11 - The Olyar Clan #3
Rhazek looked at the elf for a while, seemingly thoughtful, before breaking a heavy silence with a sigh.
“Cassian saved Seris during an attack led by the Malveth many years ago. This kingdom knows only hatred and desolation—their male prisoners are drained of their blood and organs while they’re still breathing, and their female prisoners…
are raped until they die from the beatings.
We are a nomadic frontier people, without magic, save for that of nature.
We have only our strength and our gift for combat.
But that is not enough against such malevolent beings.
He intervened in a battle that had nothing to do with him, even though he had simply lost his way on the roads.
He fought alongside my warriors as if he were one of us.
And if, on that day, his magic hadn’t repelled the Malveth’s ambushes, our clan would have perished.
I owe him so much… So if you can do anything, do it, Tariel. ”
Rhazek’s story was… enlightening.
He took several things away from it: first of all, he had nothing to fear here. Not because he trusted them, but because he felt fully capable of fighting or escaping from a people lacking advanced magic.
Secondly, he learned that he never wanted to cross paths with the Malveth.
Finally, he concluded that Cassian wasn’t just a mercenary, but also… a nomad who had recently fallen in with the wrong crowd. His scars weren’t those of a mere swordsman for hire: they bore the mark of causes he had embraced and then abandoned.
Having made his decision, he placed his hand on the wounded man’s heart and closed his eyes. In his mind, behind his eyelids, he saw his magic—a network of bright red knots intertwined around a strange heart from which an almost alarming power emanated.
He expected to be repelled as he drew near his own essence… But no.
He was welcomed.
He realized he wouldn’t have the strength to undo it all. But he could do better. He could adapt. Tariel had never consciously summoned this foreign magic within him—this essence that sometimes seemed to fascinate Cassian—but he was ready.
He let the storm nourish him, infuse his spell, and without a word, he opened his eyes and unleashed his magic.
It wrapped itself around Cassian’s magic, grafting itself onto it, merging without dominating it. A rich purple replaced the aggressive red—a different kind of protection, filtered.
The storm raged outside, and the Olyar surrounded Cassian and Tariel, witnesses to a rare magic: that of the stone and the crystal, that of the Anchoring Resonance.
When it was over, the elf sat up, breathless but his gaze still sharp. He placed a hand on the mercenary’s chest—a final caress before he stood.
“Anyone with good intentions can now touch him. Please… take care of him.”
He turned to Seris and Rhazek. His face remained worried, but he didn’t seem too shaken. He had just bound his magic to that of a man he barely knew, without understanding the full extent of the bond that united them… but it had felt like the right thing to do, and he hadn’t hesitated.
Tariel could feel Cassian’s heart as if it were half of his own, and despite the tumultuous emotions raging around them, their union—even if fleeting—brought him peace.
What had been a storm was now a cozy drizzle.
Seris looked up at the sky, though covered by the tent, then at the elf, seeming to understand what he had just accomplished.
“Stay by his side while we tend to him. You belong here, Tariel.”
She then addressed the healers; her tone was gentle and protective, but the elf no longer had the energy to listen to them, so he simply watched in silence, his eyelids heavy.
Rhazek, for his part, took his leave, bowing to the elf, and joined the men who were drinking not far from a fire outside.
Someone lit a few torches and brought some food on a small tray, which caught Tariel’s attention.
“I’ve heard that elves are gourmets… Please excuse these simple offerings—they’re just fruits. But you need to regain your strength.”
“Please, there’s no need to apologize. I’m infinitely grateful to you for offering me something to eat.”
Tariel bowed respectfully once more as he took the tray, then slid nimbly to the floor, crossing his legs. Sitting there, he blended into the quiet shadows to observe his surroundings.
The elf always behaved this way with people, unless he found himself in an extreme situation: polite, formal, keeping the world at a distance while remaining respectful. He sought neither to learn more nor to make small talk. Well, at least, always—except in Morgraves, apparently.
He removed, layer by layer, the few leather pouches he was wearing, placing them carefully beside him so he could more easily access his skin, without, however, undressing completely.
Night was about to fall, and they needed some peace and quiet—but above all, they needed to regain their strength.
He and Cassian were both off to the side inside the tent, in plain view of everyone. But the Olyar had their sense of modesty: little by little, the clan members left the area to return to their own accommodations. Only the fire remained, still crackling in the silence.
How were they supposed to keep up at this pace? Tariel wondered.
“Master,” Brynjar’s voice finally echoed in his mind. “Here is my answer: I sensed the Shadow just as I sense you. I think we’re being followed.”
“Thank you, Brynjar. I… You can rest,” he thought.
Silence. His familiar had withdrawn, and the elf said nothing.
He had time to wash up as best he could, despite the lack of privacy, to let his hair down and brush it, and then to finish his meal.
And, in this newfound solitude, a hoarse voice—one he’d recognize anywhere—rasped nearby.
“How… was that lesson… on friendship?”