3 - Troubles #3
Tariel was also attempting to use his magic more frequently—Cassian could feel every surge of power against his ropes.
Thank goodness he wasn’t about to take the risk of traveling with the bearer of the Heart of Elhe, the Elven Crystal, while giving him unlimited access to its power—he wasn’t suicidal.
In fact, before tying up the elf on the night of his capture, Cassian had modified the ropes using alchemy, transforming every attempt by the elf to use magic into energy that fed his own.
Their somewhat-peace came to an end when the group passed one of the paths leading to the castle.
“We’re not alone,” Cyrus announced, a familiar tension in his shoulders. His guard was up.
“What is it?” the elf asked, looking worried, and for once, Cassian replied seriously:
“Morgrave’s army.”
Vultures were approaching in swarms while the ground rumbled beneath the hooves of horses emerging from the nearby valley. Cassian and his group stopped, weapons in hand, their positions defensive.
“This promises to be interesting…” Cassian murmured as he drew his sword. At that very moment, he felt a wave of panic that wasn’t his own, and his gaze turned toward the elf in surprise.
“What about me, then?!” he exclaimed, his tone indignant but his eyes filled with fear. “Don’t I have the right to defend myself? Cut these bonds off right this instant!”
Cassian sighed, running a hand over his face. Just as he was about to reply, though, Erkan announced, “They’re here.”
Their brief moment of preparation was shattered by the loud clatter of hooves on the charred ground. A figure emerged from a cloud of dust, flanked by a handful of guards in dull armor: Phineas Morgraves.
Perched on his tall, black horse, the prince bore none of the grandeur attributed to the rulers of the kingdoms. Phineas was ugly.
A raw, almost obscene ugliness that seemed directly shaped by the darkness of his soul.
His greasy black hair clung to his temples, framing a face with tight features.
There was something vulture-like about this man: in his hooked nose pointing toward the ground, in his hunched posture on his saddle, and in those greedy eyes that gave the impression he was constantly waiting for his prey to breathe its last.
Clothed in heavy, dark fabrics, he wore a smile of unbearable arrogance. The heart of Morgraves might have been nothing more than a field of ruins ever since the dragons had reduced it to ashes to reach Caelendor, but Phineas didn’t care—he hadn’t been born back then.
With the kingdom’s access to black magic, the prince had come to see himself as a god. It particularly showed in the way he held his long, bare neck upright, looking down on the world with the supreme contempt of a scavenger seated on a throne of corpses.
“Cassian. “
The prince spat out the name in a voice that fully betrayed his nature: it was an unpleasant sound, a nasal hiss that assaulted the ear.
The man snorted loudly, tilting his head to one side, a petty smirk stretching across his thin lips, before adding, “We haven’t called upon your services. Unless you’re here to finally pledge your allegiance to us?”
Cassian had to stop himself from rolling his eyes—here, he was neither a prince nor a king, but merely a mercenary wielding a mysterious magic that many coveted.
For several years now, the group of mercenaries had occasionally worked for the Morgraves court on various assignments: importing and exporting goods, intelligence work…
Being in the court’s pocket was unpleasant, but it often kept him out of trouble.
Clearly, his luck had run out. He wanted to curse, to fight, to do… something. Instead, he bowed slightly, feigning respect, before replying, “None of that, Prince Phineas. We’re simply on our way to Veylaris to do some business.”
At those words, Phineas fixed his gaze on the person Cassian would have preferred to hide. He could feel the tension radiating from the elf’s body under the prince’s venomous stare.
“Business, you say.” The prince pursed his lips, looking skeptical. “And who are you, elf?”
A faint, trembling sigh escaped the lips of the pale-skinned man, who was clearly nervous, before he straightened up, back straight and chin held high.
Eventually, the younger man replied, feigning confidence, “I am Tariel Elenion, son of Councilor Elrohir Elenion and mage of the city of Caelendor, sent to slay a dragon in the Southern Lands.”
As he spoke those last words, the elf cast a confident, determined, and almost fiery glance at the man with azure eyes standing beside him.
Cassian, for his part, couldn’t help but pinch the bridge of his nose.
What an idiot, he thought. It was obvious that the elf had no idea what a mess he’d just gotten himself into.
Phineas, though, now had a wild look in his eyes.
“Nonsense! That dragon has been dead for a long time—they’ve all been wiped out, and our lands have paid the price because of you!
” The prince paused as his horse grew restless, drawing his sword and pointing it at the elf.
“Elves are still as arrogant as ever, thinking they’re safe from the Dragon?
Tariel Elenion, son of Elrohir Elenion, where is the army promised by your kingdom and your damned Council? Where is it?!”
“There we go, the princess riled him up…” whispered Erkan, making Cassian grit his teeth.
Damn it… what a bunch of idiots.