Page 80 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

“ What ?” I whisper as I press the crossbow closer to the side of my body.

The beast lowers its head with eerie grace, silver scales catching the light in glinting patterns as it draws closer.

Its massive snout hovers inches from me, and a low sound escapes its throat.

A quiet, haunting rumble that vibrates through my bones.

This time, I can hear it clearly. With every chuff and roar, with every cold breath, inhale and exhale, a single sound slips through the dragon’s clenched maw.

Kazelius .

My name?

I lower my crossbow entirely, and with it, the beast’s head lowers into a near bow, now completely aligned with me—its snout slightly forward, still approaching me slowly. My heart is pounding. Did it just say my name ?

My mind races, each thought more confusing and unrealistic than the last. A dragon that talks, communicates in our language and it knows my name. The beast’s eyes seem relaxed, pleading .

I slowly raise my hand, reaching out for its snout, hesitant.

Gripping the bow tighter, its once familiar weight now feels foreign in my hand.

The coldness of the hilt is unsettling, as if it no longer belongs to me.

I can feel every scratch, every crooked screw, every stain that wore out over time.

But now it feels out of place, like a pair of shoes that I have outgrown.

Like it is resisting me. Or I, it.

I inhale a sharp breath as I approach the dragon with my hand, gently, carefully, placing it on its muzzle.

The moment my hand and its muzzle connect, a surge of excruciating pain courses through my body, leading all the way from my hand to my elbow, to my eyes and face and chest. I yank my hand from the beast, slamming it onto my head. My ears ring. Painful. I roar in agony.

Another seizure?

No, this is different.

What the hell is happening to me?

I reach toward my throat, attempting to remove the invisible rope that’s stopping me from taking a breath, the burning sensation on my hand increasing in intensity with every moment. I shut my eyes, still pressing my hands to my head as images flash behind my eyelids.

There are dragons. Hundreds of them. I hear women and children screaming, their agonized yells echoing in my ears, as if I’m there.

But I’m not. I’m still in the cave, with the giant beast in front of me, icy blue eyes locked on me.

I can see everything. Burning villages. Charred bodies. And a dark, deafening roar of a dragon.

What is this? Are these real? Are these memories? There are moments where I’m flying, above the villages, the Strongholds, the Center. But the Center is different. Smaller. And where the Third Stronghold should be—there’s nothing. Just untouched land. It hasn’t been built yet.

These are memories. But they are not mine.

They are the Silverscale’s.

The memories continue to flash through my mind, and the pain continues to surge through my body. At one point, a large dragon shadow is towering over armies of men and women. I hear their screams. I feel their pain as they are mercilessly slaughtered. Every excruciating, torturous moment.

In the midst of it all, there is a man. No older than Ligerion, clad in black-adorned leathers, standing with a sword in hand over a young boy whose heart pierced with an arrow. The man takes the boy in his arms, bloody tears dripping from his eyes as he grieves.

His son, I assume.

As the images blur together, I spot a young Silverscale fleeing the scene, releasing a painful cry.

The glimmering scales fade like smoke. The boy and the man vanish next. Only the towering black mountain and the Center remain—silent—before it too fades into nothing. Pain explodes in my chest, sharp and sudden and burning, as if a hot blade has been driven straight through my heart.

I gasp for air, and I open my eyes. I’m back at the cave. The images are gone, and the pain no longer lingers in my chest. But something cold crawls beneath my skin, prickling through my veins like ice.

I lift my right hand. Snowflakes cling to my fingertips, delicate and shimmering. Beneath my skin, dark veins begin to shift—slowly, steadily turning blue.

Ice.

My hand looks and feels as if it’s been encased in solid ice—like I plunged it into a frozen lake, and came back with frostbite in place of flesh.

“What’s happening to me?” I gasp, coughing as I struggle to push myself upright. My hand burns with cold, each movement a stab of pain. A warm breath brushes my skin, followed by a low voice that echoes inside my head.

“We need your help, Kazelius Aaran.”

“My help?” I ask breathlessly. “For what?”

“To save us.”

I furrow my brow. I don’t understand. I straighten up, grasping my right arm as if it’ll somehow stop the frost from spreading. The Silverscale lifts his head, taking a step back. I take a step forward .

“Why would I help you?” I say. Anger builds in my chest, yet my voice is calm.

The beast releases another chuff, nostrils flaring, watching me attentively. “ If you don’t ” — he lifts his head even higher — “ humanity will fall. ”

“If you think I’ll help creatures who pushed us to our near downfall, then you are wrong.” I clench my teeth, wishing I had a way to get this thing out of my head.

For a second, I think the beast will lash out, but it remains still, nostrils flaring with deep exhales. My mind tells me to find ways to kill this creature, plunge a dagger into his eye, but my legs remain still. My entire body refuses to move. As if I’m not the one in control.

“ We are not the reason why humanity has fallen, ” he chuffs, voice echoing in my head. “ Your own kind is .”

His words hit me like a hammer against steel. “What do you mean?” I grit out. “You’re the ones hunting us… slaughtering us without mercy. Burning villages, children! We’re the ones left fighting to survive!”

The dragon’s gaze stays steady, unblinking, as if it’s seen centuries pass like minutes. I shake my head, disbelief twisting inside me. “You have no right to ask for help now.”

A growl rumbles in its throat—not fierce, but enough to draw my attention.

“ There’s a far greater force, Kazelius,” he warns. “ A force neither man nor dragon can withstand. The man you call General Grogol… He will ignite a chain reaction that could destroy us all. ”

I freeze. How could he know about Grogol? Was this the beast that I felt watching me? Was he the one who whispered to me?

A fire ignites in my throat—burning—as the scattered images from before faintly flicker to life again—smoke rising from razed villages, dragons fleeing through ash-dark skies.

A war.

Erased.

A war that isn’t taught anywhere. Those people, those villagers, were not fighting against dragons— they were fighting with each other.

A force, he said, greater than anything we’ve ever faced before.

Why was this part of our history so easily erased?

Why have dragons and humans fought side by side? And against what?

I meet the beast’s stare again. “If I help you,” I say, every word carefully weighed. “Will you help me?”

The dragon unfurls its wings slowly, their surface shimmering like fractured diamonds, catching every stray gleam of light and scattering it across the cave walls. Pale white membranes ripple like frozen mist, edges sharp. It’s like the beast is carved from icy crystal.

“ With my life, ” he roars, and a chill creeps under my skin.

I stare at the beast as a surge of power builds in my chest. It grows slowly, and my crystalized hand begins to glint. Nails like dragon claws, knuckles and wrists scaled like the dragon’s. It feels different than the venom, yet the same.

I look up at him, watching his eyes, his slits dilating as he stares at me.

Now , I think to myself.

Now I can save Nida, and burn the Third down.

“What are you called?” I ask the beast, carefully placing my hand on his snout again. It puffs out air through his nostrils, and a deep voice sounds in my head.

“ Msai’chem. ”