Page 5 of The Last Dragon

The call of the Elven Crystal.

“Cassian?!” Cyrus stepped toward his companion, somewhat worried, before seeing the latter smile. The dragon had just had a most delightful vision.

He hadn’t been mistaken—the elven crystal still existed in this world, and this elf either had it on him or had simply touched it.

Yes… Finally… Finally, his years of solitude and torment were about to come to an end. If he could get his hands on this elf…

“How much do you think an elf is worth on the black market?”

Cyrus, Cassian’s second-in-command for several decades—a wolf shifter from Veylaris—raised his eyebrows before snickering as he placed two silver coins on the bar.

“Let’s give him a little head start.”

“He’s an elf, and judging by his appearance, he’s come straight from Caelendor… something tells me he’ll be ridiculously easy to track down,” Cassian commented. He couldn’t go against his very nature; he was still a dragon, and the idea of tracking, hunting, and then possessing filled him with pure delight.

A woman walked toward him, swaying her hips with practiced confidence. She knew Cassian—or at least the man he claimed to be: that passing mercenary whose reputation as a womanizer was well-established from one tavern to the next. It was said that he left behind as many broken hearts as empty purses, a lover for a single night, intense and elusive as molten metal.

But tonight, he brushed her off with an almost absent-minded gesture. He was too preoccupied with his latest discovery to be bothered by flesh.

“You mischievous little elf, do you even know what lies hidden within you?” he murmured before emptying his last mug.

In his mind, the plan was taking shape with cruel clarity. It wasn’t about gold coins at all: this elf was the key, the catalyst for the Primordial Convergence he had been pursuing since his fall. He could already picture him, chained and broken, dragged by force across the rugged mountain passes to the devastated lands of Drakensyl.

Cassian would have no qualms: if the ritual required this elf’s blood and the essence of the Crystal to awaken the ancient dragons, he would offer them up without batting an eye.

2 - The Hunt

Tariel

Once he was a reasonable distance from the village, he allowed himself to slow to a comfortable trot, letting his mind wander back to the inn. What a night.

No, scratch that: what a journey.

He had a vague idea of the tense situation between Caelendor and Morgraves—he knew that Morgraves was struggling to recover from the damage the dragons had inflicted long ago. Tariel hadn’t been born during the Great War, but he vaguely remembered the tedious history lessons he’d been forced to sit through as a young elf. He also knew that Caelendor wasn’t making much of an effort to help Morgraves—but why would it? Their lands were dead and desolate. The land beneath their feet was scorched, and greenery was scarce. What did these lands have to offer the elves, whose realms were brimming with abundance?

Nothing. That was all Morgraves had to offer. Their army was vicious, and their loyalty wavering. Despite the Alliance of the Four, the kingdoms no longer traded as they once did. You didn’t have to be very old to know that. In fact, you only had to see how the poor elf had to procure his artifacts and books: the black market, traveling merchants, vagabonds…

A long sigh escaped his lips, which were beginning to tremble. The nights were cold in Morgraves—he had quickly realized that, and this night was no exception.

The elf set up camp in a sorry excuse of a forest, eager to remain hidden within nature rather than expose himself on the plains. The ground was hard and cracked, and the trees were weakened—dry and brittle, but not quite dead. The grass might just as well have been straw, so dry was it. Its stiffness felt almost like tiny needles pricking Tariel’s clothes as he sat down on the ground with a grace that fatigue had robbed him of.

No sooner had he sat down than he traded his horse for his precious familiar, which materialized in a flash before him.

“Brynjar…”

A faint, trembling breath escaped the mage’s lips as his arms closed around the golem in an almost desperate embrace. His vision was blurred by the moisture of his tears, which threatened to roll down his cheeks… But his pride compelled him to swallow them back.

Perhaps the evening weighed on him more than he was willing to admit, but Brynjar was used to the elf’s emotions. After all, the two of them had always been…

Tariel then stepped back sharply, smoothing his hair—which was barely tangled despite his chaotic gallop—and now scrutinized his familiar with his gaze. The golem looked at him with concern before offering what amounted to a reassuring smile.

“I’m fine, Master. I appreciate your concern but see for yourself. I’m unharmed,” the golem said in his deep voice, his tone soft.

“I wasn’t worried—you’re imagining things…!”

With that, the forest fell silent. Quickly, the two beings set up camp in the dark forest. Tariel sat by the meager campfire, his gaze lost in the dancing flames while his heart still pounded rapidly, the memory of the altercation at the inn still fresh in his mind.

He had never thought that a simple quarrel with a bunch of unintelligent brutes could jeopardize Brynjar’s safety… He still didn’t know what the blue-eyed man could have done to him, and it haunted him.