How many times had she insisted on shielding him from danger? If things went sideways, she might be the one snared by danger. The thought turned his stomach.
Cedric forced a deep breath. He curled his tail around his hind legs, trying not to pace like a caged animal. You are not merely a dragon, he told himself fiercely. You are Cedric Cleburne, son of King William, rightful heir to the throne. The Gilded Prince of Lunareth. You won’t let fear—or hunger—dictate your actions.
Chapter Four
Finn guided Ghost toward the yawning mouth of the cave. A chill draft hissed from the darkness beyond, carrying with it a faint metallic tang that made the hairs on his neck prickle. Blood. Old, but distinct. This tunnel, he had learned from locals, was the only viable route into the hidden valley where an abandoned military outpost supposedly lay.
He reined Ghost to a stop at the threshold, leaning forward in the saddle to peer into the gloom. “Well, that looks inviting.”
Ghost’s ears flicked back, her muscles bunching under the saddle. Smart girl. Finn couldn’t blame her; the entrance was littered with bones picked clean, some still draped in tattered scraps of armor.
Glinting steel caught his eye—gauntlets, sword hilts, and dented breastplates scattered like discarded relics of a lost battle. No familiar crests, no insignias tying them to Lunareth. Just scraps of mercenary colors, some unmarked, others bearing symbols of companies Finn only vaguely recognized. But one piece made him pause.
A torn scrap of fabric, half-buried in the dirt, its color muddied by blood and dust. Deep crimson, with the faintest outline of a black sunburst at its frayed edge.
Finn frowned. Avalisian.
Not unheard of—sellswords came from all corners of the world, and plenty of ex-Avalisian soldiers had turned to mercenary work when their empire had no further use for them. Some even sought work in Lunareth, taking coin from whoever would pay.
That had to be the case here. King Darius had hired mercenaries for this mission, after all—this one must have been among them. Nothing strange about that.
And yet… Finn couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The Avalisian Empire had no love for Lunareth. Why would one of its men be out here, hunting a dragon for a Lunarethen king?
“Focusing on the wrong thing, Finn,” he muttered to himself.
No, better to take in the tableau as a whole. This wasn’t a simple warning. It was a display. A deliberate message, like a raider staking heads on pikes outside a conquered city. Whoever—or whatever—dwelled beyond this cave didn’t just kill. It wanted its victims to be seen.
Finn swallowed hard. “Kavros’s forge,” he muttered, lips pressing into a grim line. There were better places to die. More dignified ones, at least.
He slid off Ghost’s back, stepping carefully around the skeletal debris. A knight’s half-collapsed skull grinned up at him from beneath a battered helm, and Finn’s breath caught. That could have been me, he thought. Might still be, if I’m not careful.
He glanced at Ghost, patting her reassuringly. “Want to turn back?” he murmured. “Because I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
She blew out a loud snort, shifting her weight but not moving. Loyal, even when she had more sense than he did.
Finn exhaled, steeling himself. “I guess you’re right. We’ve come too far, and it would be a pity not to see what the fuss is all about.”
Grasping the reins, he led her inside. Pointed stalactites jutted from the vaulted ceiling like the teeth of some ancient beast, waiting to swallow them whole. The narrow path forced them into single file, Ghost’s hooves clattering against the stone in staccato echoes. The outside light faded, but a fuzzy lichen clinging to the walls emitted a glow that was enough for Finn to make his way—barely.
Several tense minutes passed as they navigated the twisting passage. Then, ahead, the faint glow of the exit. Finn’s shoulders sagged with relief at the promise of open air. And preferably fewer bones.
The moment they stepped outside, the dense embrace of the forest met them. Finn paused, scanning the area. No skeletal warning signs. But there was also no princess waiting to be rescued with a gift basket in hand. Shaking his head, Finn climbed back into the saddle.
He rode deeper into the woods, unease prickling anew at the eerie hush. Too quiet. No birdsong, no chittering squirrels—nothing. Even the wind hardly stirred the leaves. The Misthaven Mountains loomed ahead, their rugged peaks fading into a tangle of mist and pine. Somewhere up there, hidden in the wilderness, the dragon waited.
The journey from the capital had been long but uneventful—too uneventful, perhaps. Finn had pushed hard, stopping only when necessary to rest Ghost and replenish supplies. Now, with each surefooted step she took, tension twisted in his gut.
This was it. He was close.
And that meant confronting the very creature that haunted his nightmares. Or, more accurately, the thing he’d spent years preparing to kill.
A twig snapped beneath Ghost’s hoof, obnoxiously loud in the quiet. Reflexively, Finn’s hand dropped to Sunwrath’s hilt, thumb brushing over the ruby in its pommel. Overreacting wouldn’t help if something was watching. Wouldn’t stop a blade, either.
They pressed on, the branches overhead weaving a patchwork of shifting shadows. Twice, Finn caught himself craning his neck to search the dim spaces between trees, certain he’d glimpsed gold scales reflecting the sunlight. A trick of the light? Or a trick of the mind? Either way, when he looked again, there was nothing but wind-stirred leaves.
“Easy, girl,” he murmured, patting Ghost’s neck. Not that she needed the reassurance—her ears flicked back, unimpressed. If anything, the words were more for himself than the stalwart mare. She snorted, ears flicking back as though to say, We’ve been through worse.
The dense forest tightened around them, branches twisting overhead so thickly that sunlight had to fight its way through, casting speckled patterns across the mossy ground. A fragile silence had settled again, which only heightened Finn’s unease.
