14 - A Story of Magic #2
This lesson took him back centuries, to the magic lessons at the Drakensyl estate.
He had never doubted the elf’s eloquence or his power; he had sensed it from their very first meeting.
That stone within him amplified every spell, every intention: it was the first time a Drakensyl, bearer of the Philosopher’s Stone, had met his equal. The balance was perfect.
Too perfect.
Round after round, Cassian marveled at the display. Their gazes met, weaving a bond far too obvious to attentive observers. The dragon tried not to get attached to this feeling of warmth rising within him, this newfound sense of well-being he was discovering in the presence of his other half.
Then, the sky darkened. The dark magic made Cassian’s heart tremble in his chest. He frowned, realizing that Tariel was not only a scholar of light, but that he also knew how to wield darkness.
A painful memory surfaced—similar shadows devouring his own people—and he discreetly looked away, his gaze vacant. What Tariel was projecting was not merely a simulation for Cassian; it was a nightmare he had experienced firsthand so long ago.
The connection between his own heart and the elf’s Crystal brought him back to reality as he witnessed the library taking form around them.
Cassian found it truly beautiful in that setting, recalling a time when embroidery and titles of nobility were not insults.
This world of books, silence, and peace…
Tariel had lost everything, whether he wanted it or not—torn from his pedestal, he had been thrust into a reality of mud and blood.
Deep down, the mercenary knew that no matter how this story ended, Tariel would not be returning home.
The elf’s visions eventually soothed Cassian’s turmoil, despite himself. Seeing Tariel so at ease, revealing himself so openly through his illusions, warmed his wounded soul. Another barrier was falling. It wasn’t blind trust yet, but an undeniable bond was forming—whether tragic or full of hope.
For a moment, he looked up at the sky, which always brought him comfort, reminding him of his long nighttime flights.
When the illusion faded, he stared at the elf, convinced of one thing: Tariel was special.
Beyond his immense power, there was that spark of something different that he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet.
Suddenly, Cassian detached himself from reality, observing himself from the outside like a specter. A certainty struck him like a blow, a pain sharper than his wounds:
He could never bring himself to rip out his heart.
That thought shook him, calling his entire plan into question. His own heart was screaming at him to give up.
“Cassian? Are you okay?”
He blinked and found himself face-to-face with Lyara, whose hand rested heavily on his shoulder.
He nodded, seeking Tariel’s gaze. His gentle smile had faded.
Cassian swallowed before saying, forcing a teasing tone, “I tend to get lost in the flood of information… It’s a nasty headache, Tariel, and it’s your fault!
We were supposed to train, weren’t we? Let’s get going. ”
Cassian grabbed the elf’s hand—a gesture firmer than he would have liked—and led him toward the practice field, amid the protests of the disappointed children.
Lyara, meanwhile, stepped up beside them, a serious look on her face. “Tariel, have you ever fought with a sword? I need to know your skill level before I face you.”
“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.