Page 63 of The Last Dragon
The scribbling halts. Every head turns to Nida, then drifts toward Fay. Fay’s eyes flicker across the crowd, and her stance wavers.
Shut up.
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“Well,” she says, voice low. “That is true, however—”
“Then how can we be certain they’re gone? They could be hibernating. And could awaken any minute. Wouldn’t it be dangerous for us to make these assumptions?”
I press my thumb against the pen, feeling the tension in the wood.
Fay inhales, jaw clenching, but quickly relaxes her posture. “You are right on that,” she says, taking a step forward. “If we missed any signs of their existence, then we would be making a grave mistake, and humanity would suffer for it. But even with this assumption in mind, we have not stopped looking for evidence that they are out there. We have only found signs that confirmed what we’ve believed these past thirty years—they’re gone. And they will not return.”
The chatter dies away, tension lifting, and questions die with it. My chest quivers with every heartbeat like a Horntongue before an attack. I glance over at nearly everyone in the room. Everyone that I deem a threat. Everyone who might be able to decipher Nida’s hidden words. Anyone who would try to hurt her, mock her, press her. And those names and faces are engraved in my mind. If they ever look at her the wrong way,I won’t stand for it. Not when I know that this incident, this mention of a Silverscale, can get her killed. Because at that moment—she showed doubt.
CHAPTER 22
Two days, and not a single whisper about Nida or the Silverscale—not that I’ve heard, that is. Even though I went out of my way to stalk around the halls, looking for a hint or a threat or a misplaced thought. Nothing. Only chatter about the expedition and complaints regarding training.
All Commandants doubled our time in the training grounds, with little to no free time to recover. And it’s excruciating. Nida still has Dragon Anatomy classes that she needs to attend, so finding the perfect time to train her isn’t always as easy.
Today, my unit focuses on marksmanship—precision. Crossbows, daggers, and throwing knives are scattered around the room. The shooting range smells faintly of aged wood, iron, and sweat, with a hint of sweetened buns as cadets shove the pastries into their mouths during their ten-minute lunch.
Eryca and Ilian are a few lanes away, practicing with the new weights for crossbows crafted by Ligerion. Both Trackers andHunters need to know how to use a crossbow in case a Hunter dies and only the Tracker is left. Alex glares at me and Nida from the lane next to us, though his skills in knife throwing don’t falter even for a second. With that precision, I can only confirm my suspicions of him being the one who killed the two lords in the Middle. But I don’t understand why—or why he’s directing all his anger onto me.
Trackers benefit from a dagger or two holstered around their waist. Even Hunters have an advantage. Crossbows break, and only the brave souls can dare dart under a dragon’s throat. I had to do that once. I plunged a laced dagger into a Horntongue’s throat, and it collapsed within seconds. I was left with scars from the sharp spikes protruding all over their body.
Nida and I stand close, with wooden dummies a few meters away from us. She spins a knife in her hand, focusing on a dummy as she shifts her foot closer to the line. I watch her every move, adjusting her posture if needed. She lifts the knife above her head, holds it for a brief moment, then releases it. The knife sails through the air, with what I assume would be great precision. But it hits the target with a dull thunk, handle first, and clatters to the ground.
Nida releases a sigh, wiping off the sweat trickling down her brow. “I was never good at throwing knives.” She positions another knife between her thumb and finger, ready to strike again.
“That’s cuz you’re doing it wrong,” Alex says, his lips curled into a sneer.
He’s practicing his aim at the dummy next to ours. I stare at him, warning him to back off before it’s too late, but he remains still.
Alex rolls his eyes, grabs a knife, and begins to play with it. “You need to be more precise with your wrist, alright? If you flick your wrist too hard or release the knife too early, the knifehits flat.” He positions the knife between his fingertips, firmly holding the blade. It leaves his hand, slicing the air with a whistle. With a thud as loud as thunder, the knife buries itself head center in the target’s bullseye. He smirks, and his eyes find ours.
I look at the dummy in front of us, with several knives scattered on the sandy ground, and not a single one piercing the wooden board.
“Alright,” Nida whispers and positions herself for another throw. She watches as Alex throws two more knives in a row, with perfect precision. Like he’s mocking. Threatening.
“Focus on your board,” I say, putting my body between them.
“I am,” she says, her focus returning to her target. Another thud. Four knives in Alex’s bullseye. None in Nida’s. All angled differently, the sharpest part of the blades meeting one another, tightly. Even I’m impressed.
“Are you gonna throw it?” I ask. My mouth curves into a soft smile as I cross my arms.
“I’m getting there,” she responds, her face stoic.
“Then throw it.”
“Let me focus.”
“You’ve been holding the knife above your head for two minutes.”
“I know.”
My smile grows wider, and a chuckle catches in my throat. Her eyes gleam as she tries to concentrate, even though something’s clearly pulling her attention elsewhere. My attention is being pulled somewhere else, too. My gaze dips to her lips as she presses them together and then draws a sharp breath. A blur motions at the corner of my eye, but I don’t look away. There’s a sound that I don’t fully register. It’s like a thud or a clap or something. Then there’s a sigh, and I catch a breath as Nida turns to me, raising her hand. My smile falters.
