Page 42 of The Last Dragon

“Tariel, this is my wife, Seris. You’ll be safe here. “

The elf turned his head to see the woman being introduced to him. She stepped forward with a confident stride, her face painted with symbolic markings, her lips black, a fierce gleam in her eyes. Long, deep-black hair cascaded down to her lower back.

“Nice to—”

“Cassian? What’s he doing here?! Rhazek, don’t tell me that—”

“He’s not dead. Just exhausted and drained of his strength.”

Tariel didn’t have time to get a word in.

Seris’s reaction—vivid and decisive—had been quicker. He couldn’t blame her: he shared her concern, even if he didn’t show it. His face, marked by fatigue and anxiety, was enough to betray what he was keeping to himself.

However, the elf was well-mannered, and this… clan seemed to welcome him despite his race. The least he could do was introduce himself politely… “Etiquette, Tariel!” growled a voice in his mind, his father’s words echoing back like an unpleasant reverberation.

“Despite the circumstances, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Seris. I sincerely thank you for welcoming us so generously. I am indebted to you.”

He bowed slightly, one hand pressed against his heart. He knew how to be impeccable when he wanted to be. After all, he represented his people; he had to be diplomatic… as long as no one tried to imprison or kill him, at least.

He remained wary of the Olyar’s kindness, but he said nothing. If he could wash up and eat, he would set his doubts aside—for a while.

Seris’s hand rested on her own chest, as if to acknowledge a personal sense of relief, and her voice softened to a tone Tariel wasn’t used to.

“Pleased to meet you, Tariel. You’re in much better shape than that idiot…”

With those words, their gazes turned to the mercenary.

Rhazek carefully laid Cassian’s terrifyingly limp body on thick furs and animal hides spread out on the floor, in a vast tent. The wind’s gusts made the canvas flutter, carrying with them the scent of ash and pine.

Around them, several young men and women immediately set to work, silently, focused on their task. Their movements were swift yet measured, marked by a mastery born of habit—the habit of tending to bodies ravaged by weapons and the passage of time. A woman with salt-and-pepper hair began gently pulling at the leather straps of Cassian’s armor, while a younger woman stepped forward, her face furrowed with concern.

Tariel, standing just behind Rhazek, had also approached, but he remained at a slight distance at first, his hands clenched around the edges of his soaked cloak, his gaze fixed on the mercenary. Water still beaded on his temples. Every part of him was tense, as if ready to pounce, to intervene, but he restrained himself.

As the women undressed the mercenary before his eyes, the sifrelin—the one he’d sent earlier to watch over him—darted toward him with a rustle of wings and slipped into his hair, behind his ear.

A quiet sense of relief washed over the elf.

He was unharmed.

Despite his relief, Tariel kept quiet. This was no time for discussion or exchanging information—he would send his thoughts to him later, when things had calmed down. For now, his entire being was focused on Cassian.

Cassian, who lay unconscious, wounded, motionless…

The air was charged with a strange, subtly electric energy. Tariel could feel it on his skin, like a caress that turned into a tingling sensation. And soon, he saw it: that red light emanating faintly from the mercenary’s body, pulsing slowly like a second heart beating beneath the flesh.

“Father!”

The voice snapped him out of his concentration and he turned his head. The young woman had recoiled in shock, her hands flushed red, her fingers splayed as if to ward off an invisible burn. She was staring at Cassian’s chest with eyes wide with astonishment, while the scarred skin seemed to crackle with tiny sparks where it had been touched.

Rhazek, for his part, spun around sharply, alerted by the panic in his daughter’s voice.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice tense, his eyebrows furrowed.

The young woman shook her head, visibly unsettled.

“I… I don’t understand.” She held out her palms, marked by a vivid redness. “His heart… it’s burning from the inside. There’s a kind of heat, a barrier—we can’t touch him.”

Rhazek stepped closer, skeptical. He reached out a calloused hand toward the mercenary’s chest without hesitation, but pulled it back immediately, cursing under his breath. His skin, though hardened by years of war, had turned red as well. He shook his hand, as if to shake off the sting.