“Doesn’t get much better than that,” Finn said, awestruck.
Thorne grinned, then winked. “Oh, but it does. The blade’s metal is hammered with scales from a slain dragon brought to us by a Hunter of Rynvath. This blade here? It’s thrice-blessed. It’ll do the trick.”
Finn whistled. He stepped closer, enchanted by the faint swirling patterns in the steel, like ripples on water. A blade wasn’t just a weapon—it was a craftsman’s legacy, a warrior’s lifeline. The crossguard gleamed, etched with motifs of fire and serpentine scales, and the pommel held a polished ruby that seemed to smolder from within. This was no ordinary sword. This was a work of art.
“It’s…incredible,” he said softly, sliding his fingers along the flat of the blade.
“Aye,” Thorne said, pride and sadness mingling in his tone. “Your father commissioned it. Said he had a feeling it’d be needed one day. ‘A sword for the realm,’ he called it.” The old smith’s voice tightened. “I finished forging it just before the attack. Was going to present it to your father officially. Then…you know how that ended.”
A lump formed in Finn’s throat. He glanced up, meeting Thorne’s weathered gaze. “Father never told me.” Had never even hinted.
“He wanted it to be a surprise. A gift for you.” Thorne offered the blade to him. “Well, now it’s yours. May Kavros’s fire burn bright in it—and in you.”
Finn swallowed hard, his father’s memory rising up. There was grief, yes, but also a fierce surge of determination. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt, testing its weight, its balance. “I…thank you. I’ll wield it with honor.” His grip tightened. “And I’ll bring it back.”
Thorne’s lips twitched into a begrudging smile. “See that you do, lad. Your father would never forgive me if I let his boy die on my watch.” He paused. “He gave it a name, you should know.”
At that, Finn’s lips quirked. His father had loved to name his weapons, a tradition that made other knights roll their eyes. Finn had always loved it, though. He swallowed, for a moment feeling closer to his father than he had in a decode. “What did he want to call it?”
“Sunwrath.”
Finn held the name in his mind, then nodded. It was a good name. A worthy name. He only hoped that he was worthy of it, too.
Finn gently slid the sword into its sheath. He unbuckled the belt holding his own and handed it to Thorne. “Seems I won’t need this, at least for now.”
Thorne accepted it with a nod, then clapped a heavy hand on Finn’s shoulder, the gesture as comforting as any blessing. “Now, off with you. There’s a dragon needs slaying, or so I hear.”
The stables were alive with activity—grooms rushing to tack horses, stable hands ferrying sacks of feed, a few knights preparing for their patrols. The scent of hay and leather hung thick in the air, mingling with the occasional sharp tang of manure.
Ghost, Finn’s warhorse, was already saddled, her nearly white coat gleaming in the morning light. The mare snorted as he approached, stamping a hoof against the packed ground. Her way of saying, What took you so long?
From behind a nearby bale of hay, a wiry boy emerged—Tom, freckles scattering across his cheeks like spattered paint. “Sir Finnian! You’re truly going? To fight a dragon?”
Finn reached over, plucking a stray piece of straw from the boy’s mop of hair. “Looks like you’ve been fighting a hay bale yourself.” He tucked the straw behind Tom’s ear with mock solemnity. “But yes, I am.”
Tom’s eyes were wide as saucers. “You’ll kill it, won’t you? With one swing of your sword, just like in the ballads?”
Finn snorted. “If the ballads were right, knights wouldn’t need armor, and dragons would die of embarrassment the moment we arrived.” His expression sobered. “A dragon isn’t a simple foe, Tom. They don’t go down easy.”
“But you’re the best, sir,” Tom insisted, voice brimming with earnest faith. “You’ll come back a hero, I just know it!”
Finn exhaled, adjusting his sword belt. Gods, if only it were that simple. But Tom’s certainty, his belief—it was a reminder of why Finn fought. “I’ll do my best.”
He swung into the saddle. Ghost snorted, shifting impatiently beneath him. She was ready to run, always was.
Finn gave the stable hands a nod, then turned Ghost toward the main gate. As he loosened the reins, the mare surged forward into a canter. Finn relaxed. No court, no politics—just the open road ahead.
Passing through Mirathen’s winding streets, Finn felt both eyes and murmurs follow him—citizens peeking out of doorways, merchants pausing over wares. A knight on horseback, off to slay a dragon. A perfect story. News traveled quickly, and already rumors crackled in the air like sparks: the princess, the dragon, the king’s shining knight off to save them all. He heard whispers of hope and fear, well-wishes, and even a few prayers to Aurenis or Kavros for victory.
Though he held his head high, shoulders square, a thousand questions churned. Why the secrecy? If Princess Gwenna had been alive all this time, why was there never a trace? And how had the same dragon that killed his father eluded every Hunter of Rynvath for a decade? A beast that size couldn’t just vanish—unless someone wanted it to.
Before long, the city gates rose before him. Guards stepped aside, saluting as Finn passed beneath the great stone arch. The last threshold between duty and the unknown. He guided Ghost onto the open road that wound through rolling farmland, the hills eventually giving way to deep forests and, in time, the looming silhouette of the Misthaven range.
He paused atop a gentle rise, letting his gaze sweep back over Mirathen. Solavere Palace’s spires glinted in the sunshine, a kingdom standing tall, as if it had never burned. Here at the edge of the wild, the wind rustled tall grasses at the roadside, carrying with it the scent of pine from a nearby grove.
For the briefest moment, Finn closed his eyes and breathed in, centering himself. No applause here. No whispers. Just wind and steel and purpose.
“Father,” he whispered under his breath, “I’m doing this for you. For your memory. For the realm you loved.” His hand drifted to Sunwrath at his side. The sword his father left him. “May Kavros guide my blade as surely as you once guided me.”
