Page 100 of The Last Dragon
Silence takes over, and I watch her turn her head in defeat, searching for something that’s not there. Lit torches illuminate the tears traveling across her freckled face. I can’t hold back. I can’t shut it off, the feelings I so desperately try to conceal. I cup her face in my hands, bringing her closer to me. She needs to know I’m here. That I’m never leaving her side again. She needs to know how I feel. But words fail me. I don’t know how to say it, what to say, or what this flutter in my chest even is. But I want to protect her in every way I possibly can. Mind, body, and soul.
“You still have me,” I say, wiping her tears from her cheeks, the amber glow in her eyes drowned beneath the water. I’m trying—trying—to bring the right words from my heart to my lips. “You still have me.” But the way she looks at me tells me that’s not enough.
CHAPTER 34
Ihaven’t spoken to Nida for three days now. Every time I draw near, she freezes. Her breath catches, before she turns on her heel and slips away, leaving me stranded with my own thoughts. It’s infuriating. The silence, the distance.It’s painful.Not knowing what’s going on in her head claws deep into my gut until it feels as though I’m unraveling from the inside out. I can’t do anything to help her. And I don’t want her to turn intome.
Instead, I bury myself in duties, trying to ignore or outrun the pain in my chest and the lump in my throat. I’m either looking over maps with Sam or shouting commands at the recruits with Lieutenant Wain—pushing them until they’re drenched in sweat and gasping for air. They need to get stronger. And they need to do that fast.
My eyes are sore, my back aches, and my insides feel like a dragon scooped out my guts and threw them across the fiveStrongholds. I feel empty. Numb. And sometimes I can’t feel my own heartbeat even in the most stressful situations.
I inhale sharply, staring at the map with various dragon sightings scattered all over the place. There’s still no pattern. And we’re running low on food. If the expedition shook the Third, the attack on Pirlem shook the entirety of Karalia.
Trade between the Front and the Third has become less profitable—and more dangerous. With more force and resources poured into protecting and strengthening the Hold, there’s little left to spare for new cadets. Trade with the other Strongholds has dwindled too, and no one knows why. That’s why Sam and I are here—he’s here analyzing the outcome and the effect, while I’m planning future expeditions. Sometimes, other commanders join, providing us with their own experiences and plans for expeditions, but it doesn’t always align. Some commanders prefer defensive formations, others more offensive. I prefer neither. A more neutral formation has the benefits of both—but also the disadvantages.
“Scouts can’t hunt game beyond the perimeter that the general has drawn for us,” Sam says, his eyes tracing the map—mapsscattered all over the table. I press my finger on my temple, trying to suppress the pain lingering there.
“If we can’t hunt further in, then we’ll have to ration. The people at the Front already know they’re not allowed to leave beyond a mile from the village,” I say and grab a stack of paper with notes for days of strategic plans. All of them, useless. How am I supposed to lead the next expedition when more than half of my soldiers are dead and the rest are starving?
“Depends for how long,” Sam says, furrowing his brow. “Starvation is more probable. That can lead to a riot. The Front will start asking questions. It’s a problem we don’t need right now.”
“It’s a problem we already have,” I grunt, slamming the stack of paper back on the table, nearly spilling a jar of ink. “We should ask the Center! I’m sure food that’s only a few hours old won’t be missed—they’ll just throw it away anyway.”
Sam sighs with a slight eye roll. He’s getting agitated. My chest and head are aching, and I’m starting to lose clarity on all this. Maybe I’m not as strong as I thought I was.
“If the Center finds out we don’t have the situation entirely under control, they might cut our finances.”
“Why on the soil we walk on would they do that?” I exclaim.
“Knowing them, and their obsession with power, they’d think lack of resources is what’s going to make us desperate,” he says, reaching out across the table, placing a few figurines on the map. “In their mind, lack of resources means faster results.” He takes back the figurine. “Those who think that way have never seen a dragon.”
I scoff. The Center is rich. They don’t bother to lift a finger, and no man or woman from the Center would ever consider joining the Corps. They let the Front rot and the Strongholds do all the fighting, while providing enough for the Middle to feel honored when joining the Corps. The Center worships The Mountain and treats The Mother as their Divine, pretending the reason why no dragon enters the Center is because The Mountain repels the beasts—completely ignoring our efforts to fend them off. I swore one day to drag a dragon skull to the King, for all rich scum to see exactly whatallof us are up against. Not just the Corps and the Front.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “In all my seven years as a strategic analyst, this is probably the hardest problem to solve without casualties.”
“You’ve been doing this longer than you were at the Corps?” I ask, puzzled. Sam’s always quiet. He doesn’t speak much about his present, let alone his past. But these long, tedious daysworking with him have taught me a thing or two. He’s allergic to basil—it makes his eyes water and sends him sneezing until he has to step outside for air. Whenever he’s focused or puzzling out a strategy, he always has a cup of tea. He says it helps him think. Whenever we disagree on something, he lets me speak first, allowing me to state my points—only to have it brought up as a counterargument. I don’t doubt that he’s going to be great at handling Karalia’s commerce and trade one day. But at the same time, perhaps if there’s anyone who should take up General Grogol’s position, it should be him.
“My father was an analyst at the Corps,” he says, skimming through some pages. “He was one of the few that was allowed to return home and bring his work with him. He’d show it to me. That’s when I knew I wanted to be like him.”
“I never knew that,” I say.
He smiles, revealing his dimples. “Nobody really asked.” He writes a note, only to scribble it away. That’s another thing I’ve learned about him. He needs to write his ideas down for them to escape his mind, to find out whether or not a strategy will work.
“I worked at a small shop in my town—handling commerce, planning strategy, analyzing trends, even predicting winter losses when necessary,” he continues. “My father let me join one of his jobs for the Corps. It made me realize that I could do so much more here. The general put me up for this because he was working closely with my father. I believe they were friends.”
“You’re from Medyn?” I ask. I’m surprised I never did before. Guilt makes itself known in my chest. I never bothered to get to know my unit before. I only focused on being a soldier and ignored all that sentimental crap. Now I only wish I could’ve spent more time with them.
“Yes,” he responds softly.
“You actually enjoy this line of work.” I smile.
A faint blush colors his cheeks, but the sorrow lingering in his grass-green eyes doesn’t fade. “If predicting how many people will die can help prevent it, then I’ll do it until my last breath. Even then, I hope what I leave behind will be a step toward humanity’s freedom.” He offers a smile, the smile that I’ve only seen in kind people. People who aren’t doing this for themselves, but strongly believe that humanity deserves to survive.
“What about your mother?” I ask. He pauses, his smile quickly fading as he furrows his brow. He lifts his hand toward the side of his neck, rubbing it with his fingers. This question seems to bother him.
“I don’t remember her.”
I refrain from asking more. He rubs his finger against a piece of paper he’s holding, his eyes darting between the empty spaces on the ground as he backs away a few steps. Then his face turns pale.
