Page 35 of The Last Dragon
Sarga releases a gentle cry, puffing up her feathers when she notices I’m moving toward the door.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, pressing my hand on the cold door handle. “You stand guard.”
It’s cold in the hallway—even for the time of the highest sun. The chill spills across my skin. The hairs on my arms raise, and I rub them without thinking. Keys chime from the guard’s uniform somewhere in the distance, and I press myself against the shadows clinging to the walls.
For a moment, I just listen—waiting, watching, making up excuses in my mind if anyone were to see me. Displaying doubt or acting out of self-interest instead of serving humanity is punishable regardless of your rank or experience. And I’d rather not get caught.
Finally, there are no footsteps. No voices. Only the stillness behind the stone and the soft crackling of torches above me. Once I’m by the door to the record room, I turn the handle slowly, releasing a click that feels louder than it should.
The record room is dark, high-shelved, and windowless—the sun can destroy delicate paper, and ink fades fast. Dozens of shelves and crates spill over with scrolls and notes, recording the history of the Corps for centuries. I light the nearest candle, illuminating the endless room. I shudder as I take careful steps, weaving between crates scattered across the floor. A small cupboard comes into view, beside a desk set up for inkwork, blotched with old, black stains.
“This is it,” I whisper, tracing my fingers across the desk. My heart stirs once more. It’s like I’m doing something wrong, doubting the Corps, betraying humanity. But it’s just the recordsof a dragon. I’m sure it’s all in my head, and I’ll only find a reasonable explanation.
I shine the light over the notes and books, their spines inked with various titles.
“Which one is it…” I mutter under my breath, laying a few of them out. I skim quickly through the pages, looking for any dates that go beyond our current years—but nothing stands out. Just more old records, more dead ends. A crate coated in dust peeks from under the table. Maybe it’s in one of those? I hesitate, then shake my head. No—those are from years long past. If there was a Silverscale in recent times, it should be in the newer notes, not buried in ancient archives. Still, I crouch down and grab the handle—just in case. My body tenses, bracing for the heavy load about to come, but the moment I pull, I stumble backwards, nearly dropping the candle. I pry the lid open. Empty.
What?
My breath catches as I stare at the bottom of a crate that’s supposed to contain records—or at the least something—about the Corps. I drag out another crate. Then another.
They’re all empty.
That’s strange. Did they move them somewhere? I can’t think of any possible place. I scan the tall shelves with smaller crates stacked on each other. A glint from the spines of two large books catches my attention. Shadows dance on the walls as I approach. I reach for one of the books and thumb through the pages. Most are still blank—proof that the records are recent.
Perfect.
I flip to the page that has the last notes of the year.
Year 393 A.TGB. Redsnout. Slain. 12 Units, 56 soldiers.
That’s three years ago. I skim further through the pages, but none of the information sticks out. Right before I put the book away, something in the records makes me pause.
Year 394 A.TGB. Stonetail. Slain. 10 Units, 27 soldiers. NOTE: The Gate.
Year 394 A.TGB. Wingtail. Slain. NOTE: The Gate.
Year 394 A.TGB. Redsnout. Slain. NOTE: The Gate.
Year 394 A.TGB. Horntongue. Slain. NOTE: The Gate.
Year 394. A.TGB. Redsnout. Slain. 1 Unit. 3 soldiers. NOTE: Second Stronghold March.
Three soldiers.
Wait. No. That can’t be right. It wasfour.
I search the shelves for the golden book where every fallen soldier is recorded—their names, their units, their final mark. My fingers glide along the spines until they settle on what I’m looking for—a large tome, nearly half the size of my torso. Its cover gleams gold, woven with dark red braids of embroidery.Book of The Fallen.
I hesitate to flip through the pages at first, but it quickly fades, and I fling the book open. The leftover dust hovers in the air, creating a small cloud that I blow away. This book carries countless names that I have known over the past four years. Names I hated to hear. Names I wish I could hear again.
I trace the latest ink written in the pages, still fresh enough to smudge. Flipping back to the year 394, I read names I’ve heard many times. And then I find it. Or rather, I find what’smissing. Kayus. His name isn’t here.
What on the soil we walk on?
My mind races, flashing through memories, my head pounding. I wince at the pain, words I don’t remember being said to me echoing in my skull.
Take care of her.
