13 - Clan Life
Cassian
The chaos he had feared had not come. For the first time in ages, the specters of Drakensyl and the howls of his own people had not haunted him into the depths of his mind: he had slept a deep, restful sleep, without a single dream…
A death-like rest, or perhaps the rest of a man who, for one night, had found his anchor.
When the pale light of dawn began to filter through the tent canvas, Cassian did not start.
He opened his eyes slowly, his gaze fixed on the top of the white head nestled against his shoulder.
During the night, they had shifted; he now found himself in a protective position, the elf’s body pressed against his own, his arm resting gently on Tariel’s stomach.
In other words: they were spooning.
He lay motionless, listening to the mage’s steady breathing. A subtle change had taken place since the day before—something deeper than the mere healing of his flesh.
Was it the result of his resonance with the Crystal? Or simply the emotional nature of this bond with another—a bond he had sworn never to form?
A forbidden question then assailed him: was fate offering him an alternative, or was it hurling him toward an even crueler betrayal?
Cassian found himself imagining the impossible: a future in which he wouldn’t have to tear out that heart to bring his own people back.
A future where he could whisper his secret into this elf’s ear, place his truth in his hands, and hope to see not terror there, but an alliance.
To spare the elf… was to jeopardize the resurrection of an entire species.
And yet, as he watched Tariel sleep, the idea of sacrificing him seemed almost absurd.
After a while, he extricated himself with infinite care, sliding out of the makeshift bed with effort.
Every movement reminded him of his physical fragility.
In his nakedness, he noticed the bandages wrapped around his torso and arms: a checkerboard pattern of white cloth, some still pristine, others stained with red.
As he sat up to grab the clean clothes Rhazek had left for him, a wave of dizziness washed over him.
The healing flesh on his side and shoulder suddenly tightened; that sharp, tugging sensation—that life reclaiming itself through pain—was something he hadn’t felt in an eternity.
He had to lean against a tent pole, biting his tongue to keep from cursing, his eyes fixed on the sleeping figure of the elf.
Rhazek must surely have seen them like that—entwined in sleep. Cassian cleared his throat, a hint of embarrassment battling with the gravity of his thoughts.
The outside world awaited them with its wars and lies, but in the still air of the tent, the elf’s scent and the warmth of the sheets still haunted him. He was a dragon who was beginning to grow fond of his tormentor, and this growing affection worried him.
“Why does it have to hurt so much in this form…” he muttered, turning away before walking outside while massaging his temples.
He made his way to the familiar stream flowing nearby to dip his hands in and splash some cool water on his face.
Footsteps rustled the grass behind him, and a woman’s voice rang out, “How many more times are you going to risk your life? Don’t you have the option of settling down somewhere that knows neither battle nor war? ”
“I’m not sure Ennevia has that to offer me, Seris.”
He gave a faint smile as he put his top back on, mindful of his bandages, before facing the woman who was glad to see her friend in better shape than the day before.
“You must have really been in a critical situation to come back here by invoking Rhazek’s totem spirit.”
“Let’s just say you were my only refuge where I was sure Tariel wouldn’t be in immediate danger.”
She approached and set a small plate of food before him on a log—an unappetizing porridge, but one reputed to restore strength. She stood near him, arms crossed, watching him with such intensity that he shifted uneasily on that very same log he was now sitting on.
“That elf… It’s unusual to see you in such company. Is there something different about him? We’ve all sensed it, he carries something within him that we can’t quite define, but…”
“He’s under my protection.”
Cassian had replied without looking up from his plate, in a tone meant to be definitive, but Seris merely gave a wry smile and tilted his head slightly.
“That makes it even stranger.”
“Seris, don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m looking at you the way I always do. Is there something going on between you two?”
Cassian, who was eating slowly to spare his knotted stomach, nearly choked. He widened his eyes in astonishment as Seris patted him on the back with feigned innocence.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about what I can obviously see.”
A silence fell. The dragon took another spoonful to ignore the question…
or the facts—whatever. Seris possessed that fateful insight that seemed to see right through his defenses.
He silently thanked the heavens as he watched Rhazek return from the hunt in the distance, unloading his game with a vigor that stood in stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere at that makeshift table.
Rhazek waved to them as he approached, wiping his calloused hands on his leather pants.
“Hello, Cassian! I’m glad to see you’re looking better. How are your wounds?”
“I’m feeling better. Seris and your daughters always know what to do, even if they have to strip me down to do it.”
A hearty laugh escaped the warrior’s wife. She stepped aside to make room for her husband, approaching Rhazek’s mount to stroke the animal’s neck while the warrior placed a friendly hand on Cassian’s shoulder.
“Can Tariel and I stay for a few days, until things calm down?”
“You don’t need to ask—you’re at home here,” Rhazek replied before scanning the main tent for the elf. “Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s resting. I plan to train him a bit today.”
Rhazek frowned, glancing at the bandages sticking out from under the mercenary’s tunic.
“In your condition? That’s out of the question. Let my son handle it. What do you want to teach him?”
“The art of combat.”
“That’s an interesting one.” Rhazek turned toward the camp, scanning the horses for his son.
“I’ll let Lyara know. You just stay put and offer feedback. Take your time, Cassian. I don’t know where you’re rushing off to, but please, take your time.”
In the morning, the dragon allowed himself a respite among the clan. Cassian had set about doing what he did best: telling stories so they would not be forgotten. This was the legacy of the Drakensyl and the alchemists: passing on knowledge so that it might survive.
Sitting in the grass, surrounded by a group of nomads, Cassian captivated his audience.
A young healer, seated beside him, seemed dazzled by the aura the mercenary exuded.
Amid herds of horses grazing peacefully, he used alchemy to illustrate his stories, snapping his fingers to conjure specters of glowing red smoke from a small pile of sulfur.
“Cassian, go on!” someone exclaimed. “What happened when Morgraves caught up with you?”
With a mischievous glance, Cassian conjured a fiery phoenix in his palm, whose glow turned blue.
“Well, the blue phoenix found its way to the glowing power… The sight of a dragon petrifies the crowds, doesn’t it?”
“My God, was it a dragon? The one everyone’s talking about? The one that burned Veylaris?” asked the young woman, terrified.
“None of that. You can only summon a dragon if you’re one of them, my friend. It was just a ruse to plunge the kingdom into the abyss of a terrifying flame. The sky turned to fire and then came silence. Like a storm: it screams its anger, then moves on.”
Cassian transformed the phoenix into a smoke dragon before sweeping it away with a flick of his wrist. Lyara frowned. “Don’t you think Phineas will come after you for your power?”
“It’s not just my power that’s at stake. Tariel is half of that power… Without him, I could never have summoned such a force.”
He continued, ignoring the curious murmurs the elf’s name provoked.
“Phineas is convinced I can kill the dragon. The elves think the same of Tariel. But the Alliance is faltering. Veylaris has burned, Morgraves is on its knees… Only Malveth and the elven kingdom remain, and Phineas won’t seek out the elves; he needs allies to stand against the return of the flames. ”
“Do you think it could destroy the elven kingdom?”
It was at that moment that movement caught his eye. Cassian turned his head, and his words died in his throat.
Tariel was walking toward the group, escorted by Rhazek’s daughters, who seemed smugly proud of their work.
The elf was unrecognizable.
His long white hair had been braided into a series of intricate plaits, framing his face and neck with regal elegance.
He had been dressed in light, silky linen that let his porcelain complexion and the faint blush on his cheeks stand out.
He looked so delicate, so precious in the morning light, that the contrast with his muddy adventurer’s attire was almost indecent.
Cassian felt a familiar heaviness in his chest, a mixture of pride and worry. In this light, Tariel was no longer a fugitive, nor even an adventurer on a mission: he was a vision.
It took the mercenary a second too long to regain his composure under the elf’s intrigued gaze.
Cassian’s blue eyes then met Tariel’s. A heavy silence fell over the crowd as they took in this new guest. After a beat, he finally found his voice:
“The question isn’t whether he can, but whether he will. Malveth is his next stop—that much is certain. That’s where Tariel and I are headed, to try to make contact with the dragon.”
“You’re going where?!”
The crowd looked dumbfounded.
“How do you expect to find the dragon without him killing you? Dragons have disappeared! The members of the royal family were all dragged through the ashes and mud by Malveth—”
“That’s what the Alliance wants you to think,” Cassian interrupted.