Page 11 of The Last Dragon

The prince spat out the name in a voice that fully betrayed his nature: it was an unpleasant sound, a nasal hiss that assaulted the ear.

The man snorted loudly, tilting his head to one side, a petty smirk stretching across his thin lips, before adding, “We haven’t called upon your services. Unless you’re here to finally pledge your allegiance to us?”

Cassian had to stop himself from rolling his eyes—here, he was neither a prince nor a king, but merely a mercenary wielding a mysterious magic that many coveted. For several years now, the group of mercenaries had occasionally worked for the Morgraves court on various assignments: importing and exporting goods, intelligence work… Being in the court’s pocket was unpleasant, but it often kept him out of trouble.

Clearly, his luck had run out. He wanted to curse, to fight, to do… something. Instead, he bowed slightly, feigning respect, before replying, “None of that, Prince Phineas. We’re simply on our way to Veylaris to do some business.”

At those words, Phineas fixed his gaze on the person Cassian would have preferred to hide. He could feel the tension radiating from the elf’s body under the prince’s venomous stare.

“Business, you say.” The prince pursed his lips, looking skeptical. “And who are you, elf?”

A faint, trembling sigh escaped the lips of the pale-skinned man, who was clearly nervous, before he straightened up, back straight and chin held high. Eventually, the younger man replied, feigning confidence, “I am Tariel Elenion, son of Councilor Elrohir Elenion and mage of the city of Caelendor, sent to slay a dragon in the Southern Lands.”

As he spoke those last words, the elf cast a confident, determined, and almost fiery glance at the man with azure eyes standing beside him. Cassian, for his part, couldn’t help but pinch the bridge of his nose. What an idiot, he thought. It was obvious that the elf had no idea what a mess he’d just gotten himself into.

Phineas, though, now had a wild look in his eyes.

“Nonsense! That dragon has been dead for a long time—they’ve all been wiped out, and our lands have paid the price because of you!” The prince paused as his horse grew restless, drawing his sword and pointing it at the elf. “Elves are still as arrogant as ever, thinking they’re safe from the Dragon? Tariel Elenion, son of Elrohir Elenion, where is the army promised by your kingdom and your damned Council? Where is it?!”

“There we go, the princess riled him up…” whispered Erkan, making Cassian grit his teeth.

Damn it… what a bunch of idiots.

4 - Morgraves

Cassian

Phineas was seething. His irregular features seemed to deepen under a mask of rage, his wild eyes fixed on Tariel as he tried to maintain a dignified posture.

“Hand over the elf, Cassian!” the prince ordered in a shriek. “Hand him over to me so he can pay for the crimes of his race, for all the Morgraves who burned because of him! I will personally carry his head to Caelendor as a warning to their damned Council!”

The tension became palpable. Around them, the Morgraves’ guards closed ranks, while a hiss of dark, suffocating magic began to slither out of Phineas’s gloved fingers.

Cassian took a heavy step forward. His towering frame blocked the younger man, almost erasing the elf from the prince’s field of vision. His face was set in stone, but his azure eyes had hardened.

“No.”

A murmur of disbelief passed through the mercenaries. Phineas, outraged, gripped his mount’s reins as his face contorted into a grimace of pure hatred.

Sensing disaster approaching, Cyrus quietly approached Cassian. He placed a firm hand on his shoulder and whispered-yelled, “What the hell are you doing, boss? Just hand over to the elf. He’s just another arrogant honey-licker—not worth risking our necks against a prince’s army! Let him die—who cares?!”

Oh, if only you knew, Cyrus… he thought, his jaw clenched.

Tariel was no ordinary prisoner. He was the sign, the signal Cassian had been secretly awaiting for two long centuries of mourning and exile. This naive elf was the bearer of one of the last Elven Crystals still active in this world. Deep within his own chest, Cassian constantly felt the Philosopher’s Stone stirring, vibrating with wild energy, seeking to resonate with the other magical artifact.

There was no way he was going to hand him to that cursed family. Cassian would do everything in his power to bring Tariel safely to Drakensyl. There, amid the ruins of his past, he would harness the combined power of the Crystal and the Philosopher’s Stone, he would trigger the Primordial Convergence.

Phineas moved his horse forward a step, pointing his sword directly at Cassian.

“You dare say no to me, mercenary?” the prince spat, his neck straining. “You’re refusing royal orders for a mere piece of elven flesh?”

Cassian held the man’s gaze, a smirk playing on his lips—icy and provocative—as he stretched his lips. “I’m not refusing anything, my Prince. I’m merely protecting my livelihood, and I’m afraid you can’t afford that particular piece.”

Discreetly, Cassian slid a hand toward the dagger at his belt. In a movement invisible to the others, he pressed the blade against his own palm.

The pain was only brief.

With the tip of his bloodied index finger, he quickly traced three alchemical symbols in the palm of his hand, binding the essence of the elf’s magic—accumulated through his bonds—to a transmutation formula. Clenching his fist, he mentally projected this raw energy toward the elf bound behind him, who inhaled sharply, as if taken by surprise.