Page 10 of The Last Dragon

His words might have sounded sympathetic, if he hadn’t had a broad, mocking smile on his lips. But Cassian had apparently underestimated the elf’s sharp tongue, as said elf retorted, “Go to hell! I’d always choose crushing silence over having to endure your low-level criminal talk.”

“Low-level?” Cassian laughed, tapping a metal bar with his dagger. “And yet I managed to capture a honey-licker of your stature. Or… could it be that you are that easy to capture, elf?”

The man snorted, lifting his chin. Was he puffing out his cheeks? Cassian’s wry smile widened, his amusement obvious.

“Of course, not, I—ugh, go bother someone else, mercenary.”

With that, the smaller man turned away from him, arms crossed and eyes closed. Cassian was about to press him further when Cyrus beckoned him over with a gesture, pointing toward the sky, a somber look on his face.

When Cassian saw what he was pointing at, he muttered a curse. Damn it…

“A vulture,” he spat bitterly, “the Morgraves won’t be long in showing up…”

“Should we avoid the trails?”

Cassian took a moment to think before shaking his head with a sigh.

“No… there’s no point. If the vultures have seen us, the royal family knows we’re in the area. We have nothing to hide anyway. Let’s just keep moving toward Veylaris and pray that they leave us alone.”

Cyrus nodded before stepping aside to pass on the information. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the elf’s gaze; a look of concern was etched on his face. The mercenary didn’t show his own worry and gave him a sardonic smile and a wink that was anything but affectionate.

Silently mouthing the word “princess” earned him another dirty look, and he laughed.

Cassian’s gaze was drawn to the hill on his right—imposing, covered with dead tree trunks and blackened soil. Upon it stood the very thing he would have preferred to avoid encountering: the Morgraves Castle, a colossal structure of dark brick with ramparts lined with sharp spikes, where the occasional animal carcass lay. Above, gigantic vultures dominated the skies, circling and circling, seemingly never stopping.

The Kingdom of Morgraves was no longer what it had been in Cassian’s youth, so many years ago: lush and green, teeming with life, a true mediator among the Alliance. Ever since the Bloody Banquet, when the dragons, in their desperation, had attempted to reach Caelendor, scorching Morgraves in their wake, the lands had struggled to come back to life, and their rulers had grown ruthless, corrupted by the dark magic offered by Malveth, drawn by the scent of blood and desolation.

It had been barely two days since they’d spotted the first vultures of the Morgraves. The terrain was becoming more rugged, giving way from vast plains to rolling hills—they’d left the cattle cage behind a day earlier to relieve the horses of its weight.

It went without saying that their prisoner was much calmer when he was being pulled along in a cage by a horse. Ever since he’d been back on foot, he hadn’t stopped complaining: the air was too hot, his feet were too heavy, the chains pulled at his wrists… But Cassian had patience for days and whenever the elf pushed, the mercenary simply pushed back with a mocking smile.

Tariel was also attempting to use his magic more frequently—Cassian could feel every surge of power against his ropes. Thank goodness he wasn’t about to take the risk of traveling with the bearer of the Heart of Elhë, the Elven Crystal, while giving him unlimited access to its power—he wasn’t suicidal. In fact, before tying up the elf on the night of his capture, Cassian had modified the ropes using alchemy, transforming every attempt by the elf to use magic into energy that fed his own.

Their somewhat-peace came to an end when the group passed one of the paths leading to the castle.

“We’re not alone,” Cyrus announced, a familiar tension in his shoulders. His guard was up.

“What is it?” the elf asked, looking worried, and for once, Cassian replied seriously:

“Morgrave’s army.”

Vultures were approaching in swarms while the ground rumbled beneath the hooves of horses emerging from the nearby valley. Cassian and his group stopped, weapons in hand, their positions defensive.

“This promises to be interesting…” Cassian murmured as he drew his sword. At that very moment, he felt a wave of panic that wasn’t his own, and his gaze turned toward the elf in surprise.

“What about me, then?!” he exclaimed, his tone indignant but his eyes filled with fear. “Don’t I have the right to defend myself? Cut these bonds off right this instant!”

Cassian sighed, running a hand over his face. Just as he was about to reply, though, Erkan announced, “They’re here.”

Their brief moment of preparation was shattered by the loud clatter of hooves on the charred ground. A figure emerged from a cloud of dust, flanked by a handful of guards in dull armor: Phineas Morgraves.

Perched on his tall, black horse, the prince bore none of the grandeur attributed to the rulers of the kingdoms. Phineas was ugly. A raw, almost obscene ugliness that seemed directly shaped by the darkness of his soul. His greasy black hair clung to his temples, framing a face with tight features. There was something vulture-like about this man: in his hooked nose pointing toward the ground, in his hunched posture on his saddle, and in those greedy eyes that gave the impression he was constantly waiting for his prey to breathe its last.

Clothed in heavy, dark fabrics, he wore a smile of unbearable arrogance. The heart of Morgraves might have been nothing more than a field of ruins ever since the dragons had reduced it to ashes to reach Caelendor, but Phineas didn’t care—he hadn’t been born back then.

With the kingdom’s access to black magic, the prince had come to see himself as a god. It particularly showed in the way he held his long, bare neck upright, looking down on the world with the supreme contempt of a scavenger seated on a throne of corpses.

“Cassian. “