Page 28 of The Last Dragon

“You don’t have to be a lord or a prince to take care of your body or your hair,” he said softly. “When you lose everything, when everything you own is far away or when people turn against you, all you have left… is yourself. I’m not trying to please anyone, gods no—I hide away in my library to read, always ignoring the knocks on my door. But my body… it’s the only thing that will stay with me until the end.”

His own words echoed in his chest, and he nodded, as if to convince himself too. Cassian, for his part, watched him in silence. Tariel noticed his eyes following his fingers, the goosebumps running across his skin. It was strange, almost unsettling. The mercenary’s gaze had softened slightly, as if troubled.

“That’s the first time anyone’s ever said anything like that to me,” he murmured. “I wonder what you’re reading in that library. I’d almost envy you…You’re right, your body is your sanctuary… A sanctuary that smells of honey, anyway.”

Tariel didn’t know whether to take offense or laugh, so he settled for a wry smile.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Without warning, Cassian grabbed him and yanked him into the water with a big splash. The elf let out a high-pitched squeal and popped his head back up, coughing, turning to face him with furrowed brows, his honey-scented soap having slipped from his hands.

“What a brute! Good grief, show some manners! By the stars, my heart’s going to give out with you… H–hey! That’s mine!”

Crossing his arms over his delicately slender chest, the elf pouted.

Yes, he was sulking.

“Have you stooped so low as to steal soap, mercenary? You’ve really hit rock bottom.” Tariel paused before adding, with an exasperated sigh, “And to think I was going to graciously offer you some clothes…”

When the mercenary spoke, his tone was mocking and lighthearted. “I’ll steal them from you. Maybe it’s my turn to smell like honey.”

Tariel was rinsing his hair when Cassian spoke again, now that calm had returned to the lake. “If I decide to go with you, you’ll have to learn how to fight.”

The elf sighed.

“I’m not very strong,” he admitted. “All I have going for me is my flexibility and agility, but I could never take on a man of your stature with my fists or a sword. I’ve told you: without my magic, I’m not much use in a fight.”

To his great surprise, Cassian adopted a serious, almost professorial tone.

“Strength isn’t what makes a fighter,” he declared. “Knowing how to fight is an art. And it seems to me that you have a knack for the arts, don’t you? Think of it like a dance: one hand is enough to hold a sword if you know how to keep it balanced. The same goes for your fists: it’s not the force of the blow, but the point of impact that matters.”

Tariel listened intently, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“You’re slender—all the better: the target is smaller. Holding a sword is like holding a part of yourself. Do you let go of a part of yourself? No. With or without power, you are a sword. That’s all there is to it. It’s a dance. A dance of water. It must be fast, sudden.”

No sooner had he finished than the mercenary lunged forward abruptly. Tariel reacted instinctively, stepping aside with a gasp of surprise, but stumbling on the sandy lake bottom.

“Not bad at all for a first try,” Cassian said, looking amused.

The elf crossed his arms, lifting his chin and snorting. “You caught me off guard!”

Although the elf looked indignant, his serious expression returned almost immediately as he continued, more softly, “I’d never thought of combat as an art. Much less as a dance. In my mind, you fight to hurt, not to look good… but… you’re not wrong. Maybe I should have listened to my teachers instead of sneaking off to read poetry.”

A shiver ran down his spine. The water was starting to get cold, as the sun had begun its descent across the sky. He moved slightly closer to the older man, placing his hands on Cassian’s warm chest to warm himself.

And that was the moment his stomach chose to make itself heard, causing the mercenary to chuckle.

“You’re fighting on an empty stomach. Is that courage or foolishness?” he asked with an amused air.

His laugh was soft and smooth, and Tariel liked it a bit too much for his liking.

“We still have some provisions left, but not much. We’ll share the rations in the tent. I was planning to buy something to eat at the inn, but something…” The elf shot the mercenary a pointed look, jabbing his index finger slightly into his chest, before smoothing his chest with the flat of his hand as if to apologize. “…came up. Do you think we’ll find something to eat in the coming days? A city that isn’t trying to lock us up, sell us, or kill us? In any case, we’ll have to move on soon if we don’t want the Morgraves hot on our heels…”

The mercenary shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, as he absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair stuck to his shoulder aside.

“Are you a good hunter?”

“H-hunter?” Tariel grimaced immediately, crossing his arms as if he hoped to ward off the idea through the sheer force of his posture. He’d uttered the word as if it were an insult.

Nope. No, nu-uh.