Page 75 of The Last Dragon
What is this? Am I sick?
From my left, Raumen casts me a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth twitching with the effort not to smile. I shoot him a look—a warning. I know he’s going to bring this up later. He always does. But for now, he presses his lips tighter, keeping silent. I roll my eyes and fix them on the path ahead.
Immediately, I notice the entire formation has halted. I signal the rest of the unit to stay alert and make my way toward the front. As I move forward, I scan the units—checking posture, eyes, hands—making sure they’re ready for anything. Vera and the others at the front have already taken defensive stances.
Lieutenant Wain stands with her back to the outskirts of a field not far from the village, eyes locked on me. My heart pounds harder with each step, my pace quickening as the tension coils tighter in my chest.
“Wain,” I say, just a few steps from her, but the rest of the words die in my throat, the air snared in my lungs as I glance down.
Tracks.
They’re recent. The creases and edges are well-defined. If the tracks were days old, the wind would have smoothed the corners of the claw marks, making them barely visible. But the ground is perfectly pierced with the tip of claws. The outline of the print is large enough to make any soldier feel small, forming a basin deep enough to go all the way to my knees.
I crouch and brush my hand on the edge of the track’s outline—it’s sharp and slightly warm.
Wain doesn’t say a word.
I kick the dust close to the tracks, puzzled with the thought that it’s behind the village, without anyone informing us about it.
I scan the scorched earth, heart thudding in my throat. My eyes hunt for something—anything—that might hint at the beast’s whereabouts. The soldiers around me stand in perfect, unnerving silence. Watching. Waiting for my command.
Two hundred of them.
Two hundred lives stacked on my shoulders. Heavy stones I can’t shake off. I’ve trained some of them. Trained with them. Some have only recently learned how to properly hold a bow.
I can’t afford to fail them. Not again.
My gaze snaps back to Wain. She stands tall, spine straight, hands behind her back. Her face is unreadable—but I know her well enough to note the tension behind her stillness.
“Has there been a report about this?” I ask, my voice low. My eyes cut back to the massive claw print pressed deep into the dry, cracked earth.
“No,” she replies, a subtle tremble slipping into her words. “As far as I can tell, we’re the only ones that know about it.”
The silence after is heavier than the heat from the pressing sun. Her answer twists in my gut. I wipe a drop of sweat forming on my brow as I glance back at my unit. Eryca’s eyes beg the question of approach, and I let her.
An unreported dragon sighting—whether fang, flame, or footprint—can ruin everything. Not just the expedition. Not just the mission.
It can kill hundreds.
It can make us extinct.
I breathe in slowly, trying to steady the sudden chaos that’s clawing at the edge of my mind. Is it safe to keep moving? Or do I risk pulling the entire force back and ruin weeks of strategy? Either choice is going to cost us something.
Beneath it all, another thought gnaws at me. Where the hell is the Scout who should’ve found this first?
Is there a dead body I should be looking for? Or worse.Ashes.
I shift my stance, Eryca and Nida by my sides. They both examine the claw print, dragging their fingers across the edge of the mark.
Nida furrows her brow. “It’s coming from the direction of the Third. It’s fresh. Redsnout—”
Eryca looks at Nida, brows drawing together as if she’s confused. Then her focus returns to the print. “It took a long detour. There’s no surprise a Scout missed it,” she adds. It’s just like General Grogol said. It’s stalking us. Like prey. Observing us and taking risks. This isn’t behaviour I’ve ever seen before.
“Do you have an idea of where Scouts are stationed?” I ask Wain. She snaps her fingers to a young soldier with a chart tube slung awkwardly over his shoulder. His uniform hangs a little loose, like he hasn’t grown into it yet. There’s a smear of ink on his cheek, a smudge of sand on his collar.
His eyes widen as he hurries forward, flicking between us. While still in motion, he removes the chart tube from his shoulders and unscrews the threaded lid. He pulls out a rolled-up map—the same map I saw in Grogol’s quarters—revealing Scout positions. The young soldier holds it up for Wain, his arms barely stretching long enough to make the map taut between his trembling fingers. At a quick glance, he reminds me of Theo.
Wain scans the map. “There may be one stationed at the far northeast corner,” she says, dragging her finger over the map. “They’re in area thirty.”
