10 - On The Run
Cassian
How could one not feel sorry?
How could he not be, when he was witnessing how one could go from a peaceful, almost unreal life to exile, pain, and death? Cassian knew that was the price; he had always known it. What worried him was neither the blood nor the ashes.
It was the elf’s silence.
Tariel seemed frozen, his eyes fixed on the blazing horizon. He was in shock, obviously. Magic of such power—especially for such a young elf—always left scars. Seeing a dragon born of fire was enough to shatter even the deepest certainties.
The elf didn’t speak. Not even an insult. Not even a reproach or a taunt.
That was more troubling than any anger could have been.
Cassian let out a sigh. He helped him sit up, wiping away the traces of ash and tears clinging to his pale cheek with the back of his sleeve.
“Cassian… why did I just see a dragon implode?”
His voice was broken, hoarse.
“You summon phoenixes; I turn them into dragons,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “That was the only way to strike Morgraves where it hurts. It was just an illusion, a mass of flames. I suppose this is the first time you’ve seen a dragon, even a fake one.”
Tariel didn’t answer, and Cassian staggered before crouching down. He could feel his strength leaving him, and he didn’t have time to reassure a traumatized elf.
“We have to make it to the border. We’ll be safe there.”
He tried to stand up. A sharp, burning pain pierced his heart, a cruel reminder of his own limitations. He turned to Tariel.
Deep down, he knew that pain came partly from the elf. Because of him, his heart was beating out of rhythm… Hearts bound together, destinies shared… And yet, what he felt was not hatred—not anymore.
It was… older, hard to name.
“Do you feel up to riding your horse?” he asked, unsure if he himself was capable of it, before adding, “Let’s hurry. We can’t stay here.”
But Tariel didn’t move. He was trembling, trapped by his own mind, his fears, his guilt, his tears tracing pale trails down his dusty cheeks…
Cassian stepped closer. He placed one hand on his shoulder and the other on his heart, allowing himself to feel his raw, suffocating pain.
“It’s all right, Tariel. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
With a sad smile, he stepped back and then held out the stirrup to him.
“Get on.”
The elf said nothing—no objection, no sarcasm. For once, he obeyed in silence. But once in the saddle, he reached out his hand toward Cassian, a simple and unexpected gesture.
“You’re in no condition to walk. Tell me where to go…”
Cassian hesitated, then took his hand. For once, he agreed to let him lead the way.
He couldn’t lie about how he felt, and he even felt sorry for having already drawn so much strength from him, especially since the elf had gone to such great lengths to get him back on his feet.
So Cassian climbed up behind him, pointing a dirty finger at the bird still circling in the sky, bringing with it the clouds and the breeze. It would rain very soon.
“He’ll guide your horse. Don’t look back, Tariel—only forward. Can you do that for me?”
The mercenary’s arms wrapped around the elf’s body, clinging to him more tightly as the mare broke into a gallop.
Cassian’s warm, labored breath brushed against Tariel’s neck when he looked up and spotted a shadow in the distance: the griffin from the crypt, spreading its wings to flee the Morgrave lands.
Good for him, he thought, exhausted.
As they rode on, the barren lands gradually gave way to lush greenery and the forest grew denser around them. Cassian tightened his grip, feeling the terrain become rougher, more alive.
“Phineas Morgraves has always been this way…” he explained after a long silence, not seeking to reassure, but merely to explain. “He puts his own interests before those of his kingdom. He’ll never be a good king.”
The elf’s silence was beginning to worry him—a new feeling for the mercenary. He, who had long lived among ruthless crowds, found himself growing attached to someone who was his complete opposite.
Nothing was going as intended. None of his plans were working, and for the first time in a long while, Cassian was having doubts.
Through Tariel’s eyes, he saw the reflection of a great despair—one he himself had known far too early in life: abandonment, the loss of everything.
Family, a sense of belonging, a kingdom…
It resonated within him with painful intensity, and he couldn’t bring himself to fight against his true nature.
Although he was considered a monster because of his appearance and his ability to shift forms, he had always been the gentlest of his kind. The wisest, despite his mischievous spirit. The most thoughtful.
The elf stood no chance against a dragon, but without knowing it, his destiny was bound to that of Cassian’s.
Two beings capable of changing the course of events, for better or for worse.
The mercenary was closer to his goal than ever, having drawn the full attention of the one he was desperately seeking to meet, the bearer of the artefact.
Perhaps Tariel would bring back peace, without even knowing how. Through death or… through life?
A sigh escaped him as he rested his chin on the elf’s shoulder, while the horse slowed to cross a stream, and the first raindrops splattered on the mossy ground.
Tariel
Part of the journey was spent in silence, allowing Tariel to lose himself in his thoughts.
While the unease between the two men had still been palpable just a few minutes earlier, the atmosphere gradually lightened, carried by the gentle clatter of his mount’s hooves and the fine drops of rain falling from the clouds.
Soon, greenery surrounded the elf once more, and he relaxed against the warm body behind him.
At that moment, Cassian’s presence, though foreign, no longer felt threatening.
On the contrary, it had a grounding quality, as if the return to nature and the simple human contact were helping him keep from sinking deeper into despair.
This time, when the mercenary spoke again, he had the elf’s full attention.
“How is your king, Tariel?”
The question, seemingly random and asked in an almost casual tone, sparked a multitude of thoughts in the elf’s mind.
He remained silent for a moment, not to evade the question, but because he had never really taken the time to think about it.
His gaze wandered to the foliage swaying gently in the breeze.
“Our king, Eldarion Thalindor… I’ve never seen him myself. In fact, he rarely appears before the people and communicates only through the Council. The kingdom of Caelendor has been governed this way for millennia, with each member representing one of the eight most influential Factions.”
He found himself speaking with ease, as if explaining the foundations of his kingdom were reconnecting him to something real, something familiar.
Then he sensed a slight change in the mercenary’s breathing against him, and when Cassian replied, his voice grew more measured, almost weary.
“How can one claim to be a king if he is not present among his people? He is the face of a nation. This council seems above all to create even more distance between the monarchy and those it governs. That’s a real shame. ”
Tariel frowned. He had never considered things from that angle. The king was distant, yes. The Council, inaccessible. But this system suited the elves… didn’t it? They valued order, structure, and clear hierarchies. Wasn’t that a strength?
Yet, as the mercenary spoke, a doubt crept in, muffled and insidious. Was this truly what he believed, or simply what he had been taught to believe?
Cassian seemed to sense his unease, for his voice echoed behind him once more, soft and gravelly. “You mentioned a council… and Factions?”
Tariel let out a soft sigh—whether it was one of relief or to prepare himself for a long explanation, even he couldn’t say.
“First, there are the High Mages of Eldara, experts in ancient magic and guardians of arcane knowledge. They advise the king on all matters pertaining to the supernatural. We owe them, among other things, our golems, fashioned in the mountains of Mistvale… That’s where I come from.
Next, the Guards of the Star, our army. And the Druids of Sylvandor, guardians of the sacred forests: the wood elves, some would say. ”
His back stiffened slightly at the thought of his father, but he continued without letting his unease show:
“My father, as an advisor on foreign affairs, is one of the Emissaries of Lirien. Diplomats, negotiators, experts in inter-kingdom relations… They’re supposed to maintain peace and alliances.”
He paused, pushing down a wave of bitterness.
“I must say they’re doing a remarkable job. Ugh… whatever.”
A quiet sigh escaped his lips. What peace, what alliances? Everyone seems to hate the elves.
“The fifth faction is the Artisans of Eldralis, master craftsmen and creators of architectural and artistic marvels. As for most of our teachers, they belong to the Wise of Aurathil, who draw upon the lessons of the past and the millennia-old wisdom of our people.”
He hesitated, a faint shiver running down his spine.
“As for the seventh faction… we don’t really talk about it. Ugh, who cares? I doubt I’ll ever see the comfort of my library again, so…”
Silence stretched out, which he let linger, lulled by the sounds of nature and the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Talking about home made him feel better. It soothed him. He almost forgot the vise-like grip of fear tightening around his throat.
“The Shadows of Nythral—spies and secret agents tasked with gathering intelligence and protecting against invisible threats—make up the seventh faction. Finally, there are the Priests of Lathiria, representatives of the elven deities. They oversee sacred rituals… though many prefer to worship the stars. Civilized lands are often divided between the intellectual and the spiritual, but deep down, I think the two are intimately connected.”