Page 54 of The Last Dragon

“He has none, as far as I know,” Cassian interjected, gently letting go of the elf’s hand. “But who knows what he has in store for us.”

The mercenary settled heavily into the grass, resting his cheek in his palm to watch the spectacle to come.

He pretended to be perfectly in control of himself, but deep down, the shock of his own revelation continued to unsettle him. It was a dizzying thought, a flaw in his plan: he wouldn’t be able to kill the elf.

On the one hand, the dragon’s pragmatic and cold side screamed at him that it would be a complete and utter waste. Throwing away such a unique, devastating, and pure power was a tactical aberration.

Moreover, he wasn’t fooled: their powers were so perfectly balanced that attempting to tear out Tariel’s heart would likely mean signing his own death warrant. To kill him, he would undoubtedly have to die as well, perishing in an explosion of mana and royal blood.

But on the other hand… there was that affection, that treacherous root that dug deeper into his chest with every step of the journey. It was Tariel tending to his wounds with quiet devotion, the elf holding back his tears in the darkness of the night, or that brave, playful facade he put on in front of the Olyar clan. His smile, his insolence, that blend of sass and dignity that defined him so well… All of it made the sacrifice impossible.

He needed this distraction, needed to see reality shatter against steel once more. He knew Lyara would not be gentle—the nomadic warrior knew no restraint—and he was burning to see how the precious High Mage, so accustomed to the luxury of his illusions and the comfort of his library, would fare once deprived of his tricks for self-protection.

15 - Shadows and Blades

Tariel

The training hadn’t gone well. Cassian would roll his eyes and, sometimes, snap his fingers to stop him from casting a spell or to counter his own with a wave of his hand. Combat… well, combat was a vague concept to the elf. Of course he knew how to fight, but with the safety of magic, not with the weight of steel.

Tariel grimaced. He had no desire to be there. Physical combat was undoubtedly the worst thing that could happen to him. Okay, maybe he was being a bit dramatic, but that didn’t change his aversion to that annoying and exhausting discipline.

He’d resolved to choose a light sword from the arsenal: he refused to carry anything heavy, just as he refused to engage in overly intimate hand-to-hand combat.

True to form, his lesson—which lasted far too long for his liking—unfolded with a great deal of drama. The elf didn’t put much effort into learning something he couldn’t care less about. If he ever found himself deprived of magic… he’d simply bat his eyelashes at Cassian and leave his fate in the hands of destiny.

Sometimes, out of annoyance, he cheated. He’d send out small bursts of magic to push his attacker away or to vanish completely from his line of sight. But who could blame him? He was an elf! It was in his nature to bend the vague rules established at the start of the lesson.

“Tariel, stop shirking your responsibilities! Lyara isn’t here to make a fool of you, but to train you!”

Cassian’s tone was harsh. Deep down, Tariel knew this exercise was for his own good—for their own good—but he couldn’t help but protest. His body ached after such a long journey and so little rest. Every movement was a groan from his muscles, so why not use a little magic to make life easier?

After all, he deserved it. He deserved a long, hot bath, a whole crate of juicy fruit… He deserved all the comforts in the world when he got home—

No. He could not afford to let his mind wander down that path. He refused to think about Caelendor again, or his family, or what he’d had to leave behind for a glory that would never come.

Projecting the illusion of his library had left him more vulnerable than he’d anticipated. He felt exposed, his nerves on edge. A dull ache in the pit of his chest called him to return home, to find his little corner of tranquility in the city of Mistvale.

Eventually, overwhelmed by his own thoughts, his capricious self—a trait he no longer tried to hide—started to let his opponent win. He hoped to end the lesson sooner or even get injured so he’d have a valid excuse not to fight again anytime soon. But Lyara was incredibly skilled and knew exactly where to strike without causing any real harm, much to Tariel’s annoyance.

Then, something changed.

The elf straightened up suddenly, dropping his sword to look around.

Something’s wrong.

He fixed his gaze on the distance as an icy chill ran up his arms. Among the clan members present, one figure set off an alarm in his instincts. Tall and slender, a woman exuded a peculiar aura.

No… it was the magic surrounding her that felt familiar. Too familiar.

As if she had caught his gaze, the middle-aged woman blended into the crowd. Without thinking, Tariel sprinted after her, ignoring the calls of those around him. They moved away from the camp at a surprising speed. When she began to run across the open plain, Tariel called upon nature. In an instant, gnarled roots burst from the green soil to entangle the fugitive’s ankles, causing her to stumble before immobilizing her completely.

Tariel could sense it now: the glamour.

He could see the illusion’s essence and with almost cruel ease, he dispelled it. The Olyar’s tanned complexion gave way to midnight-blue, almost black skin. Her hair turned as white as Tariel’s, and her ears elongated. It was a Dark Elf who found herself caught in his bonds.

“You…” Stunned, he whispered the word as he looked at one of his own kind. The Dark Elves were almost a separate species, but they were still elves, nonetheless.

“You are the Shadow that has been following me. What do you want, and who sent you? Answer me!”