Page 30 of The Last Dragon
“What will they be?” I ask. “The symptoms.”
“It’ll start with hallucinations. You’ll begin dissociating from reality, unable to make out what’s real or not. The body will remain intact—for now. But your mind will deteriorate.”
“Anything else?”
Sayna’s stares tells me to take this seriously. I roll the sleeve back down, covering my arm, and button up the shirt. My eyes dart to the side, still considering her words. Hunting and tracking means I’ll be doing it myself, without having to rely on anyone else. Commanding means I’ll not only have to rely on someone else, but also carry the lives of hundreds of soldiers on my shoulders. Not to mention that Sarga helps with tracking, and she isn’t willing to aid another Tracker. I shake the thoughts away and shift my legs toward the door, a slight heaviness settling over me again.
“I believe we’re done here?” I ask coldly, though it sounds more like a statement than a question. Sayna lowers her head with a sigh. I appreciate her concern, and the role she’s played over the years. A caregiver, scraping together leftovers for a homeless pup. She was, and still is, one of the few people I can trust. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be alive.
But eight years of constant training and brutal experiments turned me from a pup into a wolf—with an instinct to stalk my prey to the very end, if necessary.
“You may go,” she says, nodding toward the door. “But I’ll be signing off that you’re not allowed to track. Leave that duty to your Tracker. You can still command and lead an expedition. Now go. It’s Market Day, after all!”
I turn to her, offering a silentthank youwith my eyes.
“I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again, Aaran.” Her hazel eyes glimmer as they trace the right side of my face, like she’s seeing a future she doesn’t want to share—something I’m not sure I want to know either.
I trust Sayna’s assessment. Commanding isn’t something I want to do. But it’s my duty. For the sake of humanity—I have to accept it. I just hope General Grogol knows what he’s doing. I’ve been having a hard time trusting his words and judgment after he lied to me about Pirlem.
I make my way to the door and pull on the rusty handle, revealing a long, dark corridor leading to the east wing. I close the door behind me and lean against it as my weak legs give out—the serum’s side effects kicking in. For the next few hours, my legs will feel numb, like I’ve been drinking for days. And of course, it’s Market Day. I’ll be limping through it for everyone to see.
Damn it.
CHAPTER 12
The sun is gleaming high. Folks from villages around the Third gather behind the safety of the Stronghold walls and hold Market Day in the largest yard. It’s a day when villagers from the Front and the Middle gather to trade or sell whatever they can offer—fresh produce, trinkets, materials. It used to be annual, but after the dragon attack in Pirlem eight years ago, people were too scared to come in. It was canceled, and the villagers focused on rebuilding Pirlem. At least that is what I believed. But now I can only assume they lived in rot and ruin. I clench my teeth at the thought.
But now the Market is finally reinstated. News of one dragon remaining is the reason why. And aside from mourning during the Memorials, the Market is the only other time we’re allowed to be human, with the weight of a soldier’s duties lurking over our shoulders.
The yard is filled with small, rickety wooden stalls, their sun-faded cloth awnings barely holding on against the gentle wind. Merchants lay their goods like fruits, vegetables, and handy craftwork across the tables, pitching their best products to potential customers. Some stalls are from villages that are closer to the Center, with extravagant accessories created for only the rich. The closer you are to the Center, the richer and safer you are—you can never grasp what it’s like in the front of the war. They spend their time meddling with gold and silver that is being dug up in the mines by villagers from the Front. People who do not care about the riches buried under them but instead focus on the means of humanity’s survival. Even if it means being bait—a sacrifice the Center couldn’t care less about.
The smells of sharp spices and freshly baked bread fill my nose. I haven’t experienced this in nearly a decade—something I didn’t think I’d miss until I stood in the middle of the yard, nostalgia tugging at the memories tucked deep within my mind.
My father and I used to come here to sell different types of gear for soldiers, as well as materials other villagers needed—metal hinges, nails, sickles and plowshares, hammers, and other artisan tools. He even fixed gates in the Third.
The place is crowded, people jostling shoulder to shoulder. Children run around, laughter echoing as they step on my toes in their rush to continue a game of tag. Shopkeepers hold up unique trinkets, promising great quality at cheap prices. My eyes sweep back and forth between the crammed stalls, my guard still up for any pickpockets eager to inflict damage on the less fortunate.
I pass the bustling stalls from Garta, a town known for its cattle and quality food. The sizzling meat fills the air with a mouthwatering aroma.The onion- and garlic-laced smoke makes my eyes water as I stroll.
A child with deep green eyes tugs on my arm, gently dragging me toward a stall with cooked mutton. I hunch as she shows me samples. A smile tugs at my lips as she grabs one for me, glazed with butter and crushed garlic, and asks me to try it. I take a bite—the mixture of sweet and salt rolling over my palate.
“It’s good,” I say around a mouthful, savouring the taste. “The best I’ve had in a very long time.”
The little girl squeals and jumps, clapping her hands with a large smile on her sunburned face. I reach for my pouch. Without attempting to haggle the price, I place five copper coins in the shopkeeper’s hands.
“I’ll take two,” I say.
“You won’t regret it!” says the shopkeep, his dark, thin hands quickly grabbing a piece of parchment to wrap the venison in. “It’s the finest from Garta!”
“So I’ve heard,” I respond, offering a smile. Ilian used to talk about it all the time. Mutton and beef are standard in Garta.
“Two copper coins.” Quickly, he rummages in his pouch.
“No change,” I say, and his eyes widen. Then he bows his head low. He wraps the meat in salt-soaked vellum, tying it carefully with thin twine before giving it to me.
For a heartbeat, it feels good to be here—seeing the townsfolk still alive and well, somewhat thriving. But enjoying their presence isn’t a luxury I can afford for long. At least not yet. Not until we’re free from the dragons.
A few steps from the stall, a man cloaked in midnight black stands with his palms up, his face covered in a hood. I scrunch my nose in annoyance once I make out the words he preaches.
