6 - Escaping
Cassian
Cassian had to admit that the loneliness that had weighed on his shoulders for centuries had, to some extent, … hardened him. His heart, once filled with compassion and empathy, was now tinged with bitterness and a desire for revenge.
And besides, how could one not hate those who tore your own flesh and blood from you?
How could one not curse those who betrayed you?
How could one not condemn the bloodiest act of barbarism of an era, when his own mother had her throat slit before his very eyes as she tried to protect one of his younger brothers?
No survivors remained but him; a massacre, a betrayal committed by a race capable of carrying out genocide in the shadow of trust, agreement, and peace.
The most terrible visions—loss, the screams of slain and trapped dragons.
That was what burned in Cassian’s gaze as his eyes turned toward the dignified representative of the elves, the one sent to extinguish the last glowing torch in the darkness.
“How could one not stand with a people who have suffered genocide on an evening of celebration and peace? The books celebrate Caelendor’s victory, but what kind of courage does it take to dare to send golems as a sign of peace, only to then order them to commit mass murder?”
Cassian stopped abruptly. His jaw clenched so tightly that a low crack echoed through the silence of the crypt.
He looked away for a few seconds, only his erratic breathing broke the quiet.
He seemed to be fighting the urge to smash everything around him, which was…
unusual, to say the least. He who was always so calm and collected.
After a while, Cassian continued, his voice hoarser:
“The dragons have killed just as many as the elves, but they didn’t use the pretext of peace to commit such atrocities.
The dragons and their affinity for alchemy posed a powerful threat—what more do you need to understand Caelendor’s motivations?
Four nations allying against one. Nothing is black and white, as you say.
The war spared no one, and yet… Killing the Drakensyl, every last one of them, isn’t enough for you.
You also want that Last Dragon, the sole survivor of his nation, without even understanding the reason behind his anger. ”
Cassian sprang to his feet, ignoring the pain that tore through his side, and took two unsteady steps, waving his good hand as if to ward off invisible ghosts that were assailing him.
His mask of impassive mercenary had just cracked, revealing a blaze of resentment and grief.
He stopped again, his back hunched, his shoulders shaking with ragged breaths, before turning abruptly toward Tariel, who seemed at a loss for words.
“Have you never lost—lost everything—only to detach yourself from such a situation as if it weren’t your problem?
Have you never felt loneliness, the weight of betrayal from those who promised you peace?
To be alone, the last one standing, in world that despises you, that hates you simply because of the circumstances of your birth, to the point where everything familiar to you has been slaughtered or destroyed?
No, of course not. O my lord, you are untouched because you are far above all of this, and may your precious stars bear witness to that. ”
It wasn’t anger that he felt, just a deep distress that no one had ever been able to grasp. And the Philosopher’s Stone throbbed against his chest as if to remind him of its pulsing heat—the heat of life, of the Drakensyl blood flowing through his veins.
“You shouldn’t even be asking yourself that question, Tariel. Whether you can do it or not, whether you survive this journey or perish in this crypt; it shouldn’t matter. If you kill the Last Dragon, you’ll be nothing more than the final chapter in the massacre carried out by your own species.”
A deafening silence fell over the room, bringing the dragon’s tirade to an end.
Only the elf’s footsteps echoed as he left the floor to perch on the stone table, likely eager to put some distance between himself and Cassian.
The mercenary didn’t comment, his gaze fixed on the little dragon drawn on the floor.
A drop fell, then another. A bit of dust broke away from the ceiling and crashed to the floor. It was the elf who eventually broke the silence.
“Please, give me back my magic,” Tariel asked in a softer voice. The mercenary closed his eyes and shook his head, fatigue washing over him.
He couldn’t tell if it was a clumsy attempt to change the subject and lighten the mood, or if the white-haired makeshift hero really had nothing but his magic on his mind.
“Even if I wanted to give you back your magic and use my own, I couldn’t. The crypt’s walls are infused with spells that block any type of organic magic.”
“There must be a way, though? I’m not—did you hear that?”
Tariel stopped abruptly mid-sentence, startled by the metallic clang that echoed darkly through the dark tunnels.
“Be quiet,” Cassian whispered before taking a deep breath, straining to hear the sound that had just echoed again, letting his eyelids droop. A few seconds passed, and his blue eyes slowly reopened, turning toward the obscured side of that damned crypt.
The floor vibrated under the weight of a heavy presence that had seemingly just landed. They’d been too loud, too careless, and without magic to sense another’s presence, it was impossible to know whether they were alone.
Apparently, they weren’t.
Instinctively, even though he was wounded, Cassian stepped in front of the elf, his gaze scanning the darkness. A dark mass slowly emerged from the shadows: a creature half-eagle, half-lion, with ash-gray and ebony plumage, chained around its neck and chest.
“Damn Morgraves… it’s probably a griffin sent to guard the dungeon…”
The beast’s wings unfurled, confirming his words. Cassian winced at the pain from his wound as he dropped to one knee to make himself smaller, prompting the elf to do the same.
“For pity’s sake, don’t play the hero, Tariel! It’s just an animal that’s been locked up for far too long. Back up to the skylight.” His hand rested on the elf’s chest to urge him to lower himself, the contact sending a jolt of electricity between the two of them.
“What… what did you just do?!” Cassian exclaimed.
“I—I didn’t do anything! You’ve deprived me of my—”
Tariel gave in to his frustration with a heavy sigh of distress, while his pale skin turned ashen as the beast tugged at its bonds, forcing the two men to step back.
The claws scraped against the stone, and the animal’s beak snapped several times before Cassian finally decided to take a step toward him, which made him even more nervous.
“Have you ever had the misfortune of encountering a Morgraves war griffin? They have a… morbid reputation.”
A laugh escaped him; it was nervous, but he couldn’t let the animal sense his unease and fear. The griffin swung one of its paws, way too close to Cassian’s face for comfort.
“It seems to be chained to something! How long do you think those chains will hold? If I distract it, could you—”
The sound of stone cracking echoed, the chains snapped, and Cassian saw the griffin’s movement; he understood it from the depths of his being, having seen his own dragons chained by the Alliance.
Despite the elf’s desperate cry, he was unable to move, and the animal’s pained screech coursed through his body more intensely than it should have as it grabbed him with its claws.
The claws dug in abruptly, and Cassian felt the beast clamp down harder on his flesh—a sign that it was about to take flight.
His entire body went limp; he let himself be carried away and lifted, and the weight bearing down on him made him grimace and groan.
He wasn’t going to die here—he knew it deep down.
It wasn’t confidence, nor was it arrogance: it was simply instinct. As they soared higher, Cassian thought back to the treetops, the drifting clouds, and that ethereal world that was his own: Drakensyl, the land of dragons.
He didn’t need magic to transform—that was who he was; the shifter simply had to summon his own vision of himself, but he didn’t do so.
He closed his eyes and hoped.
Tariel
The creature was agitated, probably sensing that freedom was within its claws’ reach.
As for Cassian… he didn’t look well at all.
He, who usually seemed so level-headed, appeared to have lost his mind, standing there facing such a beast while the metallic scent of its blood reached the elf’s nostrils.
Tariel, standing in the center of the light well, was desperately searching for a way out.
“Master, it is time to use your magic.” Brynjar’s voice rang out in the elf’s mind like an alarm bell. It was absurd, he thought: he still had no access to his essence.
“Give him what was stolen from him, dear Master.”
A conjunction ritual.
The idea was brilliant, absolutely brilliant, but the problem remained: his magic was still being redirected to the mercenary in dire straits through the handcuffs.
A moment of silence passed, the world momentarily falling silent for the elf, before the idea struck him with full force.
“Cassian, step back and let him break his chains! Come to—”
It all happened very quickly: the griffin snapped its last bonds and attacked, plunging its talons into the mercenary’s flesh as if he were nothing more than a meal, then took flight.
A horrified scream escaped the elf, who had only a moment to decide his fate. There he was, running at full speed toward the beast until he launched himself into the air, through that small well of light, clinging to its paw as if to life itself, letting himself be carried away from the crypt.
His magic returned to him like a breath of fresh air as the three beings rose above the vaulted ceiling, outside of the castle.