Page 7 of The Last Dragon

Perhaps he had.

The band of mercenaries had been following the elf for three days now, some on foot, others on horseback… Cassian had chosen to walk; his excitement at the prospect of capturing the elf—the keeper of the Elven Crystal—was making him nervous, and what better way to burn off some energy than a good walk?

“We should sell him to a brothel in Veylaris,” suggested Erkan, another wolf shifter, with a snicker. “Put him in a dress, and you could almost mistake him for a chick.”

A thunderous burst of raucous laughter erupted among the group, prompting Cassian to smile wryly.

“Trying to tell us something, Erkan?” taunted a mercenary.

“The sun’s gone to your head,” added another, slapping him on the back.

“Nah, he’s too skinny. The kid’s got no curves—nothing to grab onto,” argued another.

Cassian remained silent—he was used to hearing his companions’ crude banter. The elf’s scent was still fresh, a mixture of honey and old leather. A fragrance that reminded him of something dangerous…

Home.

“What do you think, Cassian?” Cyrus’s voice brought him back to the present.

What did he think?

“This elf possesses powerful magic. Can’t you feel it? We’d get much more by selling him for his magic than for his body.”

A pensive silence fell over the group before one of them exclaimed:

“That’s exactly why Cassian is our leader!”

“Yeah, he’s got some serious brains!”

“Why didn’t we think of that?!”

Cassian sighed, shaking his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. What a bunch of clueless idiots.

The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, and the elf had set up camp below, in the dense forest.

What a fool, he thought. Doesn’t this wretch have any survival instinct at all?

It didn’t take a genius to realize that the elf had never been targeted. That he’d never had to take cover in the wilderness or sleep with one eye open. True, the longer the mercenaries followed him, the more he seemed to look over his shoulder… but that was apparently not enough, since he was now asleep on a makeshift mattress, by a fire that cast a beam of light into the darkness of the forest.

The ambush unfolded with almost disconcerting ease. No screams, no clashing blades, no devastating magic… Cassian glided between the dry pine trees like a silent shadow, his footsteps muffled by the carpet of dead pine needles. But as he crossed the edge of the camp, he froze.

On the other side of the dying embers, the little stone golem was not asleep: Brynjar’s eyes were wide open, two shards of blue rock staring straight into his own. He did not move. He made no attempt to alert his master or raise his stone fists. He simply stared at him, with an intensity so heavy and ancient that Cassian’s instincts suddenly awoke, screaming of danger.

That golem…

There was something deeply unsettling about the creature’s silence, as if it were gauging the mercenary’s soul… as if it knew.

Holding the golem’s unsettling gaze, Cassian approached the elf. With slow, meticulous movements, he began to bind the elf’s wrists. The moment his fingers brushed against the sleeping figure, an invisible jolt shot up his arms.

The crystal.

He was holding it.

He had finally laid hands on the bearer of the Elven Crystal. Inside his own chest, the Philosopher’s Stone stirred, trying to resonate, to commune with the pure magic emanating from the elf. It was an intoxicating sensation, a buzz of pure power. At last. This was his opportunity, the spark needed to rekindle the flame of his people and recreate the dragons.

Behind him, the rest of the troupe stormed into the camp without the slightest regard for decorum. The mercenaries settled around the fire, rummaging through the saddlebags, grabbing the blankets, and dividing up the rest of the elf’s provisions. Despite the racket made by these clumsy brutes and Erkan’s stifled laughter, Tariel didn’t budge an inch.

Cassian frowned, observing the prisoner’s peaceful face. It was a sleep far too deep, almost unnatural. A mage of his caliber should have woken at the slightest misstep.