Page 7 of The Last Dragon
I refuse to look, but that familiar, soft ring of my name can only come from her—Nida.
“Itisyou,” she says, her voice low and certain. Slowly, my eyes drop to hers—fiery, angry. Her face now shows soft lines of age. I say nothing, which seems to anger her even more.
“You,” she says, her brows coming together, eyes slightly darkening. “Youleft.”
“Get out of my way,” I finally say.
She stiffens as disbelief floods her face. “We thought you were dead. I haven’t seen you since Pirlem.”
“I hoped it would’ve stayed that way,” I respond coldly. I hear her sharp inhale, as if my words pierced her like a dagger. But she’s the last person I want to see in the Corps.
She lowers her head, shoulders tense. Finally, she looks up at me with a furrowed brow. I place a hand on her shoulder, then gently push her aside and head for the exit. This time, she doesn’t follow.
It’s been years since I last saw her. We were kids then, commoners with no thought of joining the Corps. I wanted to be a blacksmith, and she dreamed of being a botanist. Small dreams—we couldn’t afford anything bigger. Things have changed. I joined the Corps with one purpose, one goal. But seeing her here caught me more off guard than I expected, stirring something in me that slipped through my stoic mask. I left Pirlem and everything behind. I don’t want to remember it. If I think of it, it will lead to certain death.All soldiers are weapons.But this one is a distraction.
I pass cadets idling in the halls, moving as fast as I can toward my room. Once inside, thoughts flood my mind.What the fuck is she doing here?The Corps isn’t a place for her. I don’t worry as much about cadets dying on expeditions. Yet somehow, I find myself worrying about her. But I try to push it down, attempting to slip back behind my usual wall. Emotions can’t get in the way. Not anymore. My eyes drift to the nightstand by my bed, pausing there just a moment too long. I force myself to look away, but the weight of it stays with me. My hand twitches.
Don’t open it.
CHAPTER 3
The room is sparse—one bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and my old crossbow hanging crookedly on the wall since I slammed the door the moment I walked in, knocking it off-center. My jaw locks, teeth grinding. Thoughts—persistent.
Why is shehere?
Shit.
The room may be large, but the walls feel like they’re caving in. There’s no air left to breathe. A surge of adrenaline makes my hand twitch, followed by a sting that shoots from my fingertips all the way to my throat.
I need to calm down. What did Sayna say?
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat six times.
I do just that. The first inhale feels like heavy, poisonous smoke enters my lungs. The second, no different. But the third is lighter, letting me find the strength to unclench my fists. My breath is still uneven, but it’s slowing down. This time, I managea deeper breath—steady, controlled. The final inhale feels like rain-washed air rushing into my lungs, chasing out the last traces of stress before I let it all go. My shoulders roll back, and the stinging sensation from my throat fades.
I push the thought of Nida deeper into the back of my mind, hoping it won’t resurface. Then, I sit at the table, grab the Dragon’s Atlas, and trace the carved name etched into its cover.Augustus Flannyel.The name is barely visible, picked and rubbed at. Its rough edges feel like dull blades, worn out by those who had it years before me. Pages stained with dirt and blood and sweat—an eternal mark of the cadets’ struggles as they spent long nights studying dragon behavior. Cadets who are no longer here.
Each page presents everything we know about dragons. Every species and skill they possess. Each one of them, more deadly than the other. I study the sketches and drawings of the Highspine Redsnout, the last dragon we’re facing. A dragon that’s been a thorn in the Corps’ side for years.
A gentle tap on the window breaks my trance, pulling me to my feet. I walk toward the sound, catching a glimpse of blurred brown shapes shifting through the stained glass. As I open the window, a hawk creeps in through the narrow gap.
“Sarga,” I murmur in relief, and signal her to hop on my arm. She flaps her wings, enough to take flight and expose her talons to gently grasp my arm. She lets out a quiet cry, then nudges her head into my other hand. I scratch her russet-brown feathers, muttering a soft, “welcome home,” and close the window.
“Now, where have you been?” I joke, gently extending one of her wings to examine her feathers. She’s fine. The blood on her talons suggest a recent hunt.
“Got yourself a mouse?” I reach for a leather pouch of rat meat given by the kitchen workers from the other day, but she doesn’t show interest.
“A rat then.” I extend her other wing, checking for anything unusual. It’s an old habit that I’ve long forgotten the importance of. A routine that feels familiar yet foreign. Her feathers are sleek, patches of dust clinging to them. I trace her wing, brushing off whatever excess dirt I find. A sharp pain pierces through my head as my thoughts begin drifting to the past—the past I desperately try to bury. But the sight of Sarga’s feathers and the sound of her gentle calls has a way of drawing me back to the time I was at my weakest. A weakness I can’t afford again. Not now. Not with the weight I have to bear on my shoulders. If I’m named Commander, I must use whatever strength remains in me to lead humanity to freedom.
I guide Sarga onto the bird perch and scatter dried insects in a small wooden bowl in case she gets hungry when I’m down in the training grounds. She puffs up her feathers, resisting the meal. I roll my eyes at her and approach a table piled with several old books. Books I loved to read when I was a kid. Stories about a paradise. With water and trees, different creatures like deer and elk. Thousands of bird species with colorful feathers and unique songs—a world shaped by the Divines. But the older I got, the harder it was to imagine that such a world ever existed. Now it’s just fairytales that most people have already forgotten, and only a handful wish were true.
I push the books aside and search for a box of goods for Sarga, then freeze at a sudden thud. I notice a book on the floor—its spine upright, balanced awkwardly. It must’ve slipped from the edge when I moved the others. The green leather stands out against the grayish floor, like moss sprouting from stone. I reach for it, brushing off the thick dust that dulls the golden embroidery.
Tracker’s Guide.
I haven’t read it in a while. Inside is an old map, designed to be used with a compass that always points toward the BlackMountain in the Center. The only place we still call safe. The book belonged to Kayus—my tracker that died two years ago.
A knock on the door snaps me back to reality, and Sarga puffs her feathers as if she’s about to claw whoever comes through the door.
