Page 76 of The Last Dragon
“For how long?” I ask, glancing over the precise and detailed markings.
“About a week.” Wain dips her chin slightly, dismissing the boy. He quickly rolls up his map and returns to his spot. If the Scout has been out there for a week, he most likely didn’t see the claw mark when patrolling.
“Send a hawk to the Scout,” I command. Wain adjusts her posture in a quiet salute, acknowledging my words.
“I’ll send Sarga.”
“No,” I say, my eyes straying to Eryca beside me. Her look cuts straight through me, as if she can read my mind. “Send out Laukin.”
Wain’s eyes flick toward Eryca, then back, and she gives a nod.
Eryca sneers, shaking her head with disapproval. “You want to send my hawk? Not willing to sacrifice your own?”
“He’s more loyal,” I reply. “Sarga’s protective. If she senses that there’s any danger, she’ll come back to protect me before even making her way to the Scout.” Slowly, the stiffness drains from her posture, and the crease between her brows smooths out.
“You’ve trained him well,” I comment, assuring her that Laukin is the only hawk that can send a message without any doubt. And I don’t doubt her or her training skills for even a minute.
She presses her lips together, giving two slow nods of approval, and whistles—calling Laukin to land from circling the sky. The hawk swoops down, wings slicing through the air as he releases a soft screech. Razor-sharp talons gleam against sunlight as they dig into her leather glove. Eryca chuckles, greeting her hawk with a gentle scratch under the chin. The bird’s dark spotted chest rises and falls with steady breaths.
Wain quickly drafts a note and tightly attaches it to Laukin. Eryca instructs Laukin to send the message directly to the Scout in area thirty, and lifts her arm up to release him.
“Proceed,” I say, waving my hand, and return to my spot at the back. Lieutenant Wain echoes my words, followed by the other two lieutenants.
My heartbeat hasn’t slowed, and sweat forms on my back and palms.There was no report.I inhale deeply, shaking away the thoughts, and focus on the mission.
We move forward, following the line the general traced on the map. Everyone is on their toes. I look up at the sky and watchSarga calmly soaring together with other hawks—no indication that any threat is near. The hooves of the horses and the wooden wheels of the carriages send clouds of dust into the air. Time has passed so fast that I can’t even remember when it rained enough for the soil to be soaked through. There are green patches of grass clinging to life, but I wonder for how long.
A little streak of grass and a large boulder on the horizon make my stomach twist. With every step, I’m getting closer.
Pirlem.
I take a slow, deep breath, dirt and smoke and wet moss make their way up my nose. It takes more effort than I thought to keep myself focused. Of all the places I thought I’d be, returning here was the last of them.
Just a few more steps.
When I pass the small, crooked wooden gates and enter the village, my body tenses as I brace myself for the scent of the forge—warm metal and soot—to wrap around me like it always did. I listen for the sound of laughter from the children who used to gather by the chipped old well in the village center. But as I follow the worn footpath, expecting to see the familiar patchwork of footprints—small, large, some half-faded—I’m met with a different type of familiarity.
The ground is dark.
There are no boot prints anymore.
The ground is dark with scorch marks.
No laughing children.
No patches of grass.
Just burned houses.
There’s no one here. Not even a hint of home.
My chest tightens, the kind of ache that digs in behind the ribs. Beside me, I feel Nida’s gaze, quiet and steady—watching me as a breath scrapes its way out of my throat as if it’s made of steel. Then her fingers graze my arm—barely a touch, but enough forme to shudder. I hate the fact that I cannot mourn now. That I shouldn’t mourn now. That I never got the chance to.
This place isn’t how I remember it. It’s not where I grew up. Not where I met her. It’s aruin. Burned and broken, just like the day I left it at fourteen. Perhaps even worse.
A rustle to my right snaps me out of grief and forces me into a straight posture. Into a soldier. From the remains of a half-collapsed house, its roof bowed and held up by splintered planks, a figure emerges. An old woman. Dark hair streaked with gray, eyes filled with hesitant worry.I know her.
She steps forward slowly, scanning the soldiers as if gathering the courage and searching for someone to speak to. But no words come. Not until her round, familiar eyes find mine. Maira. Ligerion’s sister.
