7 - Hidden
Cassian
One’s true nature blossomed through pain.
When the mask falls and survival takes precedence, what remains of one is raw, bare, unvarnished. Cassian knew this.
If the elf thought him arrogant, cruel, or simply crude, he was mistaken. Darkness was part of him for sure. He embodied it with disconcerting ease, but it wasn’t all there was to him. And beneath that rough exterior, there was more. Much more.
The words exchanged a short while ago, in that world suspended between dream and escape, had unsettled the elf… just as much as they had shaken the dragon.
And that force, that magic that had brought them back to reality, was now exacting a cruel price from him: pain, exhaustion, the fall.
Cassian collapsed.
He no longer moved, no longer felt anything.
Instead, something within him—something deeper than flesh—forced him to live again, to remember. The darkness of his unconsciousness was swept away by a blinding, reddish light. The light of the flames.
He was still a young man—an adult, already a few centuries old, but so young for a dragon.
His lungs burned as he ran until he was out of breath through the secret corridors of the palace of his childhood, a stone labyrinth that was turning into a death trap.
His boots slipped on the blood. Behind him, the din of the slaughter was shattering his eardrums. This wasn’t a war; it was an execution.
Chaos reigned everywhere. He could hear the agonized screams of his men, their throats slit by the dozens in the hallways, and the shrill cries of the women of the court, hunted down by those they had called their allies just the day before.
The stench was unbearable: a mixture of iron, sweat, and burnt flesh.
The attackers had planned everything. Their treacherous spells, forged from ancient magic, mowed down the dragons, even in their sleep.
Through the shattered windows, he had seen absolute horror: dragons collapsing in the courtyard, their wings torn off while they were still alive, thrashing in iron traps before being finished off like beasts.
Not even their sacred fire, unleashed in a surge of pure survival, had been enough to save the king.
His father was dead. Cassian had seen him, lying in the middle of the ceremonial hall, where a treaty was to be signed.
The banquet tables lay overturned, the wine mingled with blood, and the corpses of his parents were already nothing more than desecrated remains.
His heart pounded so hard at the memory that it felt as if it would shatter his ribs.
All of a sudden, in the distance, through the mists of his deranged mind… A horn sounded. Deep, drawn-out, mournful. It cut through the air like a death-prophecy: the hunt was on. And this time, they were the prey.
Then, the sound of the horn began to distort, transforming into a shrill, monstrous bird-like screech. The griffin’s howl. The beast’s talons sank into his flesh, tearing his muscles to shreds as they desperately tried to flee the fortress.
The intensity of the memory finally collided with the reality of his pain.
The fire of the flashback became the searing sting of the open wounds on his chest. Cassian let out a faint groan, his muscles twitching under the impact of a new wave of pain.
His ribs were broken, his skin lacerated by the monster, and his dragon healing had stalled, progressing abnormally slowly.
That was the price he had to pay for that damned protective magic he’d bestowed upon Tariel at court.
That bond, which he’d forged instinctively without protecting himself, had left him vulnerable.
His eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead.
The cold stone of the castle was gone. Instead, he lay on a makeshift bed of moss, deep within a verdant hiding place—some sort of tent. Just above him, a silhouette was moving in the dim light.
Tariel.
His face pale and focused as he leaned over him, actively tending to his wounds with a surprisingly gentle hand. The soft touch of those slender fingers on his bruised skin had just pulled the dragon from his nightmares of the past.
“Where… am I…?”
Completely disoriented, with a bitter taste of potion in his mouth, his head was spinning as his magic crackled around him. His blue eyes, staring into the distance, tried to find a familiar setting, but he only found himself mumbling, “Morgraves… the East… we must… Drakensyl…”
His gaze fell on the silvery strands of hair framing Tariel’s face; he watched them faintly and murmured the elf’s name almost silently, unsure of what was happening.
Tariel’s pale skin seemed free of the dungeon’s grime, a sign that he had somewhat cleaned himself up, having washed away the blood and dirt from his face.
It was the elf’s turn to place a delicate hand over his lips to interrupt his reverie and reply in a whisper, “Shhhh… Don’t waste your energy—you need it.
The journey was rough, and your wounds are healing.
We’ve been traveling east for a few hours; I think we’ll be safe for the night… How are you feeling, Cassian?”
Slowly, Tariel withdrew his hand and ran the backs of his fingers over the mercenary’s pale, grimy cheek in a comforting gesture.
The Philosopher’s Stone responded to the Crystal with a single beat; their eyes locked, and he noticed the elf’s eyes were reddened by tears, but he said nothing.
He remained like that for a moment, quiet and unsure of what to do, unsettled by the elf’s presence and his gentle care.
The worry in his other’s voice made him blink, thinking he was drifting into a hallucination, but the hand that rested on his cheek brought him back to their reality.
How had they grown so close so suddenly?
“I think… that I’m dead…”
A laugh escaped the dragon, quickly joined by the melodious sound of Tariel’s laughter. He listened to the sound, like a lilting melody, the kind that soothed the soul. It might well have been the first time he’d done so in front of him.
With a tight smile on his lips that betrayed his suffering, Cassian soon closed his eyes again and pressed his cheek against the elf’s fingers. He let out an exhausted sigh, breathing in a slightly wheezing manner as he relaxed onto the elf’s lap.
“You were supposed to leave me and run away… Not that your thighs are uncomfortable, but… I’m slowing you down…”
The elf’s smile quickly faded, giving way to a sad, almost apologetic expression.
He shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek, before replying, “And without you, I have little chance of reaching my destination. Listen… I’m not in the habit of saying this, so take it while you can: you were right.
I can’t do this alone; I know nothing about the world, let alone dragons. And also…”
The elf seemed to hesitate, but continued, “I don’t think I’m going to try to kill it. I mean… the dragon.”
Tariel
A long sigh escaped his lips as a weight lifted from his chest. Saying that out loud made him feel better.
Admitting that he wouldn’t kill the dragon—not because he wasn’t capable of it, but because it seemed profoundly unfair to him—brought him relief.
He wanted to hear the other side of the story, to know.
Distracted by his own relief, a shiver ran down his spine when the mercenary’s fingers brushed against his silver hair. Cassian must really have his head in the clouds to allow himself such a gesture… but Tariel didn’t dare comment on it. Better a gentle man than an insulting, brutal captor.
He was so out of it that he didn’t even comment on Tariel’s admission, which…
he had mixed feelings about. However, as the man kept dazedly inspecting him, Tariel couldn’t help but smile slightly as he reassured him.
“I’m fine. I have a few bruises on my wrists, and I think I have a cracked rib, but it’s nothing another potion won’t cure.
I gave you one to drink, too… I’m trying to ration them, but another one wouldn’t hurt. ”
Brynjar, busy as he was, finally produced another vial. The little golem handed the potion to the mercenary with a suspicious look.
“Here’s another healing potion for your companion, my master. It’s stronger. That way, you should be able to stop using your own energy to heal him.”
“Hum… I know they don’t taste very good, but this should help you regain your strength, along with a good night’s sleep,” added the elf, handing the vial to the wounded man.
Cassian swallowed the second potion, grimacing.
“This is disgusting… by the gods…” he groaned, coughing.
Tariel chuckled softly; the potion might be revolting, but it worked, and that was enough.
“I need you in one piece, Cassian. But don’t think I’m forgiving you, you’ll pay me back for every second spent in that cage, every insult, you filthy brute!”
To emphasize his words, he poked the mercenary’s sore shoulder with his index finger, just as he had done when they first met, then ran his hand over his skin as if to apologize, all the while chuckling softly.
A light, comfortable silence fell, until Cassian’s expression turned pensive in a way that Tariel couldn’t immediately interpret.
Cassian remained silent for a moment, his clear eyes lost in an almost tender contemplation of Tariel’s face.
Then, with a hint of bitterness and concern mixed together, he finally addressed the elf’s earlier confession.
“If you’re not going to try to kill the dragon…
then what are you going to do? After all, you’re the one who was sent to extinguish the Drakensyl. ”
Tariel felt his gaze harden for a moment, but he held his ground.
“Caelendor’s Council presented the matter to me this way: a dragon is terrorizing the countryside and threatening the city; it must be eliminated.
I never really took part in those old elf-dragon feuds; I thought that a victorious return would earn me the Council’s favor—and my father’s approval.
These last weeks, I realized that the conflict is older and more complex.
Perhaps I don’t know all the reasons behind my people’s actions, but I believe that letting the dragon have his say—if he truly is the last of his kind—would be fairer.
I am no murderer. If it—if he doesn’t attack me on sight, I want to speak with him first.”
His view of the world was probably too idealized.
Tariel was oblivious to the darker side of life—that much was obvious.
While his moral compass for what was “good” was flawed, it failed entirely when it came to detecting what was fundamentally “evil,” and one only had to listen to him to realize this.
His intellect was immense when it came to magic and its secrets, but when it came to relationships, interactions, war… He lived in a perfectly idyllic world.
Cassian listened to Tariel with a different kind of attention.
Tariel saw him thinking, looking away, and then, slowly, letting out a pained sigh.
Finally, Cassian spoke, in a deep, almost resigned voice.
“I’m not sure you want to understand the ins and outs of the massacre between Drakensyl and the Alliance of Four.
This beast is the last of its kind, yes, and I don’t believe mere words will be enough to appease it.
You’ve seen Morgraves. You’ve seen that wasteland of ash.
You represent the species that cowardly slaughtered its own kind during Drakensyl’s Downfall.
This dragon is impossible to track, and if it crosses your path, it will take great pleasure in attacking you.
It takes months to flush out a creature like this.
They move three to four times faster than we do, and they roam the skies. ”
Tariel felt the weight of those words, but he stood by his decision. He tried to explain his position one last time, not out of stubbornness, but because it was his truth.
“Maybe I’m too idealistic. Maybe I’m ignorant. But I want to try something other than death. I want to talk. If you help me, we can at least try to understand.”
Cassian closed his eyes for a moment before sighing and running a hand over his face. After a brief silence, he replied, “Could I ask you to draw a circle around the tent?”
Somewhat frustrated by the mercenary, who had simply ignored his invitation, Tariel frowned before sighing. However, without asking any more questions for the moment, Tariel went outside to supervise Brynjar as he drew the symbols—he knew that their safety rested temporarily on his shoulders.
Soon, he returned to sit beside his wounded companion, who gestured for him to come closer.
“Can I do something? Or at least, try?”
Following a nod from Tariel, he raised a hand toward the elf’s chest, and a wave of warmth surged through him upon their bodies touching.
Energy coursed through him as if a thread had been stretched between their hearts.
Tariel brought his hand to his chest, incredulous; he sensed—more than he understood—a flow coming from Cassian, attuning itself to his heart and activating the barrier Brynjar had just cast. The protection took shape, fueled by a source of energy and healing that coursed through them both.
“It’s within you, Tariel…” Cassian murmured, his voice faint as his hand fell to the floor.
Tariel remained motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on the man who had spoken those words. What did he know about him that even he himself didn’t know? A whisper escaped him, almost forbidden. “What do you know about me that I don’t know myself, Cassian?”
The question hung between them. Fatigue was playing tricks on him, but something was shifting. Tariel was starting to wonder if his companion was something more than just a simple mercenary. Cassian looked at him, a sad smile brushing his lips. Finally, he answered the elf’s question.
“I know nothing about you, Tariel, but I know your heart.”