Page 27 of The Last Dragon

“Brynjar, do you still have my change of clothes?”

“Of course, Master. They’re with Elara.”

Elara was a fairy who no longer glowed. Tariel had found her in a traveling merchant’s lantern who intended to sell her to some orcs, who happened to be addicted to fairy dust… So the elf had bought her and offered her refuge in his sanctuary. In exchange, Elara—who had a sharp tongue—took care of the elf’s wardrobe; she was an unparalleled seamstress, thanks to her tiny fingers.

“Could you bring me some clean clothes? See if you can find something to cover—”

“I’ll take care of it right away, my Master.”

Brynjar was alarmingly efficient, which allowed Tariel to step toward the pond—or was it a lake?—in front of which the mercenary was kneeling to undress. He knew few modest elves, and he himself was not one of them.

The body was merely a gift of nature, a vessel for the soul and magic, and that was why he, too, stripped naked and slid into the pleasantly lukewarm water.

With his eyes closed, letting the gentle sun soak into his skin, he savored the quiet morning stillness… when a slight ripple nearby made him lift his head.

A bar of beeswax soap was placed in his hand, probably handed to Cassian by Brynjar.

“I could have killed you, you know. You should be more careful,” said Cassian, his voice strangely softer than usual.

Surprised by the mercenary’s words, the elf shot him a sidelong glance that drifted lower than he’d intended, and he quickly looked away, his cheeks flushed. Was Cassian feeling guilty? That would be a first, after everything he’d put him through these past few weeks. Still…the thought was pleasant.

Tariel, without turning around, simply wet his hair before replying, “You could have. But you didn’t. You were afraid—that one was obvious. If you hadn’t come to your senses… I would have simply used my magic.”

With his back to the mercenary, he hid his true anxiety—he wasn’t all that confident about his chances of winning a fight against Cassian. Instead, he gently lathered his hair, submerged up to his waist, silently praying that Cassian wouldn’t notice the sweet, honey-like scent wafting from it. He remembered perfectly well the first insult directed at him and refused to admit Cassian was right.

“Next time, use it before I hurt you.”

Tariel rolled his eyes at that, but didn’t reply, contenting himself with a sigh. Deep down, he knew Cassian was right… but the annoying, self-centered mercenary didn’t need to know that.

The two of them then fell into a silence that could be described as comfortable, lulled by the sounds of the water, the trees swaying gently in the wind, and the birds. The moment was so peaceful that one could almost forget the hordes of Morgraves who were probably still hot on their heels.

In a distant corner of his mind, Tariel was secretly intimidated by the mercenary’s proximity. As they stood naked, he couldn’t help but notice the difference in their builds. While he was all curves, slender, almost fragile, Cassian seemed carved from stone. Tall, broad-shouldered, with tanned skin and a chest crisscrossed with scars…

His body told a story—that of a man who had survived.

The elf, on the other hand, looked more like a painting forgotten in a library. He had never practiced combat or sports, and his musculature only hinted at his natural flexibility.

He found himself studying the other man, lingering for a beat too long. When he finally raised his eyes, blue met green in a flash of shared surprise.

Was Cassian…?

No, of course not. Tariel was an elf, and Cassian had made his contempt for his kind abundantly clear.

The mercenary was the first to recover; he cleared his throat and muttered, “Why would one actively choose to keep their hair this long… It can’t be very practical.”

A silence stretched out. Tariel blinked in surprise, then furrowed his brow. He then stood up in the water, proudly displaying his hair—which, completely loose, fell to the small of his back—as he continued, “Our hair is our pride, our history. We live with it and take care of it. You should start doing the same.”

The man remained silent, lost in thought, running his fingers through the elf’s white locks.

Tariel shuddered. Ugh, this man… When he wasn’t busy talking like a boor, he was almost… charming.

It was definitely annoying.

“My hair is already long enough as it is,” Cassian murmured eventually. “It suits you better than it does me. And why would I do that? I’m no noble; I don’t need to please anyone.”

The elf looked up at him, his gaze almost defenseless. What he’d said had touched him—but not in the way a compliment does. More like a gentle, unexpected slap.

So Tariel gently took his hand, pulling it away from his hair—where it was still tangled, leaving behind goosebumps—and placed it on his own heart.