying to match up the price of the information I gave him—or trying to buy me.

Nida sits by the bed across from me, our feet inches from touching.

“Let me take a look at that.” I drop to my knees before her, reaching for the gash running down her thigh.

The fabric of her pants is ripped where Cashmere’s blade had cut them away—high, dangerously close, but careful.

Enough left to keep her covered. As I kneel, I’m reminded of that night.

Her soft touch on my face. Her fingers intertwined in my hair. Her lips on mine.

What in the world am I doing? This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair for her. The veins… the venom.

“They didn’t tend to you,” she says gently, snapping me out of my trance. Her gaze lingers on my arms, cuts and bruises from the night at the cave. “Some parts are infected.”

Her eyes flick to a bowl with paste below the nightstand, and she slowly reaches for it.

“Honey and garlic,” she says as she inhales the scent, a faint smile on her face. “This will help with the infection.” She gestures to me, and I sit besides her, rolling my sleeves further out of the way. Some of the cuts are still open, too deep to heal overnight.

She cleans the wound with a damp cloth that lay soaked under the nightstand, and presses the paste against my skin.

I expect a sting, but nothing comes. She traces my veins with her smooth fingers all the way down to my hand.

It’s like she’s entranced by them. She turns my arm, analyzing it like she’s trying to find a way to get rid of them.

“It didn’t kill you,” she says. She then drops my arm on her lap and lets out a sigh. “How come it didn’t kill you? The serum. Your body shouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

I shrug, pretending it doesn’t bother me. But the question has been lingering in my mind this entire time. Why didn’t it kill me? It should’ve. Have I grown so accustomed to the serum that my tolerance increased? Did Grogol miscalculate? Or… did he want me alive ?

She proceeds to gently smear the paste on the cut near my eyebrow. I can’t stop looking at her. She lifts her gaze, meeting mine, and then looks at my arm again. I hold my breath and then exhale again. Her eyes flicker back to me. She pauses.

“What?” she says, while slightly pulling away.

“Nothing,” I say softly, looking at her.

She smiles. “You’re staring.”

“I know.” I blink.

She furrows her brow as she dabs the paste onto my skin, every motion precise.

I watch her as she concentrates, then lower my eyes to her parted lips.

She presses them together now and then, unconsciously, like focus has taken hold of every inch of her.

I want to pull her close. Desperately. At this point— painfully .

I can’t.

“You would’ve made a great Medic,” I say at last.

She pauses, hand still against my head, and our eyes lock.

For a moment, neither of us moves. We’re close—too close—and I can feel the heat rolling off her skin.

I draw in a breath. My eyes trace further down her neck, her red, fiery hair hugging it like a warm shawl.

I want nothing more than to reach for her.

But I can’t. Not with the venom. Not when I know what it will do to her when I’m gone. I try to shut the feelings off, to prevent them from taking control once again. But the more I do, the more it stings. Agonizing .

Why?

Why is this so hard?

“All done,” she says. I roll down my sleeve, my cold fingers brushing against the harsh skin—nothing compared to the warmth of hers.

Perhaps when this is over, when all of it is said and done, I can start chasing what I want.

I can start fighting and living for joy. With the little time that I have.

“Thank you,” is all I can say. She offers a soft smile, and my eyes trace back to her lips. And it’s like the world narrows down to the feeling of her lips on mine.

I catch myself staring again. I can feel her breath mingling with mine. I can hear her heart pound. I can feel the air leave my lungs. I can nearly taste her lips.

But I pull away. A disappointed sound escapes her, and I dare to meet her gaze. She blinks. Once. Twice.

“I can’t,” I say, and those words burn in my throat. Burn my lungs as they leave me. Words I never wanted to say. But words I have to say. Words that are true.

“I can’t,” I repeat. Her lip trembles. I cannot believe I’m breaking her heart. My heart is breaking too.

“Do you fear… love?” She asks, pain lacing her voice.

I look at her before my head drops. Even if I could have love. Even if it’s what I truly want. The dark veins are a reminder that being human is not possible for someone like me.

“It’s not love that I fear,” I say, swallowing hard. “It’s being loved when I’m no longer here… ”

She shakes her head, trying to puzzle out my words.

“The pain,” I continue. “Why would I ever make anyone go through that?”

“That’s not—”

“I cannot do that to you,” I say. Her eyes never leave mine.

“You already are.”

The words hit harder than I expected. “Nida,” I whisper, my hands reaching for her face. My eyes stray to her lips, and I gasp for air that feels so light. How can I make her understand? Why can’t I just make her understand? I take a breath, stopping at the moment as my stomach twists.

But who should I really be trying to convince?

Should I try to convince her—that she shouldn’t love me?

Or myself—that maybe I’m worth loving after all.

Maybe I’m the only one who never believed she could.

Maybe she could. Maybe I can. I draw nearer, closer, consumed by the swirling feeling in my gut, the longing.

It’s like something is breaking inside of me—breaking out of me. I feel her warm breath on mine.

Inches.

Inches away.

A thunderous bang rattles the walls, throwing me off—followed by loud clashes of soldiers’ shouts and citizens’ screams outside of our room. A familiar grunt cuts through—then a sickening thud. Valous.

“Where is he?” Berim’s voice booms. “Where’s Aaran?”

My stomach drops. Grogol found us .