Page 6 of The Last Dragon
She narrows her eyes at me, twisting her mouth into another sneer. Sam leans in with a nod, his short golden hair gleaming in the midday sun streaming through the windows—a bright contrast to the worry in his eyes. He’s watching me, but not quite meeting my gaze.
“How can that be? I just spoke to him a few days ago. Did he join the expedition without a Tracker?”
Life drains from Sam’s face, his cheeks nearly blending in with his white shirt. I furrow my brow. Sam doesn’t talk much, but his facial expressions tell a lot. He quickly pulls away without saying a word.
“All of a sudden, you care?” Eryca seethes. Silence falls over the table, broken only by the sound of chewing and the clatter of silverware. I don’t want to ask anything else, but worry stirs in me. I didn’t know Morton was dead. Which means we’ll need a third Hunter in our unit. And two more Trackers.Damn it.Things are just getting better and better.
Eryca sits down in silence, digging back into her meal without waiting—or wanting—a response from me.
I pluck the bread piece by piece, its warmth seeping into my fingers. The smell stirs a memory of the Market, where I helped my father set up shop as a kid. He sold hinges, locks, and tools that kept the village homes safe. One of the best blacksmiths in the Front. I wanted to be like him. But illness took him before he could teach me anything more at the forge. A year later, a dragon took my mother—and nearly killed me too.
I lift my gaze. A cadet at the next table grumbles loudly, bringing me back to the present.
“This is the kind of shit that makes me glad I’m from the Front, not the Middle,” he says. Then drags a piece of bread beneath his crooked nose and inhales deeply, like it could be his last. He speaks loudly, with no intention of keeping his conversation with the second-year beside him subtle.
“Two lords killed about a week ago,” he continues, running his nose over the bread—its color seamlessly blending in with skin. “A dagger buried deep in the center of each skull—right between the eyes.”
“Twolords?” whispers the other second-year. His croaky voice travels far enough for me to hear. The pale, red-haired cadet nods before breaking a piece of cooled bread and shoving it into his mouth. He scoffs, running his four-fingered hand through his dark hair. If I remember correctly, he lost his left pinky when his Hunter accidentally fired a bolt during first-year training.
“There goes the head,” the second-year comments with a shrug, returning to his meal. But the redhead shakes his head and leans in to whisper—though his next words still reach my ears.
“They don’t know who did it. They haven’t caught him yet.”
“Derin, how do you know it’s ahe?”
Derin quickly pulls away. “Because it wasthoselords.”
Crime was rare a few decades ago. But the Middle grew desperate once their luxury began to slip. Even the smallest losses—a missing potato, a shorter pearl necklace—don’t go unnoticed. Most Middle lords turned to new trades to maintain, or even expand, their wealth. Slavery of the less fortunate became the most common. I wonder if that’s what they’re talking about.
Beggars and slaves still crowd the streets of both the Middle and the Center. The Center doesn’t care about us, nor do they join the Corps. But the Middle still clings to the idea that there’s no greater honor than becoming a soldier. For lords, having sons or daughters in the Corps brings power and influence.
Sam keeps glancing my way, still watching. Eventually, I turn my attention to him, meeting his stare. He trembles for a moment.
“How was your rest?” He asks, his voice hesitant. “You were gone for three weeks.”
I shift my focus to the loaf in my hand. “I barely remember,” I say. Sam mutters something I can’t understand and returns to his meal. I frown at him.That’s odd.
Growing chatter grabs my attention, and I glance toward the door as a group of new cadets enters. Ilian leans back, peeking over Sam’s shoulder to watch the women among the recruits, while Sam’s eyes linger mostly on the men.
“First-years!” Ilian says cheerfully, his mouth still stuffed with bread. My eyes drift and catch a familiar shade of red. A tall figure moves past, briefly blurring the color before it sharpens again. My stomach drops.
It can’t be.
I squint for a better look and meet sharp amber-brown eyes. My breath catches, desperate, and I’m suddenly aware the air doesn’t reach lungs.
It’s her.
Ilian and Sam follow my gaze and spot the girl in the crowd, standing still as if holding her breath too, her eyes locked with mine.
Ilian’s head snaps to me with a smirk. “Damn, Zel, solid choice.”
“Do you know her?” asks Sam carefully.
“I wish I didn’t,” I say.
I shoot up from the bench, grab my tray, and head toward the drop-off area. Feet shuffle, bodies move aside, and rapid footsteps close in behind me.Divines, I hope it’s not her.As I set down the tray and toss away the scraps, a sudden blur blocks my path.
“Zel.” A voice calls my name, deeper than I remember. Older. Calmer. My eyes stay fixed on the exit, but I already know it’s her. And I don’t want it to be her.
