Page 127 of The Last Dragon
“Get yourself cleaned up,” he says and turns sideways. “Blood’s hard to get out of wood.”
I hesitantly take a few steps forward, unsure where to go and unwilling to smear the floor any further. Valous clicks his tongue, then points to the door across the hall.
“Need a map to find a bucket?” His voice is low, concerned.
I shoot him a glare—my cheeks slightly flushing. I’ve never been this distracted before. Right now, all I can think about is Nida. I’m silently begging the Divines that she’ll be fine. Divines I never believed in before. Whatever it is that I’m feeling now, the only thing I can turn toisthem—no matter how strange it feels. Though, it’s somewhat comforting. And I hate admitting that.
Valous’ eyes burn into the back of my head as I cross the hall into the room he pointed at. I still have a hard time believing he managed to build all of this himself. A life in the shadows, yet out in the open without the Corps breathing down his neck. I guess this is how little the Corps actually cares about what happens in the Front. As long as it doesn’t stall the expansion, people can pretty much do whatever they want here.
The room is small—more of a closet—filled with pails and buckets of water, smelling of rain and dirt. The shelves are divided into two—one side holds clean water, while the other is stuffed with half-filled buckets of murky water. I reach for the closest thing at hand and perch on a wooden stool wedged in the corner. Water stings my skin as I move the damp cloth over my arms and legs. The cuts are deeper than I thought.
A scream tears the air apart. Nida. I jump from the stool, pulling my shirt up again. The bucket tips and falls with a dull clang, and water soaks my boots. I let out a startled grunt, launching myself at the door. The gnawing feeling of guilt creeps up my throat when I catch a glimpse of the softly swaying bucket on the now wet and muddied floorboards.
“Damn it,” I curse as I ease the door open, peering through the slit before glancing back at the floor. I run my hand down my shirt, attempting to straighten the creases as I step through the door. Across the hall, Valous’s eyes stare back at me, swaying a glass of brown liquor in hand as he leans on a chipped woodenpillar. He arches a brow. I feel unmoored, like a stranger in my own skin—as if all the years of discipline, of burying every flicker of emotion, have unraveled in an instant. I used to know who I was—stoic, unwavering, a soldier with a clear sense of right and wrong with no room for doubt in my heart. But now I return to my roots. A lost, weak boy trying to find his place in this world.
And I’m very lost right now.
Valous clicks his tongue, casting a glance at the door to his left, and then pushes himself from the pillar.
“She’s going to be fine,” he says, raising the glass to his lips. “She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that.”
I let his words press down on my shoulders, heavy with relief. The thought of Valous—or anyone tied to him—laying their hands on her makes my stomach twist with revulsion. But if it means she’s alive and taken care of… then I’ll bear it. I’ll bear all of it.
“You look exhausted,” Valous comments, and I swear I hear worry in his voice. It’s as if he cares.
The floor creaks with Valous’ heavy footsteps. He takes a sip from his glass, the sharp, biting scent hitting my nose as he gets closer. He stretches out his hand, offering a sip of the strong concoction he no doubt made up himself, but I raise my hand to decline.
He only arches his brow and says, “Your loss,” and takes another sip. “It’s way better than counting sheep.”
I ignore his comment, return to the closet, and clean up the mess I’ve made.
When I step out of the washing area thirty minutes later, I spot Cashmere and the other man sitting on a broken bench shoved into the far corner of the hall—deep in conversation. Valous sits next to Cashmere on a chair, his head tossed over the crest rail, a refilled glass in hand. I’m not sure I feel comfortable with myonly help getting drunk for the night. But I’m not the one to tell him what to do in his own home.
I step closer, even though I don’t want to intervene in their conversation, but if there’s any update on Nida’s condition, I need to know. Cashmere’s eyes flick to me, his soft gaze inviting. He looks so much like Valous, but the one thing they differ in is their approachable demeanor.
“Anything?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even, hoping they’ll catch the concern I don’t say aloud. Cashmere pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. But for whatever reason, sitting down makes me feel uneasy. I have to stay guarded. On my feet. Always. Cashmere catches on quickly and clears his throat.
“There’s damage to the tissue in her leg that’ll take time to heal,” he says, tossing a look toward the other man with messy, greasy black hair tied in a loose braid. “But it’s good you brought her in when you did. There’s no infection. She’ll live.”
Emotions clash in my chest. She’ll need time to heal… but shewillheal.She’ll live.
“What happened to her anyway?” the man with black hair asks, hiding his mouth with his ink-stained hands. He’s probably the one who takes care of the ledgers here in the tavern. And that means he’s someone Valous can trust.
“A dragon,” I say, voice steady—barely. I clear my throat, but the sound does little to mask the weight behind the word. Valous’ head snaps toward me, his eye catching the light, gleaming with something too close to hunger. I know that look. I’ve seen it way too many times before. If he thinks he can barter for this information, twist it into something for his gain, he’s mistaken. I let the mask slide back into place, emotions intact—not because I want to hide, but because I have to. Whatever help he’s offering now, I’d be a fool to trust what lurks behind those eyes. Deception wears many faces—and Valous wears it like a second skin.
He catches my look, and the atmosphere shifts, his eyes losing that glimmer. He smirks as he holds his gaze steady with mine, but I refuse to yield. Not after everything.
“I need to see her,” I say, straightening up.
“She’s resting,” Valous says as he swirls the liquor and then takes a sip.
“Then still let me see her,” I say.
He doesn’t answer right away—just lets the silence stretch between us, long enough to feel deliberate. His stare lingers, measuring me.
I step forward. “I’m not asking,” I say, voice low. “If she’s resting, I won’t wake her. But Iwillsee her.”
The man with ink-stained hands shifts uncomfortably, eyes flicking between us. Valous exhales through his nose, tugging on his shirt. “She’s in the back room. Last door. Don’t touch anything.”
