Page 8 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

T ime nearly stops at the sound of my name combined with the phrase I desperately want to shake. Face of the Corps. I didn’t want to hear it, but for whatever reason, soldiers get motivated. The stories of the one who survived.

I feel everyone’s eyes burn into my back as I step forward from the lineup and stand next to General Grogol.

I led an expedition that brought us closer to freedom.

But hundreds died and made the brink of freedom feel like nothing.

I couldn’t save them, I couldn’t save her . Yet they still see me as a hero.

Whispers bounce from the stone walls. Words I’ve heard countless times.

“It’s him,” breathes a young woman with dark brown hair to another cadet.

“Who?”

“The one who survived ,” says a young man from the other side of the line. “The one who survived a Blightclaw .”

I can feel their stares before I hear their voices.

Some women giggle when I glance at them.

Hushed voices grow louder, curiosity shifting into awe—or suspicion.

I dig my nails into my palms, as their judgments settle like ash around me.

False thoughts. False ideas. Demon or Divine.

I let them enjoy their view. If I shut this down now, their curiosity will overwhelm them, and they won’t be able to concentrate on their training.

There’s whispers and gasps and exclamations echoing from the throng as someone forces their way through the lineup.

“Bullshit!” a roar breaks out. Murmurs fade, and several cadets turn their heads to face the loudmouth.

“Do you really expect me to believe this crap? It’s just a way to get into your head. ‘The one who survived the dragon claw,’ how fucking amazing ,” he mocks, stepping out of the line, finally revealing himself.

I scan him—raven dark hair, skin etched with fading ink.

Thick eyebrows with the left one pierced, earrings dangling from each ear, one long and the other hooped.

. Now I know he’s not from the Front. There’s luxury written all over him.

People in the Front can never afford that.

He’s from the Middle. Though a small split on his lower stands out to me.

“Get back in line, Alex!” a cadet yells out from the assembled group.

His eyes flick to the cadet, body tense. “Hey, fuck you!” Alex tosses the remark, then looks back at me.

“We all know there’s no way to survive a dragon—let alone a damn Blightclaw —for this long,” he emphasizes. He’s stepping closer, and every time he grows nearer, my vision blurs and heat intensifies in my body. He needs to shut up—and soon.

“I think you’re a fake. Or a Demon, as many say. Just a pretty face of the Corps to make us believe that this is worthwhile. I know you. I’ve seen your face plastered all over Velerum, encouraging young fools to join a path that almost always leads to certain death.”

“You joined,” the girl who looks like Eryca says mockingly, stepping on her toes for a better view.

“I joined for my own reasons. My own will . Not to see Knight and Shiny Aaran in all of his glory. Like most of you fuckers here—”

My muscles tense up, and the moment he’s within reach, I grab his throat, pulling him closer.

“You want to continue talking?” I threaten, my grasp tightening.

“Or do you want to keep your mouth shut to not embarrass yourself further?” Adrenaline surges through me as my hold around his neck tightens.

Alex wheezes, clutching my arm to pry me off, but I only hold tighter as the crowd watches in stunned silence.

His golden eyes peer into me, slicing through me, like he’s not going to give up.

One more second.

Two.

Tighten my grip.

“That’s enough,” says the general, standing in a firm stance with an unamused expression.

I ease up and let go of Alex’s throat.

He scowls at me. “What the fuck—” he gasps.

I slowly turn toward the recruits. “Consider this a warning,” I say, staring at the new guy still gasping for air. “If you get cocky on the battlefield, a dragon will surely take advantage of that. If that was a dragon’s talon, you’d be dead.”

Alex stands, his hand wrapped around his neck, a grudge forming in his eyes. Middler . He stumbles to his place in the lineup, cadets letting him merge with the crowd but keeping their distance. I want to keep this brief.

“I believe I have gotten everyone’s attention,” I say, adjusting my stance. “Kazelius Aaran. Hunter. Unit Seventeen. Fourth- year. Two years ago, I led the defense expedition that killed five dragons. Some of you may have already heard that.”

Excitement ripples through the murmuring assembly, and the giggles of girls soon follow.

“I know many of you dreamed of joining the Corps to fight for humanity’s freedom.

Which means some of you have trained at a young age, gotten strong, and gained muscle.

And you are willing to give everything you have to slay dragons.

” I scan the crowd until I meet a pair of amber eyes.

Nida—her focus fixed on me. “I know I did,” I say.

In a way, it is to answer her questions of where I was and why I didn’t show up all these years.

“But some of you,” I continue, “are new. Worried or scared. First lesson: learn how to control your emotions. Better yet, you need to shut them off . Any doubt, any flinch, any hesitation can be the difference between life or death. That’s what Disciplinary classes are for.

I encourage you to fill your free time with that, if you want to” —I swallow hard, my posture remaining still— “be like me. That is how you survive.”

Cadets puff out their chests again. Proud and stoic. Even if it’s just on the surface. The general pats my back, not a single amount of criticism gleaming in his eyes. He was right—it does motivate them to see me.

Just showing up , he used to say. Just letting them see your face, that you survived and thrived and live is the first step to ensuring they become soldiers. They will want to copy you. Be you. Try to surpass you. That is his first step in breaking their mind.

“Each Division is led by a commandant,” says the general, his hand still on my shoulder.

“Some of the strongest and most skilled soldiers in the Corps.” He moves forward, finally lifting his hand.

“The commandants are experienced and have been on the battlefield many times. They’ve survived horrible things.

Now they are here to guide, teach, and train their own Division.

They are also the ones who observed you during the Assessment Year and have given you recommendations on which Division suits you best. Listen to them. Your survival depends on them.”

He turns, facing the neatly lined-up commandants wearing their red coats and the division emblem on the right side of their chest.

“Commandant Sayna Clay of the Medics,” he says, and Sayna takes a step forward, brushing her brown hair from her face. The crowd salutes in unison.

“Commandant Seis Lorren of the Hunters.” Seis steps forward, with a smile on his scarred lip, dark blue eyes scanning the cadets. He tucks his long, greyish hair behind his ears and salutes.

“Commandant Warren Tenwill of the Trackers.” A tall man steps forward.

He’s known to be one of the few trackers, if not the only tracker, who managed to escape Redsnout’s fire and survive.

He wasn’t directly hit, but he was close enough to have the right side of his face burned.

He’s the youngest of all the commandants.

One of his most taught lessons is emotional control.

An eerie feeling clouds the battleground the moment he steps forward. He, like the others, salutes.

Later, Commandant Moris Vine of the Defenders steps forward.

Unlike the others, he wears his scaly armor—proud in leading the Defenders—and a smile on his face.

Unlike other commandants, he’s not afraid to show his emotions and believes that’s the way humanity will survive.

Lastly, Joane Ateis, Commandant of the Scouts, steps forward, her height rivaling even Commandant Tenwill.

Her hair is tied in a tight bun, calm eyes watching the cadets who salute her.

A smile curving on her mouth as she watches one of the recruits in the crowd—a spitting image of her.

“Thank you, Commandants,” the general says, saluting them.

The chatter dwindles. I scan the lineup, looking at the faces of soldiers both old and new.

Lieutenants scatter to the sides of the arches, watching everyone, most likely picking the ones they’d personally want to train, to test their limits.

Lieutenant Wain is there, and by her side, Lieutenant Rylan, one of the most ruthless lieutenants I know.

Some cadets quickly look away as our eyes meet.

Monster.

Their eyes are filled with familiar anger.

But when I look at Nida, her eyes are different.

They don’t speak the words I’m used to hearing.

I can’t fully read them. Yet beneath that unreadable surface, I see pain.

I clench my jaw searching for the child I once knew in her amber eyes.

But it’s no longer there. Instead, I’m met with the same hollow, haunted look I find every time I catch my own reflection.

Once everyone gets a good look at me and the general finishes answering their questions—anything from schedules to Divisions to daily meals—several cadets begin pulling out their slips, the ones who have already decided which Division they’ll accept.

Out of the crowd, one by one, cadets approach the general, handing their slips face down. The general casts a quick look at the slips, then sorts them into five piles. I watch him, trying to work out which pile means what, but he always arranges them differently.

Instead, I shift my focus to the build of the cadets who hand in their slips, trying to discern what their strengths and weaknesses are.

Those with a strong and solid frame, tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered, like Raumen, almost always become Defenders.

Cadets who are slim and small are either Medics or Scouts.

Hunters and Trackers are tall, slim, and muscular, built for speed in the field.

From the crowd, the cocky Middler from earlier steps forward—Alex.

He pushes through like he doesn’t care who’s watching, but he’s making damn sure I notice.

His jaw flexes the moment our eyes lock, blowing away a dark curl, tousled and untamed like a raven’s wing.

He sneers at me, golden-honey eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

I observe him, from every black hair strand, to the tattoo curling across his neck, to every pocket in his black leather, and the strings of his boots.

My eyes narrow at his slip, a folded corner catching my attention.

His long silver earring glimmers in the morning sun as he turns his head to face the general, but his eyes never leave mine, promising a threat.

Alex slips back into the crowd, and I watch him melt into the mass of people.

Red flickers at the edge of my vision, and my eyes snap to Nida’s.

She parts her lips, as if attempting to whisper a few words to me.

I inhale slowly, casting a quick look at her slip—perfectly pinched between her index and middle fingers.

No folded corners, no wrinkles in sight.

There are no second thoughts etched in that paper.

The moment she received the recommendation, her name settled in ink on the Division she had chosen.

I analyze it from every angle, but I still can’t tell which.

My heart pounds in my chest, her eyes still on me.

Is it Tracker? Considering that she is slim yet muscular.

Hunter? I hope not. She’d have to rely on someone else.

I can’t tell the amount of muscle she has under that leather jacket, but I doubt she’s applying for Defender.

She’s not built for that. Medic? It would makes sense—her mother is a botanist, and she knows a great deal about plants and herbs.

She lets out a sigh, the wind teasing her long, wavy hair, twisting it into soft knots and carrying a faint scent of fresh earth my way. Her eyes drift away from me, but something in my gut stirs—a quiet restlessness that lingers just a moment longer than it should.