Page 60 of The Last Dragon
“It’s for the sake of humanity. This is something we need to figure out before we even consider going to the General,” Nida says, cradling the books. “Any false information—”
“Please,” Alex interrupts, sarcasm dripping through his teeth. “If this were really for humanity’s survival, you wouldn’t be asking me for help now, would you?”
He’s sharp.
“This entails your survival, too,” I snap. But all he does is scoff while twirling a knife in his hand. He’s infuriating. But I can’t let him think he’s the only option we’ve got. Clearly, he revels in this. I roll my eyes and grab Nida by her arm. “Maybe there’s someone else from the Middle who knows more about printing books.”
Alex scoffs instinctively. “Nah, that book isn’t printed in the Middle.”
A slip-up. I can tell the moment my eyes meet his—how he gently bites his lip. He’s not someone who enjoys being outside of the game—or feeling like he’s about to lose.
“What do you mean?” I ask, stopping in my tracks. Alex is taken aback, but now he knows he doesn’t have a choice.
He sighs. “This?” He grabs the book from Nida’s hand. “This is calf leather, the type of leather only the rich can afford. The other one is sheep leather. It’s not very durable, so that’s why it’s so worn out. He grabs the other book, flipping it around. “It’s made in the Front.” He hands both books back.
“What?” Nida and I say in unison. I study the books. He’s right. The grayish-green book is old sheep’s leather, but the other is brand new. It makes sense for books to be made in the Middle for longevity—what doesn’t make sense is the difference in the information. Nida examines them while I watch Alex throw more knives.
“Books aren’t made in the Front,” I say, glaring at him.
He rolls his eyes. “NotthisFront,” he drawls, throwing a knife up in the air and then catching it mid-spin by the blade. There’s no doubt in his words. The Middle used to be the Front before the Third was built. Before expansion. Before the rich and poor existed. A couple of hundred years ago, there was nothingbutthe poor.
“Did you know the Redsnout is female before?” I ask, but he barely reacts.
“As if I’m going to answer that,” he responds, burying another knife in the wood. “How I know it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I do.” He wears a proud smirk on his face, as if telling me that he has the upper hand. Another throw. I let out a soft scoff. The way he hits all the bullseyes makes my mind drift to a conversation I overheard in the mess hall. About two lords—and daggers buried between their eyes. I wonder if it was him.
“You’re awfully good at throwing knives, Alex,” I comment. There’s a slight twitch in his hand.
“Yeah, well, I had a lot of time to practice—since you don’t let me get nearourunit without actually needing something from me,” he says, arms hanging loose as he slouches over the wooden divider between him and the knife-throwing area. “Maybe it’s about time you tell me what you guys are planning. After all, being in a unit means we need to stick together.” He raises his arms in a nonchalant gesture.
I smirk. “Not happening.” I turn on my heel and head toward the exit, with Nida right behind me.
Alex slams the knife back on the table with a violent clank. “Then I guess you won’t mind if I sing about your little dragon problem.”
I halt, looking back over my shoulder, the smirk never leaving my face. “Then sing.”
He grabs the knife from the table again and strides over to me, eyes blazing, muttering curses with each step, ready to strike. But when he’s inches away from me, he freezes with a sneer. Fists clenched at his sides, the hilt of the knife clenched in his palm.
“What are you gonna do?” I say, a larger smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. “Bury a knife between my eyes? That’s how you handle things in the Middle, right?”
His eyes flash with fear for a moment, but his body stiffens with rage. So itwashim.
He holds his breath. Nida bumps her shoulder into mine, attempting to create some distance between me and him. I glare at Alex, threatening him with every fibre of my being. I know who he is. I know what he’s done. And if the Corps finds out, he’ll hang. And now, he knows that I know.
“I suggest you keep your mouth shut,Alex,” I mock. “Or, maybe, I’m going to start singing about your little lord problem.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he seethes.
“I’m pretty sure I do.”
He doesn’t move. His jaw clenches, probably locking away thousands of curses he desperately wants to spew at me. But he can’t. And he won’t. Instead, I watch how anger fades from his eyes—a surrender. Now, I have the advantage.
CHAPTER 21
The next day, Alex glares at me from across the room. Dragon Anatomy class. Mandatory at least a couple of times a year—no matter how many years you’ve bled for the Corps or how many times you’ve memorized every tendon and bone and wing socket. It serves as a reminder of what we’re up against. Sometimes we get updates—just in case the beasts evolve or change in ways we’re not prepared for. The Corps drills it into us until there’s no need to think in crucial situations. Instead, it all becomes instinct. This is my eighth time sitting through it. And still, it sets something crawling under my skin. I wonder if we’ll hear anything new about the Redsnout today.
Sunlight filters through the slit windows, casting fractured beams onto the worn-down banners lining the walls. Chairs scrape against the worn wooden floorboards, a low chorus of movement as hundreds of cadets settle into place, pen and paper in hand. Every grind against the ground hurts my ears.
Marina Fay, the educator and dragon behaviorist assigned to this class, stands beside the board, half-hidden behind a towering stack of rolled-up dragon anatomy charts that dwarf her small frame. Midnight blue robes drape over her, her dark skin catching the lantern light in warm bronze hues. Coils of white hair halo her head like smoke. When the room finally stills, her voice slices clean through the air—calm and commanding.
