Page 94 of The Last Dragon
A dragonslayer for the Corps. The face they parade. The name they invoke when they need hope carved out of blood. Someone capable of leading an entire expedition. I never wanted that. I was young. Foolish. But in a world like this, dreams don’t matter. Desires get buried beneath duty. Yet this feeling blooms in my chest, growing like wildfire, scraping at my ribs like it’s always been there. The ache to live freely. And for the first time, it feels like a dangerous thing to want.
Especially now.
Especially withherhere.
Nida watches me carefully. I don’t want to admit it. But what I desire is for this moment to last forever.
CHAPTER 31
Asting pecks on the side of my cheek, followed by a brush of something soft. The smell of dust enters my nose, and I let out a cough. Bright light hurts my eyes.
I grunt, only for thin strands to brush against my lips—as if trying to quiet me down. I blow them away. Another peck. And then a coo.Sarga?
I gasp for air and push myself upright, my eyes quickly adjusting to the light.
It’s morning.
I slap my hand over my face and rub my eyes. I must’ve fallen asleep on the rooftop. Sarga coos beside me, her feathers brushing against my knuckles.
I glance over my shoulder. Nida’s asleep beside me. So that’s what was in my mouth. Her hair. I let out a scoff. I want to enjoy this moment for a little longer, but the sun barely touchingthe horizon reminds me that we have a briefing in just a few minutes.
Shit.
We’re going to be late.
I reach for her shoulders, shaking her awake. She grunts, nearly throwing a fist at me—I assume a habit she developed living in Pirlem.
“What time is it?” she mumbles as she squints toward the horizon, where the golden sun paints the sky in firelight. She brushes curls from her face,each strand of aglow like molten copper.
“Later than what I’m used to.” I feel guilty for enjoying this. I should be at the briefing, but I don’t feel the same sense of urgency I used to.
“The briefing!” Nida exclaims, brushing her hair back with sharp, quick movements. I pull her to her feet, steadying her.
“Watch the sill,” I say as she stumbles over the window, nearly falling onto the stone floor, headfirst. She curses under her breath, and we sprint across the hall to the briefing.
When we step into the chamber—where Dragon Anatomy is usually taught—the air is already thick with the scent of parchment and ash. Cadets sit in tight rows along tiered wooden benches that form a half circle around the center of the room. Positioned beside the platform at its heart, stands the general. By the look in his eye, he’s not pleased to see me late.
I’m never late.
The room echoes with the scratch of ink on parchment, the soft rustle of pages turning—and the thunderous boom of the general’s voice as we take our seats.
“No expeditions will proceed until the dragon sighting is confirmed,” he says, his voice echoing throughout the large room. “The Scouts will be stationed on the thirty-fourth line of the map, all the way through the corner of each square.” He points to the marked stations on the map, stretching from Pirlem to Nedersen. Beyond that lies the deadzone—the territory of the Third Stronghold.
“Isn’t that line too close?” a cadet shouts, fear in his voice. “We won’t have enough time to properly station! The villagers will be too close.”
The general slightly raises his hand, signaling for silence.“I understand your concern, cadet,” he says, his back still turned to the map, voice low but firm. “But this is all we have. I cannot gamble the lives of those who’ve sworn to fight this war, for if they fall, there will be no one left to carry the fight forward.”
The room falls into a heavy silence, thick enough to choke on. Slowly, the resolve on the cadets’ faces begins to fracture, shadows of doubt creeping in. This last dragon has thrown everything we’ve bled for into fire.
How is it possible that a single dragon still manages to wreak this much havoc?
Another cadet clears her throat, breaking the silence and briefly masking the cracks etched into the faces around her. “What are we supposed to do?” she asks.
Countless heads turn her way, then shift toward the general, all waiting for his response. He lowers his head for a split second, then gathers himself into a firm, resolute stance.
“We must not falter,” he says, his voice like a spark ready to ignite. He turns on his heel to face us again, not a single crack in his unwavering demeanor. “We remember why we fight,” he declares, louder this time. “We fight for those who risk their lives every day so we can uphold our promise to them—a promise of freedom.” He straightens his chest, feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back, elbows extending outward—a formidable stance. “We are the last line of defense. If we show fear, then we have already lost—no matter how many soldiers stand with us. If we show fear, we doom humanity, our families, our children.” The cadets rise, murmurs of agreement spreading through the room. The general proceeds. “If we show fear, we spit on the sacrifices of those before us, letting their deaths be in vain. This is where we must be brave. This is where we show the Divines who abandoned us that when they left, they took fear with them. And humanity” —his voice rises, fierce and resolute— “does belong here.”
The room breaks into loud rallies to the General’s speech, displaying their bravery, their determination—their will to survive. The general’s eyes gleam as he takes a moment to catch his breath before unleashing a deafening roar.
