Page 9 of The Last Dragon
He hands me one of the weights, eyes sharp with focus, and instructs me on how to attach it. “Push this in from the side of the stock, any of the holes work—yes, there. Excellent!” His voice is eager, like a craftsman watching his masterpiece come alive in someone else’s hands. “Now lock it in with the spring-loaded hatch.”
I secure the weight in place, fingers moving with careful precision. Then I lift the crossbow, slowly, testing its balance. Up. Down. The shift in weight is immediate—more than I anticipated.
Surprise tugs at my features. “It feels familiar,” I say, angling it in my grip. “Almost as heavy as my old bow.”
He furrows a brow, head tilting slightly. “Almost?” he repeats, voice edged with mock offense. “Did you get stronger or something, lad? My calculations say it should beexactlythe same weight with that add-on.” His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me like I’m a faulty number in an otherwise perfect equation.
I offer a faint smile, shrugging one shoulder. “I guess I did get stronger.”
His frown splits into a grin, and he lets out a sharp, barking laugh. “Ahh, wellthat’swhy I madeseveral!” he exclaims, glancing at the pile on his workbench and rubbing his palmstogether like a merchant guarding secrets while counting coins. “More customizable, more adaptable!Smarter, really.” He’s clearly talking about himself. Then, his frown turns again as he waves both hands toward the crossbow. “Well, go on then, lad!” he urges. “Try it out. Let’s see how she sings.”
I raise the crossbow, its weight now familiar in my hands. I focus on one of the woven targets propped against the far wall, a crude circle stitched at the center shaped like a dragon’s eye. I shift my stance, making sure nothing precious or irreplaceable lies in the bolt’s path. The last thing I need is to destroy something Ligerion actually cares about.
My finger finds the trigger, settling with ease. I steady my breath, feel the tension of the string. I pull the trigger, the stock jutting into my shoulder. The bolt whistles through the air and strikes into the center of the target with a satisfying thud, dead-center in the slit of the eye.
Ligerion whoops behind me, his laughter booming through the workshop. “Ha!” He claps, the sound loud and proud as he strides over and smacks a hand against my back. “My best work yet!” he crows, still grinning like a man who’s just forged his first masterpiece, as if forgetting that he always does.
“You really are a genius, Ligerion,” I say with a smile, my eyes lingering on the bolt buried clean through the bullseye. Precise, powerful, perfect.
“Not without your help, I’m not,” he replies. He pats my shoulder with a rough hand—the kind that’s seen too much work and too little rest. A rare softness tugs at his mouth, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just as good of a blacksmith as your father.”
The words hit low. Not like a strike, but like a memory. His smile fades, and for a breath, there’s only the sound of crackling embers in the hearth behind us. The ache those words stir in me twists through my ribs, but not in a way that hurts entirely. Notanymore. There’s grief in it. But there’s also something steadier. A strange sort of peace. Because even here—even now—I can still do something to continue my father’s legacy. And somehow, that’s enough.
I sit down across from Ligerion, surrounded by walls darkened by soot and smoke. Wood shavings drift down in slow spirals, settling onto his lap as he carves a handle. He hums a quiet tune—the same melody my father used to hum in the forge—pulling me back to those late nights spent by his side. Nights when he taught me how to bend and unbend a nail. How to measure and mark with a knife to ensure precision, or how long metal should rest in the forge before it is ready to be shaped.
One night, the storm was too violent to travel home, so we stayed at the forge instead, talking through the hours while thunder rattled the windows. We slept near the hearth until the fire died. That night, I swore I’d take over his forge when I grew up. Continue his hard work through my hands. A vow I repeated as I held his hand on his dying day.
But now the forge lies in ruins in Pirlem, buried beneath the splintered beams and shattered stone that dragons left behind. When the building fell, so did every promise I swore to keep.
Ligerion knew my father. They grew up together and were partners in the forge. They were both welcomed in the Third to work as blacksmiths. However, my father chose to stay in Pirlem, while Ligerion acted as a liaison from his forge in the Stronghold.
“The general wants to name me Commander,” I say, tugging on the pointed tip of the arrow to check stability before setting it aside.
He glances at me without lifting his head, halting his carving mid-stroke. “That’s good, isn’t it? Valuing what you helped achieve.” He resumes his carving.
“He wants me back in my old unit, too.”
Ligerion clicks his tongue. “Is that what you want?”
I shift, resting my elbows on my knees. The fire pops. “My condition isn’t going to help the unit,” I say, quieter now. Ligerion sets the blade down. This time, he does look at me.
“Didn’t stop you then,” he says. “What’s making you think all this?”
“Time,” I respond.
“No, you’re just being stubborn.”
I let out a sharp breath through my nose. “Stubbornness is what’s keeping others alive. Besides, I don’t want anyone to deal with the consequences when I seize mid-battle like before.”
He folds his arms. “And? You’d rather die alone than with people who’d bleed beside you?”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the stack of bolts I just took.
“Being alone is easier,” I say. “No one watching you rot. No one blaming you when you fail them. Eryca made it clear.”
Ligerion scoffs, grabs a strip of cloth, and wipes his blade. “You think Eryca blames you because you left?”
“She does.”
