Page 5 of The Last Dragon
He walks behind me, occupying the empty space in the line, adjusting his armor.
“Coming back from your shift?” I ask, eyeing his Defender armor up and down.
“Yup,” he answers. “We just came back from patrolling the battlements. One of the ballistas needed maintenance, too.
“Any dragon sightings?”
“Haven’t been for almost a month. The expedition was the only time they ever saw that thing before it torched half the army,” he says, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “Gladweweren’t part of it.”
Relief sneaks up my throat. I’m quietly thankful they weren’t assigned. I’m not sure how I’d feel if anyone from this unit got hurt.
The walk up the line is slower than usual. I shift to glance over at a cadet in front of me. For the first time, they have to refill the gruel.
“More recruits this year,” Raumen mumbles.
“Double, I believe. General Grogol said there’s over forty.”
“I think more people are going to be left without a unit,” he says, grabbing a tray from the serving area.
“Let’s hope not. Otherwise, you’ll get extra Divisions as reinforcements.” And I don’t feel like getting to know more people—especially if it’s a first-year who’ll have their eyes glued on me.
“You’re probably right.” He shrugs. “More people want to join the Corps, which is good after low recruitment these past two years. But that means some soldiers will wait longer for placement in a Division—not really ideal.”
“I’m sure the general has a plan for that,” I say, slowly moving up the line.
No one wanted to join the Corps after the dragons attacked the Third during the defense expedition I led. Hundreds were killed. We lost more soldiers in that year than we’d recruited in the previous four. After that, the Corps barely managed to scrape up twenty new recruits. But news of one dragon left spread fast, and suddenly, everyone wanted to be a hero. I’d question why the general accepts so many now, but after such heavy losses, he needs to fill the ranks quickly.
I grab my tray, clinking metal against the wooden counter before having the food served. The smell of charred wood stings my nose as I stare at the muted tones of burned bread and a bowl of gray liquid mixture.
It’s less than yesterday.And the quality has gone down.
I lower myself onto the bench at the table against the far wall, a neglected spot by both company and care, doing my best to avoid any more eyes on me.
The cafeteria is crowded with new cadets, thick with sweat and heat, the occasional sweet scent of unburned bread teasing my nose. Banners of blue and gold bearing the Third Stronghold’s insignia hang high across the brick walls, barely holding on against the wear of time. It’s the same insignia I once admired, though that admiration has faded along with the banners’ colors. The clatter of metal trays echoes through the hall, mingling with murmurs and shouted orders for food—food we seem to be running out of. I wonder why, and if something’s wrong with the Second Stronghold. They’re supposed to provide us witha steady supply of food in exchange for tools, weapons, and soldiers from the Third.
I watch the new cadets—disoriented, their faces frail and sunken. Most come from the villages in the Front. Soldiers here are fed well, bodies growing strong, while villagers exchange their surplus for protection. Parents send their children to the Corps, hoping they’ll have a better life here. They get a bed, food, water. Everything essential. But to have any real chance at survival, you’d need to be in the Center—far behind the Stronghold—where the rich have the luxury of discarding food at the slightest hint of spoilage.
A loud clang snaps me out of my thoughts, followed by metal trays hitting the table. I dart my eyes to four familiar faces.
“Can’t have the table all for yourself now, can you? We’re a unit now,” Raumen says as he tosses his legs over the bench together with the unit’s Medic, Sam. “Newcomers make it hard to find any place to sit.”
A faint dark blur flickers at the corner of my eye as Ilian, clad in a black leather jacket, drops onto the bench by the table. But my gaze stays locked on brown eyes—piercing like sharp blades, heavy with a deep-seated grudge she’s carried ever since I left this unit. Eryca.
Ilian shares his sister’s eyes but without the bitterness. He shoots her a look, then signals her to sit. She hesitates, shoulders tight, before shuffling to the corner of the table.
“You’ll just have to get along.” Ilian sighs, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth. “He’s in our unit now.” He turns away, focusing on his meal.
Eryca rolls her eyes, lets out a puff of irritation, then slams her tray on the table and sits at the edge. She glares at me, silently cursing me.
“I’ll make this clear,” she says, expression darkening. “You and I, we’re not friends. If you’re going to leave again, I’d rather youdo it now, not when we need you the most. And quite frankly, wedon’tneed you.”
“Eryca—,” Ilian begins, but he’s quickly cut off as Eryca shoots up from her seat.
“Don’tErycame, Ilian. Morton’s dead! Valous was cast out and got his ears clipped—the mark oftreason. We need arealHunterandTracker in our unit. Nothim.” Eryca violently gestures at me, sneering in disgust, as if I’m some vermin that deserves to be eradicated.
“Would you calm down?” Ilian says, pressing his fingers against his temples. “All of this feud is giving me a headache. In fact” —he takes a bite from the loaf— “I’ve been having a headache before it even started.” His voice is muffled by loud chewing.
“Wait—did you say Morton’s dead?” I ask quickly, her words finally sinking in.
