Page 66 of The Last Dragon
Raumen whistles. “That guy’s skilled with a knife,” he says, launching himself from the mat.
“Hopefully, he’s just as skilled with a crossbow,” I respond, eyes locked on Alex as he walks away, quiet and controlled.
“You were right to add him to our unit,” Raumen says, smiling. ”Hasn’t been much life since Morton’s death and Valous getting kicked out of the Corps.” He looks up at me, soft eyes scanning my face, a dusting of brown stubble visible along his jaw. “It’s nice to get some action once in a while.”
“I’d rather have that action with my unit focused,” I reply.
Raumen laughs. “You forget the unit consists of several,real, very different humans.” It’s like listening to Commandant Moris Vine all over again. He stands up, giving a wave as he heads back to his heavy-lifting training. But I can tell from the way he moves—this heat and training are taking a toll on him, too.
“Let’s take a break,” I say, grabbing a towel and throwing one to Nida. “We can observe others, too.”
I rub the towel over my forehead, then over my mouth. It comes away pink.I’m still bleeding.
We approach another mat, with two of the older cadets sparring. Right next to it, a sixth-year—Vera—is training one of her recruits. He seems to be quick on his feet—a good addition to their unit.
“Watch her,” I say to Nida as she stands close to me. “Vera is fast and has a good grip.” Vera enters her defense stance, ready to make the other kid regret ever engaging her. Instead of forming a full fist, she only forms it halfway, ready to grab if he engages first. A chuckle escapes her as she tilts her head, the buzzcut on one side coming into view beneath the bright, bleached strands.
“Once you have control over your emotions, it becomes easier for you to see what’s important—what’s in front of you,” I say. A faint smell of soil and smoke and rain washes over me as I lean in closer for Nida to hear.
The cadet jumps forward to strike Vera in her chest, but she dodges. Vera grabs him by the arm, and pulls him under herarmpit, choking him. He squeals in pain. Vera drops him to the ground, quick as a lightning strike.
“Never concern yourself about who’s going to get hurt,” I say. The squealing continues until he taps the mat for a reset. “As long as it’s not you.”
The cadets applaud Vera as the guy stands on his feet. Nida watches her attentively. I keep my eyes on her for a second longer. I want to pull away but…
Just… a little longer.
There’s a loud thud on the ground, and the guy is eating dirt from the mat again.
“One of the Corps’ common sayings is that if you let yourself think too much about your next move, you lose the valuable seconds of making sure that you do your job,” I say. She swallows tightly, her body tensing. My gaze follows her bobbing throat. I hold my breath. She turns to me, and only then do I realize how close I’ve gotten. Something tightens in my chest. I never noticed her eyes like this before—brown like warm embers, with bright flecks swirling like a blazing fire. Freckles splatter her skin in such intricate detail, it’s as if she were painted in the Center. She’s so… different. Yet nothing has changed.
There’s another loud thud, drawing my attention to Vera pressing the cadet’s face into the mat, his arms locked behind his back.
“Damn… Vera’s a beast,” says Ilian.
The first things I learned here were the importance of emotional control and loyalty—two things I knew were going to keep me alive. Both out there in the battlefield, and in the Corps. But for some damning reason, right now, my emotions are anything but in control.
Even after training, my emotions haven’t calmed. Night falls, bellies half-full, and I’m already shivering in my room. Thegeneral put me here—away from the barracks—so I can get peace and quiet. To rest. But lately, I’ve been wanting to go back. To the corner where my unit sleeps, with bunkbeds stacked tight and the low hum of whispered jokes drifting through the dark, large wooden dividers separating us from the rest of the units. Where the heat of bodies and the rhythm of breathing make the night feel less empty. Out here, in my own space, the silence is thicker than the walls.
I glance at the nightstand, the drawer mocking me. I hesitate. I don’t want to open it—I haven’t for years. But my hand twitches as if it’s pulling me toward it.
And I give in.
Quickly, I reach for the metal knob and pull, the wood gently creaking. Inside is a bracelet. Nida wove it for me when we sat by the river, the smell of salt and soil and moss filling the air. My heart skips a beat at the sight of it. It’s just how I remember it. Beautifully braided—tightly—without a single twine peaking out—unlike the one I made her. I take it out, feeling the coarse fabric between my fingers. Memories swirl in my mind of a life I had before the venom, before the Blightclaw. Her laugh mingled with mine and the annoying little birds chirping above us. This piece of fabric may be the only thing that tugs me back to the past—a past I haven’t been able to shed, no matter how hard I tried. No matter how hard the Corps tried. Deep down, I know I never wanted to let it go. And I never will.
I gently unravel the knot and cuff the bracelet over my wrist, the fiber tickling my skin. Yet the feeling is comforting, like something had been missing without it. In a way, it fills me with warmth. Like I’m home again. I tie the bracelet tightly, tucking it under my sleeve. Never—not in a thousand years—will I ever take it off again.
CHAPTER 23
“The trick is to not be afraid,” I say, strapping the fingerless leather glove around Nida’s wrist. Sarga coos from the mew, with other hawks clawing and walking on the branches. Laukin is there—Eryca’s hawk.
Today, Nida gets to know about tracking with hawks.
“Normally, she wouldn’t approach anyone but me, but since you’ve been around me long enough, she might get on your arm.” I continue to strap the leather glove, ensuring that when Sarga lands, Nida won’t get any injuries. Once I’m done, I strap a satchel around her, full of raw rabbit meat.
“Do you think she’s going to listen to me?” she asks, side-eyeing Sarga as if she doesn’t want her to hear.
I chuckle. “That’s what the rabbit is for.” I reach for her pouch, grab a raw piece of rabbit, and extend my arm. “A long and then short whistle,” I say to Nida, and purse my lips to whistle. Sarga immediately launches toward me, wings flapping, digging herclaws into my leathered gauntlet as she lands. I smile, showing her I’m pleased, and carefully approach with raw meat in hand. She nibbles on it before grabbing the piece in one chomp.
