Page 9 of The Last Dragon (The Great Burn Chronicles #1)

O nce the general has collected the last of the slips, he turns to face the cadets, neatly lined up again and patiently waiting for his command. Some tap their feet, anticipation written on their faces.

General Grogol stands firm, hands behind his back, shoulders squared like the weight of the entire Corps rests there.

And it does. He’s going to spend the next few days forming units and planning the next expedition.

I wonder if he’s going to want me to join it.

He paces slowly, his boots crunching over the charred ground.

“You’ll be assigned exploration rotations,” he says. “Learn the terrain. Know the halls, the towers, the blind corners. No excuse for getting lost.”

A few uneasy shuffles follow. I stay still, silent beside him.

“If you need to study based on your Division,” he continues, “the archives are open. The library is fully stocked. Use it.” He stops pacing and turns toward the line again, meeting their gazes as they straighten their spines.

“You’re soldiers now .Glory for the Corps!

” the general shouts, snapping his boots together in salute.

“Glory for Humanity!” The soldiers echo, voices loud and unified as they follow the movements of the general’s posture.

I mouth the words in silence, the same ones that always leave my lips feeling numb.

“You are free to go to the common grounds,” he says, turning on his heel.

The soldiers begin to scatter. From the corner of my eye, I spot Sayna, approaching me with a smile on her face. I salute.

“No need for formality, Zel,” she says softly, pulling out a slip. “I heard from General Grogol that you wanted a medical assessment.” She hands it to me, and I open it to see the date and time.

“Three weeks from now,” I say.

Sayna nods. “We need time to properly assess the newcomers.”

I fold the slip and tuck it in my pocket.

“You’re looking well,” she adds, her eyes scanning my body and veins like the medic she is, as if her assessment has already begun. “The rest must’ve helped.”

“I’ve been feeling calmer,” I say, and she nods once. Then twice.

“That’s good,” she replies, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Make sure to stay that way. See you then.”

I nod, watching her slip away to join the other commandants who are already talking about each Division.

I head for the nearest exit, but something red in the crowd stops me. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat—just Nida and me. I break away, quickening my pace, desperate to put distance between us.

When I was twelve, Nida was the only friend I had.

The other kids mocked me for my small figure and being reserved around others.

I never knew how to properly converse since I spent most of my time at the forge, working and learning blacksmithing with my father.

After his death, Nida and her family looked after me while my mother spent long days and nights putting food on the table.

Nida and I were close—spending every day together, vowing to stick by each other no matter the cost. We’d weave friendship bracelets out of hemp and bladed grass and linen, binding our promises with each knot.

I couldn’t tell the difference between foxtail or rye or wheat until she taught me—patiently, endlessly—about every culm and every node, the sharpness or softness of each blade, from spikelet to root, top to bottom.

The days seemed so bright back then. Just the two of us.

But now the halls are dimmed and crowded, cadets and soldiers milling about, some heading to their posts, others lost in their class schedules.

The crowd should make it easier for me to vanish. But as I weave past their bodies, attempting to blend in, her strides still echo against the walls, her gaze burning into the back of my head.

Just leave me alone.

I turn the corner into a quiet, narrow hall, the torches flames flickering weakly.

“Zel,” she hisses.

Damn it. I couldn’t get away. I stand still, my back facing her, listening to the approaching footsteps. In an instant, she’s right in front of me.

“You’re avoiding me,” she says, crossing her arms, her eyes like burning amber. I don’t respond. I hope she’s going to drop it and leave it at that. She presses her lips together, narrowing her eyes at me.

“You know, after everything that happened in Pirlem, I somehow thought that you’d come back. But that’s before everyone kept telling me that you were dead. We looked everywhere for you.” She inhales a shaky breath. “So that we’d have a body to bury.”

I can’t tell if she’s about to cry or attempt to slit my throat. Regardless of what it is, I’ve never seen her this upset before.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I grunt.

She stiffens, eyes locked on mine—unblinking, unreadable. Like she knew what I’d say before I did. I try to move past her, but she catches me, stopping me cold. Why, out of all people, did she join The Corps?

“Why? You think I can’t cut it here?” she asks.

“I don’t think, I know. ”

Her gaze sharpens. “You think I’m so weak?”

“You’ll die within minutes during a dragon attack.”

She lets out a scoff. “Are you seriously comparing fourteen-year-old me to who I am now?”

“If that tongue of yours is still the same,” I snap.

She steps closer, the heat from her words almost tangible. “Watch your tongue,” she warns, voice low but fierce. “I’m not that scared little girl you think you remember.”

I raise an eyebrow, glancing at her. The cadet uniform clings to her, highlighting the hard lines of muscle beneath. She does seem stronger, but the mind is what can lead to one’s death. Not muscle.

“Why did you join?” I ask.

She looks taken aback by my question.“I had to.”

“Had to?”

“Yes, had to.” Her shoulders slightly lift, tensing up, like she’s hiding something.

I study her face. The subtle tension in her jaw flexes. She used to be easy to read, but now I can’t tell her emotions. At least not when looking at her face. The tone of her voice gives it away. There’s grief behind her words.

“You really expect me to think that ‘had to’ is the only reason you joined?” I say, a sneer tugging at my lips.

She lifts her chin, pressing her lips into a thin line.

“Don’t pretend you know me,” she says, voice sharp as flint.

“You think I joined for glory? For fun?” She scoffs, jaw tight.

“I joined because no one else would fight for us. Because sitting back and waiting for people like you to do something got us nowhere.”

Like me? What is that supposed to mean? There’s fire in her eyes, but not enough to make me flinch.

I exhale slowly through my nose.. “We’ll see about that.”

She holds my gaze, like she’s expecting a fight I’m not interested in giving. Then I turn and leave, not giving her the satisfaction of a glance over my shoulder.

The corridor swallows me whole—tall vaulted ceilings stretching above, torchlight flickering against stone walls.

My boots strike the floor in sharp, echoing steps, cutting through the murmur of voices.

Soldiers cluster along the halls, leaning against pillars or hunched over maps and schedules.

Most barely glance up as I pass. A few do, but I don’t meet their eyes.

I head toward the eastern stairwell, the one that leads to the upper levels and my own room—quieter, colder, away from the noise.

The scent of oil and old parchment lingers in the air from the library nearby, mingling with the musky tang of old leather.

No one follows.

No one calls my name.

She doesn’t.

Good.

When I’m on the upper levels, I pause and take a breath, opening and closing my mouth to release the tension that’s built up in my jaw.

Then, I unlatch the window with a soft click and push it open, letting in a rush of warm air that sways the loose strands of hair at my temples.

The rooftop. The only space where I can breathe without holding back.

After rain, the sand and burned grass release that earthy smell back into the air. It reminds me that the world is still somewhat alive. My lungs definitely thank me for it.

The rooftop always holds me, its grip like claws sinking into my skin.

A place where I can be alone, without a dozen eyes tracking my every move.

I can climb through the window in my room or the one down the long corridor to get here, and let myself get lost in memories, in thoughts, or watch the desolate land stretching beyond the Stronghold outer wall.

Barely any trees or greenery. Just dust and sand as far as the eye can see.

I’ve heard stories from decades ago—before the Third was built—about thick forests and lush grass surrounding this place. All chopped away to build this fortress of stone and ash and wood and metal. I wonder what it was like back then. If it was anything like Pirlem.

I take a deep breath, and a chuckle reaches my ears.

“I knew I would find you here.” Raumen flops down beside me, the stone tiles of the roof groaning under the weight of his heavy boot.

He has a loaf of bread with him the size of my palm, heat and steam still rising from it—freshly baked.

He breaks it in half, a mild, grainy aroma filling the rain-soaked air, and he hands a piece to me.

“Sneaked into the kitchen again?” I chuckle, breaking off a small piece of the bread.

He lets out a snort. “Had time to spare,” he says as he crosses his legs. “Most likely the only time I’ll get.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re doubling my shift at the towers starting tomorrow. No room for baking anymore. It feels like I’ll barely be here.”

He stares at the bread for a moment, twirling it in his hand as his brow furrows.

It must be hard for him. When I first met him, I thought he was delusional for claiming he’d find a way to balance his duties as a soldier and trainee while taking classes and baking bread.

But he did it for four years. Even though he knew it wouldn’t last long, he was still trying to hold onto the life he once had, while the rest of us had to abandon ours.

I take a bite—the same flavor that only his bread has—lacing my tongue.

He laughs softly before grabbing another bite himself. We sit in silence for a moment, staring at the outskirts or watching clouds pass by in the faded blue sky.

“So it’s just us two now,” he finally says, a half-smile forming without reaching his eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, grief tightening my throat, reminding me of how the rooftop won’t feel the same ever again. Not after Aris’ and Kayus’ death. For two years now, even with Raumen, the rooftop feels like something’s missing. But I wouldn’t exchange his presence for anything in this world.

“I heard you have an old flame here!” he exclaims, nudging me with his elbow.

I roll my eyes. “That was fast.”

“The others don’t know that yet.” He smiles, shoving a bite of bread into his mouth. “I’ll keep it a secret.”

“How did you even know?”

He shrugs, the smile never leaving his face. “A little bird told me.”

Either Ilian was eavesdropping, or the ruckus was loud enough for others to hear, too. Somewhere far off, a bell tolls, its clang echoing through the stillness, marking time in a place where every moment feels borrowed.

Raumen pats me on the shoulder. “My shift.” He stands up and takes another bite of his bread. “I’ll see you in the training grounds. Don’t be too hard on the first-years.” He jumps through the window, back into the hallway.

I’m alone again, staring at the stony tiles to the left of me.

A place Aris used to sit. A jolt of sadness fills my chest…

or is it guilt, or shame? I can’t tell. But whatever that feeling is, it’s been haunting me for a long time.

The type of feeling that won’t go away unless I find ways to forgive myself.

Something I find more difficult to do the longer the time goes.