Page 2 of The Last Dragon

“Judging by the look on your face, I’d have said you were conversing with the dead.”

A sigh escaped him. He absentmindedly tucked a dark strand of hair behind his ear before glancing over at the rest of the group seated further away, already noisy despite the early hour.

“Alright, what’s going on?” he finally asked.

Cyrus shrugged. “The group would like to spend the night in the valley. Some of them are starting to seriously miss the taverns… and charming company.”

A brief laugh escaped Cassian, a name he had chosen to erase all traces of from his lineage. He rolled his eyes before pulling back his hood, revealing a medium-length brown mane with reddish highlights.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re hungrier for meat or for women,” Cassian commented with a half-smile.

“They’re both equally appealing!”

In a familiar gesture, he patted his companion on the shoulder to express his agreement. Although he wasn’t officially their leader, Cassian had established himself as a guide for this group of mercenaries: bounty hunters, reclusive wolf shifters, a few deserters… A band of rough-and-tumble brutes from Morgraves, Malveth, or Veylaris, among whom the next king of Drakensyl had found the perfect cover.

In this line of work, you never spoke of yourself, but you made sure others spoke of you. Cassian was seen as a man who was too cunning, unpredictable, perhaps a little mad, but possessed extraordinary tactical wisdom. To his comrades, he was the ideal companion: a formidably intelligent man who could slit throats quietly and hold his own in a drinking contest.

However, beneath this facade of a likable mercenary, Cassian harbored a much grander plan. He was watching for a weakness in the enemy’s strategy, anticipating the return of his own people… To fulfill his destiny, he first had to complete The Anchoring Resonance: that of the Heart of Elhë, guarded by the elves. It was said that no elf had seen the Crystal Heart for centuries, that it had vanished, just like the dragons. But Cassian was convinced it was out there somewhere. The elves would never risk losing such great power by getting rid of it.

As the night went on, all eyes were once again on Cassian, sitting casually on the bar, captivating the crowd. He told stories of lost kingdoms and epic battles with a storytelling gift that fascinated the women and made the men roar: “Tell us about that time you…!”, “Tell them how we survived…!”

But just as laughter erupted and mugs clinked together, the tavern door flew open. A sudden hush fell over the room. A frail figure appeared in the doorway: silvery-streaked hair and a haughty air that stood in stark contrast to the place's vulgarity.

Cassian froze, his blue gaze trained on the intruder.

1 - The Inn

Tariel

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since Tariel and his pathetic troupe consisting of a horse and a golem had left the comforts of Caelendor, and to say that Tariel had seen enough would be an understatement.

They had been traveling through the outlands for less than twenty-four hours when some neurotic fool tried to rob them by posing as a peasant in distress: a half-elf—because it’s always the half-elves who brought trouble upon themselves—was calling for help by the side of the dirt road, claiming that his horse had run away and that he needed to get home. Of course, Tariel couldn’t care less about some wretched peasant by the roadside. But Brynjar didn’t see it that way.

“Have mercy, O Master, on a soul in distress! What could a powerful mage such as yourself not do for such a wretch?” he pleaded with the high elf.

The schemer knew flattery was a powerful weapon against his master, and though Tariel had relented, the half-elf wasted no time making another attempt to unseat him.Once the surprise had passed, a simple wave of his hand was enough for the elf to neutralize the attacker, leaving the latter to flee on his scrawny little chicken legs and take advantage of his new form.

Or so he guessed.

“The spell will wear off… eventually…” Tariel had muttered to his familiar, though his own words did not entirely convince him himself.

This unwelcome altercation was only the beginning of a series of misadventures that would test Tariel’s patience: at night, for example, while they were resting, creatures he had never seen before in his life prowled around their camp, letting out shrill cries in the darkness.

While he was almost certain that these “things” were a pack of gnolls, Tariel was absolutely convinced that he had narrowly avoided a forest fire that would not have pleased the Woodland Folk who lived there. His heart pounding, he didn’t think twice before unleashing a fireball the size of a house onto the hyena hybrids, obliterating them in a single blow.

The smell was abominable, and their screams monstrous… That was all it took for Tariel to begin casting a protective spell every night when the group stopped to rest.

Less than a week after crossing the border into the kingdom of Morgraves, their journey—so short, yet which felt like an eternity to the elf—had already been punctuated by ambushes from orcs and goblins, as well as an unexpected encounter with a young lycan in search of prey. It would be an understatement to say that elves were not welcome everywhere… Needless to say, Tariel found this whole situation absurd: a high elf of his caliber—a powerful mage, no less—certainly deserved a larger escort, a warm welcome, and banquets!

“‘Head south,’ they say… ‘Slay the dragon,’ they say… When on earth did I ever mention any need for adventure? Aah, Brynjar… I’d kill to taste Mother’s galadeiëlith…”

“But Master, you have some in your provisions pouch!”

“Oh, really…?”

Dramatic? That certainly wasn’t Tariel. Well… Brynjar didn’t seem to see things that way, and the expressive tics of his little grayish body gave him away more than once, though most people would found his familiar to be rather… stoic. Stone-cold, some would say—ha.