3 - Troubles
Tariel
One blow, then another, rang out against something metallic, jolting the elf out of his stupor so violently that his heart skipped a beat. It took him a moment to realize what had happened the day before: he’d been tricked, plain and simple.
When he’d opened his eyes a few hours earlier, a terrible headache had gripped his temples.
Lying on his back, he had immediately realized that he was tied down to his own makeshift mattress—the very one he had set up with such care the night before.
Worse still, the silence of the forest had been replaced by the heavy snoring and the smell of sweat from a veritable band of mercenaries.
And while, despite his migraine, the white-haired man felt perfectly rested, he also sensed that something was wrong with his magic.
Even an idiot would have understood that this “something” lay in his bonds, holding his hands clasped as if he were praying constantly…
and deep down, that was exactly what he was doing.
What a monster, Tariel had cursed inwardly. Depriving a mage of his magic was simply monstrous. To find himself so helpless, unable to cast even the slightest spell… He felt exposed, vulnerable, powerless.
Fortunately, he could still sense Brynjar’s reassuring presence. The golem was fine, banished back into the small dimensional pocket that Tariel had created long ago to house his familiars when they weren’t summoned.
But the relief was short-lived. As he turned his head, the first thing he saw was him. The man from the inn. Cassian. Leaning against the trunk of a dead pine tree, the handsome dark-haired man watched him in silence, his unfathomable gaze sending a chill down the elf’s spine.
Once the big, brutish men had woken up, the revelry had begun. They had roughly yanked Tariel upright by his bonds, completely ignoring his colorful language as he vented his frustrations.
Forced to walk, the small group had quickly left the cover of the forest to reach the main road—the very one Tariel had desperately tried to avoid in order to escape prying eyes.
Along the way, fate had played a trick on them in the form of a cattle dealer coming from the opposite direction.
Finding the coincidence hilarious, the mercenaries had negotiated the purchase of one of his wood-and-iron cages.
Under the merchant’s stunned gaze, they had freed the animal inside—a huge sheep that had bolted, bleating—before tossing the elf into it without the slightest hesitation.
He was now in a cage, accompanied by a noisy procession punctuated by conversations he’d rather forget. How many brothels had these men visited?!
“Well, princess, are we finally waking up?” a mocking voice called out.
Tariel followed no deity and trusted only the Stars, eternally present and unchanging, but that didn’t stop him from praying, addressing the Universe. In his silent prayers, eyes closed and body motionless on the cold floor of his cage, the elf asked for no favors.
As he had always done, he asked himself: Why him?
What had he done to end up in this situation?
No matter how many times he mulled over these questions, he could find no answer other than “nothing.” He hadn’t done anything.
Another knock on the cage rang out, followed by the familiar voice of the boor from the inn. Cassian.
“Stop toying with him, Cyrus.” But then, the very same handsome brute turned his head toward the elf with a smirk, a look of superiority in his eyes, and added, “What did you say again? Don’t you ever dare cross my path again…
mmmh… for I swear by the stars that I’ll reduce you, this inn, and every childish little soul within its putrid confines to ashes… Yes, that’s exactly it.”
The horseman’s words, however, drew a bitter laugh from him.
Just as he felt his body crackling with the magic he was about to unleash, determined to free himself, the distant voice of Brynjar—a familiar to whom he was, of course, bound—resounded in his mind like an echo: “Above all, do not use your magic, my Master. It is restricted by your bonds. The mercenaries are taking you to the black market; I heard them mention it earlier. Be patient: they are bringing you closer to your destination.”
His destination? The elf had no idea where he was, but he trusted his familiar more than anyone else—except himself.
Then Brynjar’s voice rang out again: “Rest, Master. I will remain on the lookout for even the slightest bit of information.”
A faint smile tugged at his full lips as he revealed his grayish eyes to the man on horseback by lifting his eyelids, not even bothering to sit up.
He was relieved to know that Brynjar was still making good use of the summoning bond established between them long ago. He thought he was alone, but he wasn’t.
However, the magic that orchestrated his life was out of the picture, which proved problematic and worried him greatly… But he said nothing about it. Instead, he fixed his gaze on his assailant’s azure eyes and said in a mellifluous voice, “I’ll keep my word.”
One of the men whistled upon hearing the threat emerge from the prisoner’s mouth, and laughter rang out across the cracked road, now bathed in sunlight from the sun high in the sky.
“Can you believe it? The little brat’s threatening Cassian! What a joke—that pointy-eared buffoon sure has a sense of humor.”
He closed his eyes again, his smile fading.
Despite the faint warmth of hope blossoming in his heart thanks to Brynjar, he felt no less powerless, ridiculous, humiliated…
Cassian, Tariel etched that name into his mind with blood-red ink.
He would have that man’s skin. He would make him suffer for everything he had—and everything he was about to—inflict upon him.
That boor, that lout! He would pay, and dearly.
Normally, the elf wasn’t the most enthusiastic about the idea of hurting or even killing another being, but his recent adventures—or rather, misadventures—were calling into question his moral compass, which was already flawed.
At that moment, he wanted to kill every man and woman who was helping this Cassian sell the elf on the black market.
Tariel may have gotten ahead of himself.
These past few days traveling as a prisoner of the small group of mercenaries had proven… instructive. The elf had first learned that lycanthropes were indeed still around—he would never get over the sounds he’d heard when the wolves had shifted to go hunting for the first time.
He could say with certainty that the sheep they’d set free a few days earlier was indeed dead and digested…
Yuck.
He’d also learned that the caravan was indeed heading toward Veylaris… to sell Tariel. Of course, that’s what they’re planning to do, he’d thought with disdain, as the boors laughed and ate around the fire.
What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was that despite the humiliating and disrespectful treatment Tariel was receiving, he was eating and drinking regularly with the mercenaries.
Cassian would approach him at every meal and offer him his water skin, along with a few berries and small pieces of meat.
One of the mercenaries—Cyrus—had made a comment about Cassian wanting to add some curves to him…
the elf didn’t know what the redhead was talking about, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know either.
Over the past few days, Brynjar had been… silent. Tariel could still sense his presence, but the golem didn’t respond to him. He felt terribly lonely in his little cage.
Sometimes, Cassian would let him out to relieve himself or stretch his legs, but his “hospitality” ended there. When they spoke to him, it was often to insult him or make fun of him. Their insults were particularly creative, Tariel had to admit, but their words were no less hurtful. Insulting.
They’d told him he was too small, too skinny, too “elvish.” They’d criticized him for eating a thousand and one ingredients, but not a single elvish dish was ever mentioned—it was on these things, these little hints of superiority, that the elf managed to hold his ground.
To ignore them. Because deep down, he could reassure himself by telling himself that he was far smarter than they were.
That he would find an opening, a moment of distraction, and that he would escape.
Cassian
Cassian was laughing, smiling, and chatting. They were only two days’ walk from the next village, and they’d be able to sleep in beds for a night or two.
They had captured the elf and were making their way, slowly but surely, toward his forgotten kingdom. Everything was going perfectly. Everything was heading in the right direction.
So why couldn’t Cassian bring himself to rejoice?
Paranoia—that was why.
The whole operation seemed to go a little bit too well. The prince had spent two centuries searching for a solution, wondering how to get his revenge on the elves, only for the solution to present itself in a grimy inn in Morgraves?
And then there was the golem.
At first glance, the little stone man held no resemblance to the monstrosities that had once destroyed his lands. Nevertheless, Cassian couldn’t help but be suspicious. This creature—Brynjar, as the elf had called him at the inn—had an… unsettling energy to him.
And as if that weren’t enough, it was almost certain that this same golem had helped capture his master; the way it had watched him—with that hard, intrusive gaze—while seemingly keeping the elf asleep… none of it bode well.
During the hunt for the elf and his companion, Cassian had seen the stone creature appear and disappear multiple times, too, something he had never witnessed before. Not with golems anyway.
His gaze drifted toward the white-haired man, currently hugging his legs in his cage.