Page 9 of The Last Dragon

At that moment, he wanted to kill every man and woman who was helping this Cassian sell the elf on the black market.

Tariel may have gotten ahead of himself.

These past few days traveling as a prisoner of the small group of mercenaries had proven… instructive. The elf had first learned that lycanthropes were indeed still around—he would never get over the sounds he’d heard when the wolves had shifted to go hunting for the first time.

He could say with certainty that the sheep they’d set free a few days earlier was indeed dead and digested…

Yuck.

He’d also learned that the caravan was indeed heading toward Veylaris… to sell Tariel. Of course, that’s what they’re planning to do, he’d thought with disdain, as the boors laughed and ate around the fire.

What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was that despite the humiliating and disrespectful treatment Tariel was receiving, he was eating and drinking regularly with the mercenaries. Cassian would approach him at every meal and offer him his water skin, along with a few berries and small pieces of meat. One of the mercenaries—Cyrus—had made a comment about Cassian wanting to add some curves to him… the elf didn’t know what the redhead was talking about, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know either.

Over the past few days, Brynjar had been… silent. Tariel could still sense his presence, but the golem didn’t respond to him. He felt terribly lonely in his little cage.

Sometimes, Cassian would let him out to relieve himself or stretch his legs, but his “hospitality” ended there. When they spoke to him, it was often to insult him or make fun of him. Their insults were particularly creative, Tariel had to admit, but their words were no less hurtful. Insulting.

They’d told him he was too small, too skinny, too “elvish.” They’d criticized him for eating a thousand and one ingredients, but not a single elvish dish was ever mentioned—it was on these things, these little hints of superiority, that the elf managed to hold his ground. To ignore them. Because deep down, he could reassure himself by telling himself that he was far smarter than they were. That he would find an opening, a moment of distraction, and that he would escape.

Cassian

Cassian was laughing, smiling, and chatting. They were only two days’ walk from the next village, and they’d be able to sleep in beds for a night or two.

They had captured the elf and were making their way, slowly but surely, toward his forgotten kingdom. Everything was going perfectly. Everything was heading in the right direction.

So why couldn’t Cassian bring himself to rejoice?

Paranoia—that was why.

The whole operation seemed to go a little bit too well. The prince had spent two centuries searching for a solution, wondering how to get his revenge on the elves, only for the solution to present itself in a grimy inn in Morgraves?

And then there was the golem.

At first glance, the little stone man held no resemblance to the monstrosities that had once destroyed his lands. Nevertheless, Cassian couldn’t help but be suspicious. This creature—Brynjar, as the elf had called him at the inn—had an… unsettling energy to him.

And as if that weren’t enough, it was almost certain that this same golem had helped capture his master; the way it had watched him—with that hard, intrusive gaze—while seemingly keeping the elf asleep… none of it bode well.

During the hunt for the elf and his companion, Cassian had seen the stone creature appear and disappear multiple times, too, something he had never witnessed before. Not with golems anyway.

His gaze drifted toward the white-haired man, currently hugging his legs in his cage.

He had seen him summon various familiars—was the golem one of them? In his long life, Cassian had never heard of such a thing—a familiar golem that seemed so alive, so intelligent… Usually, those creatures weren’t gifted with free will or the ability to think for themselves. And yet, the small thing had seemed perfectly capable of doing all of those things, and maybe more.

Cassian let out a long sigh and shook his head before reining in his mount and sliding down to the ground with a thud, offering one of his companions the chance to take his place. He needed to walk, to burn off some nervous energy. He could feel the instability of the Philosopher’s Stone within him; he had to remain cautious.

And what better way to relieve that tension than to take it out on the enemy? A cruel smile stretched across his lips as he approached the elf, one hand on his dagger in its sheath.

“I hope the journey lives up to His Highness’s expectations,” Cassian mocked.

The elf startled at the sound of his voice before shooting him a glare. Great, he thought, go ahead and take the bait—entertain me. Much to his delight, the white elf retorted, “I’m not speaking to you—”

“You just did,” the older man said with a chuckle.

“I’m not speaking to you anymore,” the elf corrected. “You’re not worthy of hearing the sound of my voice, you filthy brute.”

Cassian mock-pouted, his long strides allowing him to keep up with the rolling cage with ease.

“Ouch. Come on, princess, are you really going to turn down the little bit of company I’m offering you?”