Page 29 of The Last Dragon

He’d much rather feed on tree bark, questionable berries, or even soggy moss than kill an innocent creature.

Just the thought of warm blood on his fingers made him gag.

But Cassian was already rolling his eyes, as if he’d expected it.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” he said as he stepped out of the water to dry off quickly. “I’ll keep hunting until we reach the southern border. We can’t afford to stay in town too long, let alone restock there. That would put Morgraves on our trail, and even the humblest resident of these regions would betray us.”

Cassian then walked away, gesturing for the elf to follow him. Tariel watched him step out of the water and dry off quickly… and was surprised to see Brynjar handing him clean clothes. He felt his heart tighten a little, but couldn’t say why.

Tariel eventually trotted over to follow him, rubbing his arms in an attempt to fight off the cool air. He got dressed in the clothes Brynjar had brought him; the golem’s form was nearby, silent and reassuring.

Once dressed, he hurried back to the mercenary with two modest, vegetarian elven dishes: a sort of soft flatbread topped with sweet roots, berries, and dried herbs. Food that was far more dignified than… plain meat.

He sat down next to him, setting his meal down without touching it.

Cassian, meanwhile, was kneeling in the moss, drawing a map of Ennevia right on the ground. His finger traced the outlines of the kingdoms as he spoke, his voice heavy with tension.

“The neighboring kingdoms lie further south. We must head toward Veylaris, but the Olyar nomads might offer us asylum for a while. They aren’t part of the Alliance of Four. As long as you’re in the Kingdom of Morgraves, your elven features could be your undoing. Times are changing. And your kingdom, by failing to act on behalf of the other members of the alliance, has become a target.”

Tariel frowned. He didn’t understand how the leaders’ mistakes could fall so heavily on ordinary citizens. On him. But the mercenary continued.

“It surprises me, by the way, that your fellow elves let you leave without warning you. The few elves found outside your kingdom have mutilated their ears and bodies so they would no longer be recognized.”

The word struck him right in the gut.

Mutilated.

His eyes widened in panic, and, in an almost childlike gesture, he brought both hands to his ears, checking to make sure they were still there.

Still long. Still perfect.

He inhaled too sharply, and his voice came out a little louder than he’d intended. “I would never do such a thing! I must be dreaming… My body is far too precious… And my ears—do you know how many rings I can put in them? Lots, and I have no intention of parting with them!”

He crossed his arms, sulking, as he sat on the moss, his gaze averted. It wasn’t misplaced pride. It was anxiety. A dull, creeping fear that was beginning to gnaw at his stomach. He began to fidget nervously with his food, without bringing it to his mouth. His jaw tensed, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

“You have no idea how much hatred people here harbor toward you,” Cassian added, sitting down more heavily, his tone free of cruelty but without indulgence either. “Ever since the elven army refused to help Morgraves… in a way, I can understand them. You should, too.”

Tariel felt a wave of nausea. He hadn’t chosen this. He’d never hurt any innocent person! And yet, everywhere he went, he was hated. Rejected. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball.

“I believe you…” He murmured, his voice tight.

A bitter but understanding smile flitted across the mercenary’s face. He didn’t answer right away. He sat up slightly, staring at the elf with an expression he couldn’t describe, then leaned in, his gaze locked on Tariel’s.

The elf stiffened.

He felt the man’s thumb and index finger gently rest on his ear. The caress along the cartilage was light, almost soothing, but it made him shiver. He remained motionless, eyes wide, staring at that face that was too close, that look he couldn’t understand.

“We’ll need to hide them,” Cassian said in a low voice. “A glamour shouldn’t be too complicated.”

The elf nodded slowly. He had nothing to retort.

Tariel understood. He understood that no one here loved him or wanted him because he was an elf. It was as frustrating as it was painful. He tried to brush it off, but he couldn’t deny that it stung every time, like an invisible needle under his skin.

He didn’t represent his people. He’d never claimed to. Sure, he was probably one of the most brilliant mages in Caelendor… but that didn’t justify treating him like an outcast simply because he’d been born there. The idea of having a target on his back for a crime he’d never committed made his stomach clench.

He had lost himself in his thoughts, pondering the horror of what was being done to his people: cutting off their ears… An act of pure, barbaric, symbolic hatred. It didn’t concern him yet, but he knew that if he were to fall into the hands of certain people, that fate would await him. And he didn’t even know why that thought had struck him so violently at that precise moment.

Perhaps because he felt the mercenary’s fingers brush against that sensitive area. That contact, though brief, sent a strange, indefinable shiver through him. His gaze fell on Cassian, and he was no longer quite sure what he was feeling.