Page 18 of The Last Dragon
Raumen notices the confusion and irritation on my face. “We’re heading to Nedersen in a few days. I don’t have a night shift, and my next shift doesn’t start until late at night the next day. So we thought it would be a great time to let out some steam!”
Something bubbles in my stomach. I can’t tell if it’s irritation or something else entirely. “You should be training,” I advise coldly. “Not going out to blow off some steam.”
This… annoys me. Of all the things they’re supposed to do, this should be the last. They need to focus on their training. The dragon can attack any time, anywhere. And the next expedition might take place any day.
Ilian sneers, rolling his eyes. “We have been training, Zel. Forfouryears. There’s nothing more we can do. Those who need more training are the first-years. We’ve done our part.”
Before I can say anything, Raumen steps in. “Look, the offer stands. Take it or not. It would be nice to have you around. Like the old days. And you said it yourself once: as a unit, we need to know each other. We’ll benefit from it in battle.”
“Well, I have Disciplinary,” says Ilian and pats Raumen on his shoulder.
“You still go to those?” I ask, raising a brow. Disciplinary is a one-on-one session with a lieutenant or commandant to help regulate emotions. Oftentimes, it’s for newcomers. It’s a slowerprocess to break one’s mind, but more efficient than being yelled at.
“Not all of us are machines, Zel,” Ilian says, crossing his arms.
I don’t say anything. Instead, I let the silence drag on long enough for them to leave. Ilian yanks a bow from a first-year and shoots a perfect bullseye, single-handed. Then he shoots a glare at me. He raises his brows, shrugging, as if trying to prove a point.
“Four years,” Ilian mouths, giving the bow back to the startled cadet.
A breath escapes me, but irritation stays.
Wain—still beside me—gently laughs. “You should be with them more,” she says. “You’re a better fighter when you are. And a better person.”
I understand what she means. A soldier gains a lot by staying close to their unit—thoughts align, instincts sharpen, and in a real fight, everything flows more smoothly. But for me, being around people was never easy. One or two, I can handle. Easier to control. Anything more, and it starts to feel like I’m drowning.
My eyes drift to Nida again. I watch her laugh and tighten the wraps around her hands with ease as she jumps on the mat again, sloppily getting into a fighting stance. She brushes a rogue curl clouding her face, only for it to drop forward again. Then she blows it out of the way. She lifts her hands, and a cuff slips out from under her sleeve—a bracelet woven from dried linen.
And I feel like I’m drowning.
CHAPTER 8
“You wanted to see me, General?” I stand in salute a few steps from his table. After a long day at the training grounds, Berim—one of the general’s guards—called me into his quarters. I was surprised. Usually, he doesn’t ask for an audience on such short notice. Nonetheless, here I am, standing stiffly while the general scribbles something onto a sheet of parchment, barely acknowledging me. The silence stretches. My shoulder begins to ache from holding the position, but I don’t move. Finally, he sets the quill down with care, then lifts his gaze, sharp and unreadable.
“I did,” he says at last, voice low but firm. “Close the door.”
Something coils in my gut, a quiet instinct stirring. I do as I’m told, the latch clicking shut behind me.
My eyes stay fixed on the floor. That’s the rule—you never look a superior in the eye unless spoken to. I learned that early. During my Division Day, four years back, I was the only one whodared to lift my eyes and meet his. Unprompted. The room went still. He didn’t say a word, but the look he gave me etched itself into memory. That day made it clear—he was a general first, and anything else came after.
“There’s a matter I wanted to discuss with you. Regarding your unit.”
I lift my head. He studies me for a beat too long, as if weighing what I can handle, or what I deserve. But quickly, his attention moves to a slip of paper in his hand, its surface marred by delicate creases, the kind left behind by careful, deliberate folding. He examines it, then lifts his head and gestures to come closer. I relax my shoulders, stepping forward. If this is about my unit, it could be anything from ripping it apart to—
“There’s someone who shows exceptional skills in tracking. The results from the Assessment Year are impressive.” He lays the results in front of me, with detailed descriptions of the soldiers’ skills, but any personal information, name or village, or origin, is blocked out. “I dare say it’s nearly as good as your previous tracker, Kayus.”
Of course. He’s looking for a replacement. I glance at the slip one more time, barely registering the information before I hold it out to him.
“I’m not interested.” The slip hovers in my outstretched hand, suspended in the still air between us. My eyes remain on it.
He stays perfectly still. Then, slowly, he leans in and takes the slip from my hand with deliberate care.
“Any reason?”
Hundreds. Thousands even. Though of those thousands, only one stands out: I don’t want to put my life in the hands of someone else. Not when the venom is claiming mine by the minute. But I won’t admit that to him out loud.
“I’m fine working alone,” I say. Another reason out of a thousand. Not to mention that no one can replace Kayus. Noone is as good as him. His way of tracking is the only way I can accept. And this soldier is not him. That’s four reasons.
He gives a soft nod, accepting my vague response and neatly folding the slip. Yet the way he places the slip with the rest of them—even for a moment—makes me feel uneasy. Like he hasn’t fully let go of it.
