Page 6 of The Last Dragon

The protective magic he had woven around their camp offered an illusion of safety, but Tariel couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. He was under the impression a threat was lurking in the shadows of the forest, biding its time to strike.

Despite his exhaustion, Tariel found himself unable to close his eyes. Every time he tried to drift off to sleep, his mind was flooded with worries. Why had he agreed to this? How could he seriously think he could survive comfortably outside the elven cities?

By the Stars, what was I thinking?!

A long sigh made his thin lips tremble. No, he definitely wouldn’t be able to get a wink of sleep tonight.

He might as well make this sleepless night productive. Tariel slipped a delicate hand into his travel bag and pulled out his new grimoire—a book with pages still blank that he had begun filling in during his journey. Documenting his travels kept him occupied at night, and once he returned to Caelendor, he would simply have to duplicate his notes using magic to sell the book as a travel bestiary.

The city’s scholars would be clamoring for the details of his discoveries. Hmm, yes… he couldn’t resist the idea of gaining more recognition: Grand Mage Tariel Elenion, Dragon Tamer, does you the honor of sharing the knowledge he has accumulated during his epic journey!

A smile stretched across his lips. So far, he had encountered a host of fascinating creatures along the way, but tonight, he chose to focus his attention on Brynjar.

Using a fine charcoal pencil, the elf began to refine his drawing of the little golem. He took care to sketch the details of the moss covering the golem’s stony face, lingering on the way it clumped beneath his chin, giving him the curious illusion of a beard. Tariel found this particularly adorable—though he would have preferred to cut off his own tongue rather than admit it out loud in front of his companion.

On the other side of the hearth, the little stone creature sat motionless, its eyes closed. It was meditating. Brynjar would sometimes spend long hours like this, silent and rooted to the ground. Under normal circumstances, Tariel could vaguely sense, through their bond, how the familiar absorbed the magic of the surrounding nature to nourish itself. But here, in the lifeless, scorched landscape of Morgraves, the elf suspected that the golem must be struggling to draw even the slightest bit of energy from this barren land.

To tell the truth, he didn’t know for sure, and this persistent uncertainty annoyed him.

Tariel was being followed.

“Brynjar, I admit I may tend to overreact, but I’m certain we’re being followed,” insisted the elf, glancing over his shoulder as he sat perched on his horse.

It had been four days since the small group had left the shabby village near the elven border. With each passing day, Tariel found it harder and harder to ignore the distance stretching between his destination, Drakensyl, and his home in Mistvale. If it were just a case of homesickness to brush off, the elf probably wouldn’t have been so paranoid, but…

For two nights now, he’d been hearing the strangest noises. Distant whistles, the howls of wolves… and everyone knew there were no longer any wild wolves in Morgraves—the kingdom’s desolation had driven most of its wildlife to flee toward Caelendor and Veylaris. Sometimes, Tariel could have sworn he heard laughter…

Of course, the elf and his familiars weren’t the only travelers passing through Morgraves; they encountered plenty of merchants and mercenaries on the roads. Morgraves was a necessary stop in Ennevia for anyone traveling overland to Veylaris, and Tariel could have done without the insults and hostile glances hurled his way at every opportunity.

“My Master, I think the lack of sleep is playing tricks on you,” Brynjar finally replied. Tariel rolled his eyes—sleep, as if.

With a long sigh, the white-haired elf looked up, gazing at the horizon. In the distance, the royal family’s castle loomed through the dust, dark and foreboding, surrounded by barren, desolate lands. The ramparts, adorned with sharp spikes, rose toward the sky: tall, imposing… deadly.

Goosebumps broke out on the elf’s neck.

“Let’s leave the roads,” he announced suddenly, gripping his reins more firmly to veer off the trails and head toward the forests of dry, somber-colored pine trees.

His instinct, though rarely vocal, told him to stay away from the ramparts. He could feel it in his gut: dark magic oozed from between the bricks, even from such a distance, rotten and charred like the lands ruled by its occupants.

Cassian

He had missed the thrill of the hunt.

Shapeshifting dragons were civilized beings, so much so that they could be mistaken for humans—Cassian’s identity as a mercenary was proof of that. But… they were still half-beast. His instincts, though less primitive than those of other dragons, remained wild at their core.

These instincts, coupled with his target’s elven nature, awakened feelings buried long ago. Something ugly, vicious…

His desire for revenge.

And today, it seemed within reach, in the form of a naive and capricious elf who was currently leaving the trails to venture deeper into the forest. An elf who, for the past few days, had been traveling south. Toward Veylaris.

Toward Drakensyl.

“I don’t think he’d make a good slave,” Cyrus observed. “He’s too…”

“Delicate?” Cassian blurted out.

Cyrus paused, casting a skeptical glance at the older man. “Skinny,” he finally replied, raising a thick red eyebrow, as if Cassian had just said something absurd.