Page 8 of The Last Dragon

The dragon glanced sideways at Brynjar, but he was no longer there. Did the golem have a role to play in this? Had it deliberately plunged its master into this lethargy? With a long sigh, Cassian decided not to look for an explanation as long as the situation worked in his favor.

Not this time. Not when I’m so close to my goal.

Little by little, night reclaimed its hold. The mercenaries eventually dozed off one by one, overcome by the exhaustion of the hunt, leaving the decaying pine forest to sink into a leaden silence.

Cassian, however, was not sleeping. Sitting off to the side, he lay on his back, his hands behind his head. Through the bare canopy and the skeletal branches of the trees, he stared at the night sky—the stars shone, cold and indifferent.

Is the sky over Drakensyl just as dark tonight? he wondered, a familiar bitterness tightening his throat. Centuries have passed, and I have forgotten the brilliance of the stars as they watched over my kingdom.

3 - Troubles

Tariel

One blow, then another, rang out against something metallic, jolting the elf out of his stupor so violently that his heart skipped a beat. It took him a moment to realize what had happened the day before: he’d been tricked, plain and simple.

When he’d opened his eyes a few hours earlier, a terrible headache had gripped his temples. Lying on his back, he had immediately realized that he was tied down to his own makeshift mattress—the very one he had set up with such care the night before. Worse still, the silence of the forest had been replaced by the heavy snoring and the smell of sweat from a veritable band of mercenaries.

And while, despite his migraine, the white-haired man felt perfectly rested, he also sensed that something was wrong with his magic. Even an idiot would have understood that this “something” lay in his bonds, holding his hands clasped as if he were praying constantly… and deep down, that was exactly what he was doing.

What a monster, Tariel had cursed inwardly. Depriving a mage of his magic was simply monstrous. To find himself so helpless, unable to cast even the slightest spell… He felt exposed, vulnerable, powerless.

Fortunately, he could still sense Brynjar’s reassuring presence. The golem was fine, banished back into the small dimensional pocket that Tariel had created long ago to house his familiars when they weren’t summoned.

But the relief was short-lived. As he turned his head, the first thing he saw was him. The man from the inn. Cassian. Leaning against the trunk of a dead pine tree, the handsome dark-haired man watched him in silence, his unfathomable gaze sending a chill down the elf’s spine.

Once the big, brutish men had woken up, the revelry had begun. They had roughly yanked Tariel upright by his bonds, completely ignoring his colorful language as he vented his frustrations.

Forced to walk, the small group had quickly left the cover of the forest to reach the main road—the very one Tariel had desperately tried to avoid in order to escape prying eyes. Along the way, fate had played a trick on them in the form of a cattle dealer coming from the opposite direction. Finding the coincidence hilarious, the mercenaries had negotiated the purchase of one of his wood-and-iron cages. Under the merchant’s stunned gaze, they had freed the animal inside—a huge sheep that had bolted, bleating—before tossing the elf into it without the slightest hesitation.

He was now in a cage, accompanied by a noisy procession punctuated by conversations he’d rather forget. How many brothels had these men visited?!

“Well, princess, are we finally waking up?” a mocking voice called out.

Tariel followed no deity and trusted only the Stars, eternally present and unchanging, but that didn’t stop him from praying, addressing the Universe. In his silent prayers, eyes closed and body motionless on the cold floor of his cage, the elf asked for no favors.

As he had always done, he asked himself: Why him? What had he done to end up in this situation? No matter how many times he mulled over these questions, he could find no answer other than “nothing.” He hadn’t done anything. Another knock on the cage rang out, followed by the familiar voice of the boor from the inn. Cassian.

“Stop toying with him, Cyrus.” But then, the very same handsome brute turned his head toward the elf with a smirk, a look of superiority in his eyes, and added, “What did you say again? Don’t you ever dare cross my path again… mmmh… for I swear by the stars that I’ll reduce you, this inn, and every childish little soul within its putrid confines to ashes… Yes, that’s exactly it.”

The horseman’s words, however, drew a bitter laugh from him. Just as he felt his body crackling with the magic he was about to unleash, determined to free himself, the distant voice of Brynjar—a familiar to whom he was, of course, bound—resounded in his mind like an echo: “Above all, do not use your magic, my Master. It is restricted by your bonds. The mercenaries are taking you to the black market; I heard them mention it earlier. Be patient: they are bringing you closer to your destination.”

His destination? The elf had no idea where he was, but he trusted his familiar more than anyone else—except himself.

Then Brynjar’s voice rang out again: “Rest, Master. I will remain on the lookout for even the slightest bit of information.”

A faint smile tugged at his full lips as he revealed his grayish eyes to the man on horseback by lifting his eyelids, not even bothering to sit up. He was relieved to know that Brynjar was still making good use of the summoning bond established between them long ago. He thought he was alone, but he wasn’t.

However, the magic that orchestrated his life was out of the picture, which proved problematic and worried him greatly… But he said nothing about it. Instead, he fixed his gaze on his assailant’s azure eyes and said in a mellifluous voice, “I’ll keep my word.”

One of the men whistled upon hearing the threat emerge from the prisoner’s mouth, and laughter rang out across the cracked road, now bathed in sunlight from the sun high in the sky.

“Can you believe it? The little brat’s threatening Cassian! What a joke—that pointy-eared buffoon sure has a sense of humor.”

He closed his eyes again, his smile fading.

Despite the faint warmth of hope blossoming in his heart thanks to Brynjar, he felt no less powerless, ridiculous, humiliated…

Cassian, Tariel etched that name into his mind with blood-red ink. He would have that man’s skin. He would make him suffer for everything he had—and everything he was about to—inflict upon him. That boor, that lout! He would pay, and dearly. Normally, the elf wasn’t the most enthusiastic about the idea of hurting or even killing another being, but his recent adventures—or rather, misadventures—were calling into question his moral compass, which was already flawed.