Page 79 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T he mud clings to my boots, every step like a second skin—only for the rain to rinse it away before the next.

The cycle repeats. I’m drenched to the bone, my leather jacket heavy with water, hair plastered to my forehead.

I don’t dare take the road. Not with Corps-loyal soldiers patrolling.

Or worse, curious civilians with loose lips and quicker feet.

At this moment, I want to be alone.

A shiver skates down my spine despite the warmth of the rain against my face.

I halt, glancing behind me. There’s something here.

Something behind the thicket. But when I narrow my gaze, there’s nothing.

No movement. No breath. Just wind threading through leaves and the hush of rainfall on the forest floor.

Still, one hand hovers near the dagger at my hip, the other clutching my bow.

I need to find Sarga again and somehow send a message to Valous in hopes he hasn’t changed his mind about the rebellion—or letting me in on it.

The rain comes in sheets, drumming against the leaves. My leathers cling to my back. I keep walking—until the sharp cry cuts through the thunderous storm. Sarga.

There you are.

She perches high on the gnarled branch of the old tree, feathers glimmering with water, highlighted by the lightning in the distance.

She shakes the droplets, then flaps her wings to land.

I click my tongue in praise. My boots squelch as I cross the clearing and press myself against the tree’s thick trunk.

It’s massive. Roots twist out of the earth, branches casting the only shelter for miles.

I glance up at Sarga. I can’t send words to Valous.

But I have to give him something. My fingers move before doubt can stop them, tugging at the leather strap across my chest. Nothing.

Then my hand strays to my shoulder, the patch of a commander attached to it.

He will know.

With a twist and a tear, the piece comes free in my hand. I stare at it for a long moment, feeling the weight of what it means. The symbol of loyalty I’ve sworn the moment I snuck into the general’s quarters at fourteen. I was too young to join the Corps, but I begged him to let me in.

I tie it to the Sarga’s leg, the patch darkened with rain but still bearing the symbol. I give it one firm tug to make sure it holds.

“Valous,” I whisper, brushing wet hair from my eyes.

“Lead.” Sarga blinks, her talons gently digging into my arm.

She tilts her head, as if confused by my words.

I would be too. Why Valous, out of all people?

For a heartbeat, I’m afraid she won’t leave, but then her wings snap wide, and she launches into the storm, vanishing into the black sky.

She will lead him to me. She won’t leave unless he follows. I hope he follows.

I lean back against the tree, my heart pounding louder than the rain. There’s no turning back now. I have to keep going.

By the time I reach the cave’s entrance, the sky is painted with streaks of bruised gold and gray.

I move quickly, gathering dry twigs and wind-snapped branches.

Scattered leaves. A few berries I recognize as safe.

I don’t break anything off the trees—not even a stem.

Disturbed underbrush is a death sentence.

One crushed fern, one missing vine, and I’ll have a blade at my throat before nightfall.

As I move deeper into the cave, the light from the outside fades until it vanishes completely.

Darkness swallows everything. I reach out, fingers brushing over rough stone.

Brittle, bone-like tree roots snake down from the ceiling, stretching out as if to grab me.

A whisper of wind moves through the tunnel, stirring them just enough to make them look alive.

I take one more turn. Then another. It feels safe enough.

Dropping the bundle I gathered, I crouch and arrange the twigs and leaves into a crude nest. I grab a nearby stone, striking it against another until a few pitiful sparks flare to life.

The clicking sound of stone meeting stone alerts me. But I breathe through it, steadying my nerves. I’ve scouted the area. I’ve seen no tracks. No signs of movement. No dragon. No Redsnout. It’s just me. I should be safe. For a couple of hours at least.

This would be easier if I had the field handbook that Scouts usually carry with them. It has everything from surviving a cold night to a hot day. But all I have is Eryca’s bow and a handful of bolts I’d rather save for defending myself—not chasing down a rabbit.

The berries will have to do.

My soaked clothes cling to my skin like a parasite that refuses to let go.

I have to get them off. With a swift motion, I unzip the jacket and peel the shirt from my chest, the fabric sticking stubbornly before coming free.

Cold air brushes against my skin, but it’s better than the damp chill leaching into my bones.

I hang both pieces of clothing on the low-hanging branches near the cave wall, letting the fire’s growing warmth lick at the dripping fabric.

A sting pulses at my side. I glance down. My fingers trace the edge of a shallow but angry-looking gash along my left rib—flesh swollen, skin reddened, the edges crusted with grime and blood.

Infection.

Perfect.

If it’s not the venom, Grogol, or a dragon that kills me, it’ll be something as pathetic as a festering wound.

I dig through my pouch with growing frustration, fingers brushing over crumbs and lint—until they close around something small and hard. A bulb of garlic. Crushed and bruised, but still usable.

It’s not much.

But it’s something.

I smash the garlic against a flat rock, grinding it down with my palm until its oils seep into my skin. The sharp, pungent smell cuts through the cave’s damp air. I set the stone close to the fire, letting the heat warm the mashed clove into a sticky paste.

Minutes pass.

The smell grows stronger. Almost too strong. My nose wrinkles as I scoop up the paste, rubbing it between my fingers. The heat soothes the sting as I press it gently into the wound, hissing through my teeth.

Warmth radiates outward—sharp at first, then dulled. The kind of pain that tells you something might actually be working. The smoke from the fire and the sting of garlic dull the edge of the cold, but it doesn’t reach the part of me that aches the most.

Nida.

The memory comes uninvited. Her amber eyes glowing like the fire in front of me. Soft. Warm. Feels like home. Probably the one place I can call home. Was ever… my home.

The image swirls in my head like it’s happening this very minute. Her smile. Her dimples. And then the roar. The snap of branches. The fire in its breath.

The Redsnout.

I blink, and it’s like I’m back there. Dust stinging my eyes, the heat chasing the oxygen from my lungs. Her scream. Then silence. The smell of iron in the air. The venom.

My fists clench. I should’ve been faster.

Smarter. I should’ve… done something. I bury my face in my arms, curling my back into a ball as I let out breath that shudders in my chest. I haven’t told the others about what the dragon said .

Not about how its eyes looked almost… human. More human than my own.

I’m the beast.

The fire crackles, and I stare into it, jaw tight.

Waiting for a familiar voice. Thoughts of the past consume me, taking me to the days I want to forget.

The forge with my father. The blue fields with Nida.

The inn in Nedersen with Raumen and the rest. If only I pushed harder.

If only I refused Grogol’s proposal of being in a unit.

If only I said no. I mean— I did . But not hard enough.

Instead, I let others convince me—force me—to do something I didn’t want to do.

Now, everyone I care about, everyone I love, is either dead or will have a bounty on their head.

Suddenly, a faint whisper echoes through the dark cave—like the air itself has come alive. I freeze, muscles tense, slowly reaching for a branch in the fire, illuminating the passage in front of me. Nothing. I listen harder. Silence.

Then—another whisper.

Cautiously, I rise, grabbing my bow with the other hand, and move forward. A massive shadow blocks my path—stone-like, unmoving. But as the light catches on it, I see the glint of silvery scales.

That’s no stone.

That’s a dragon.

A gasp catches in my throat, the cold air biting into my lungs as my heart slams against my chest. I instinctively aim my crossbow at the creature, locking eyes with the dark slits in its icy blue eyes. Silverscale.

Don’t breathe. Don’t move.

Silverscales are defensive, not offensive—I repeat in my head, willing myself not to panic. Carefully, I slide one foot forward through the dirt, keeping it low to avoid noise. Every movement is slow, deliberate. I study its posture—wings folded tight, head slightly raised. No visible weak spot.

Wait.

The knees. A narrow opening.

That’s my shot.

I steady my aim, but before I can fire, a soft roar rumbles from the creature’s throat. A gust of cold air brushes my face, lifting strands of my hair. I flinch, bracing for the frost or claws. But nothing comes. Just a chill… and a whisper of a growl, low and almost melodic.

I pause. That wasn’t a threat. It sounded like…

My gaze sharpens. I study the shimmering scales, the way its pupils narrow not with rage, but focus. Recognition.

It’s looking at me.

Not like prey.

Like it knows me. The type of look I’ve seen in domesticated creatures. The type of look I’ve seen in the village dogs.

In Sarga.

Did the beast just speak ?

I shake my head, letting out a cloud of icy breath that vanishes into the chilly air. My heart pounds, and my mind brings forth a fresh memory—back to the Redsnout in the cave and the violent, rumbling voice inside of my head.