Page 23 of The Last Dragon
“Water. It’s concealed in a glass container, hard as a rock but fragile as an eggshell if it comes in contact with heat. Useful against a Redsnout. You either aim at the dragon or at whoever is on fire.”
She raises an eyebrow, puckering her lips, and shrugs. “That makes sense,” she says, observing the vial. “I’ve read that dirt works, too?”
“It does,” I respond. “But not as effectively. Water blocks the glands for longer compared to dirt.” I grab a dagger harness and pass it on to her too quickly, and she nearly drops the vial.
“You need to wear that—keeps your daggers and vials in check. Try it on and adjust it to your liking.”
She wraps the leather harness around her and adjusts it to fit her body, tightening it around her waist. “Is this fine?” she asks, forcing my gaze to wander over her.
One of the holsters isn’t properly reinforced. I lean in, inches away from her, and firmly pull on the straps, tightening them. She releases a soft whimper.
“You need to keep this tight or it’ll fall off if you run. If that happens, you’d trip—and die.”
“Has that ever happened?” she asks, turning to face me.
“Not in this century, but if they teach us that, it means it has. Learn from mistakes, kind of thing.” I shrug as I wave my hands in the air. I pack a couple of glass vials into her satchel. Redsnouts may be dangerous with their fire, but they’re extremely sensitive to water. The moment water hits their tongues, Redsnouts lose their spark—no fire, no threat. Those vials have saved me more times than I can count.
I scan her head to toe. Boots, leather pants with small holsters and pockets, and a leather jacket made from Redsnout scales—resistant to fire. At least for a few seconds—enough to help soldiers get out alive in case it ignites. What else does she need?
I draw my fingers across the dusty shelves. Since she’s my Tracker, I need to make sure she has everything that can benefit both of us. Irritated, I bite my lip at the thought—myTracker. Somebody else’s life is my responsibility now. One mistake by her can get both of us killed, and one misinterpretation by me can get the entire unit killed. I have to rely on someone else—something I was never good at. Doubt I ever will be.
Rows of daggers line the shelves, each with distinct curves and edges tailored for different needs and preferences. Nida picks up one of the lighter blades, turning it over in her hand, her thumb brushing the engraved metal handle.
“Careful,” I say. “That’s the sharpest dagger.”
She meets my gaze, and a subtle smile appears on her face. “So these are the famous daggers you use to slay dragons.” Her smile fades, and concern flashes in her eyes. “Up close.”
I nod—my face remains cold. That was one time. “There are times I run out of bolts. Having an accessible dagger laced with tranquilizer can make a difference.”
“I heard stories,” she says, slowly coming up and turning to me. “During Assessment Year, you jumped on top of a dragonand pierced its spine with a dagger. Is that true?” She waits patiently.
I want to resist at first, but as part of a unit, I know sharing our pasts can help us work better together in the field. “Yes.”
Fear lingers in her eyes, but not of the battle, not of the dragons. It’s me. The same look everyone’s given me since the Gates. Not just a soldier anymore—in their eyes, a monster. I turn away, though her eyes pierce deeper than they should. I focus on restocking bolts and arrows. But her presence stirs something in me. Tugs on a thread buried deep in my chest. Like it’s trying to make me human again.
“How does one distract a Redsnout?” she asks. Perhaps she noticed how annoyed I was and decided to change the subject.
“Shout and scream at it,” I say. “Throw rocks. Just remember to freeze the moment it looks at you. And keep your distance. This male Redsnout is more agitated than most.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Cadets’ footsteps and the soft scrape of metal against leather belts echo off the armory walls. Now and then, a sharp yelp breaks the air—a recruit nicked by an eager blade. Nida paces slowly, fingers trailing over the rows of weapons, pausing at last before the shelf lined with Tracker compasses.
“How?” She breaks the silence. “How can you be sofearless?” She doesn’t look at me, but continues to follow the sharp edges of the dagger.
How?
There are about a million ways to answer that question. But only one of them would be the truth.
“It’s what we’re taught,” I respond coldly, hoping she doesn’t ask for details. She clicks her tongue, as if trying to find the right words, but I don’t let her. After a while, curiosity begins to bubble, and I can’t stop wondering why she’s even here.
“What made you join?” I finally ask.
Her eyes snap to me, but soften almost immediately. “My brother was here once,” she says, brushing the dust from the shelves. “Joseph. He died.”
“I’m sorry,” I say without thinking. I completely forgot Joseph joined. He wasn’t in my unit, or any unit I knew well. She pauses midstep, as if considering whether to speak again, but simply smiles and moves on, plucking daggers from the shelves as she goes.
“Training grounds,” I say, jutting my chin toward the opening. As we move to the large room, I notice commandants of Trackers and Hunters deep in conversation. They point at some cadets lining up to practice shooting crossbows. By now, most Trackers and Hunters have already been paired, leaving only a few cadets on standby. That usually happens when one Division outweighs the other. In those cases, cadets can be reassigned or placed in different units without a Tracker or Hunter. In the meantime, they contribute in other ways—like standing guard outside restricted zones—until they’re placed. But there’s no guarantee they’ll get a partner. That happened to me on several occasions—this time, though, I know I’m stuck with unit seventeen. And I’m stuck with Nida.
