Page 108 of The Last Dragon
Its deep golden eyes are locked with mine andfilled with fear.It’s strange. A creature so powerful, so uncontrollable and vile, has eyes like a kitten. It curls its tail around itself as if trying to hide, to disappear into the ground—but its eyes never leave mine. It releases a soft, pained rumble, and slowly blinks.
This feels…wrong. I watch as its pleading eyes follow me, using all of its strength to move its head the second I shift my feet to walk away. It’s like the beast is asking me—begging me—not to leave, releasing a gentle chuff. Its nostrils flare rapidly as it takes quick, deep breaths to ease the pain. I watch it, trying to find the courage to tear my gaze away, but for those passing seconds, I can’t. Why does this feel wrong?
Guilt squeezes my throat, making it hard to breathe. I clear my throat in an attempt to expel whatever it is I’m feeling.Fool. I shouldn’t feel this way for a beast that has killed hundreds. And yet, the way this creature is behaving on the dirt road as it bleeds doesn’t align with what I’ve learned over the past few decades. In fact, none of the recent events align with what we’ve been taught.
A dragon.
Pleading.
Like a kitten that’s waiting for its mother.
We are taught in the Corps that a dragon is a feral creature, its only intention to kill and destroy. They view humans as a threat.
But I see no feral beast now. No roaring or screeching. Just silently waiting for its inevitable death.
The rest of the soldiers approach the beast rapidly, dragging heavy chainmail over it to lock its wings in place, preventing it from moving or attempting to fly as the tranquilizer begins to take effect. They aim ballistas—each loaded with a giant bolt trailing heavy chains—directly at its stomach, ready to fire if thebeast tries to escape. They wrap its snout tightly with several layers of metal chains to prevent any dragonfire. And finally, while the body is still fresh, the chiseling and ripping of the Stonetail’s scales begins. After all, they are the most valuable scales to the Corps.
CHAPTER 37
The bell tolls. Once. Twice. Three times. It’s the only sound that carries across the distance—aside from the sobs in the Great Hall. Today we mourn.
Names of the fallen cadets and their units are carved in the wood. Raumen’s name is in there. I stare at the ground in silence—Nida, Ilian, and Sam to my right, Eryca and Alex to my left.
But no Raumen.
I can’t tell if my heart is pounding in my chest or if I’m going numb. I can’t tell if I’m breathing or if it’s a lump forming in my throat. And nor can I tell if I’m giving up, or something in me is cracking.
We finally get to mourn.
We barely had time to process what happened. And it’s already been a week. A week spent dragging bodies, chipping Stonetail scales, and burying the dead.
It’s been a week since I’ve slept. Or ate. Or did anything. My mind was quiet, but my legs moved with every command given by the general. Or lieutenants. Or commandants.
There was no time to sit or cry or process.
But today, we finally get to mourn.
I lift my head after the fifth bell toll—the number of Divisions. The number of Strongholds. The number of Divines. And trace the name of my best friend in carved wood. I blink harder in hopes that when I open my eyes, I’ll find myself waking up on the rooftop with Raumen sitting beside me, fresh bread in hand. But to no avail.
This is my reality now.
No Raumen.
No Pirlem.
No hope.
And in a few years, there will be no humanity.
Lieutenant Wain, along with Lieutenant Abern, hangs yet another carved board next to the fallen units and soldiers. A single word carved into it—Pirlem. After a month of waiting, we get to mourn the villagers.
Seeing it instead of having it in the back of my mind triggers something within me. Pain. Anger. Sorrow. Hate. I can’t tell. But all those feelings pull on something—something I don’t quite understand.
I flinch at a sudden soft brush against my knuckles, then my palm. At first, I form a fist, but a soft, warm touch weaves between my fingers. I glance down at Nida’s hand, now intertwined with mine. Woven in a way like it’s meant to be there. Like the bracelets on our wrists. I don’t resist it. I meet her eyes—red, dulled from crying. Her breath catches. I let go of her hand and stop a falling tear, my fingertips brushing against her hair. I’m staring, but I know the look on my face isn’t what she expects to see. My face feels like stone. Unmoving. A soldier.
But inside of me, there’s something far more dangerous that flickers.
Human.
