“What?” he blurted, face heating with a mix of confusion and exasperation. “Had you not heard me say I’d seen it? I know what I saw.”
Marla’s stance hardened, as though preparing to shield her entire village with nothing more than her apron.
“Yes,” she allowed, her tone carrying an edge of caution, “and you didn’t see it, Sir Knight. Because you see, ever since that dragon didn’t appear here—” she placed pointed emphasis on the denial, “—our farmers have flourished. No predators attack their herds. By Sylvara, not even crows harass the crops.”
A murmur of agreement stirred among the villagers nearby. One man—a broad-shouldered blacksmith with a Revendarian accent—lifted his mug. “Aye, and for that, we’re grateful.”
Finn blinked. He hadn’t expected the villagers to rise to the dragon’s defense, much less feel gratitude.
The man met his gaze, unflinching. “Many of us were given no choice but to run, Sir Knight. War took our homes, took our lands. You know this.” His expression darkened. “But here, we’re safe. The dragon—” he cut a glance at Marla, then exhaled sharply. “The storm has never turned on us.”
Finn ground his teeth. On one hand, their words confirmed the villagers had knowledge of the beast. On the other, Marla and her cronies were contradicting themselves—claiming it both existed and did not. But it wasn’t just their words that twisted his gut.
It was the way they looked at him. The way the blacksmith’s gaze lingered. The way no one else in the tavern rushed to explain themselves, as if daring him to argue. The hush that settled over the room wasn’t fear—it was something heavier. Something closer to defiance.
They weren’t afraid of the dragon.
And they sure as hell weren’t afraid of him.
“That dragon is a monster,” he spat.
Marla snorted, unimpressed by his hostility. “Easy for you to say, when you don’t live off the land,” she said flatly, meeting his gaze with a challenge of her own.
Finn’s stomach churned with frustration. He sensed he could argue until he was blue in the face, but it would get him nowhere. They’ve clearly made peace with the beast—and the princess, for all I know. Yet how could they ignore the dragon had once slain the royal family? None of this makes sense.
He cleared his throat, swallowing hard. Time for another approach. “I, uh… came across an old outpost in the forest,” he ventured, moderating his tone. “Any idea who might live there?”
Marla seemed to relax fractionally, though her stance remained guarded. “You’ve been out where Gwen lives?” she asked, pouring him another splash of ale. She said the name so casually it jarred Finn from his brooding.
He blinked. “Gwen? You mean Princess Gwenna?”
She gave a baffled laugh. “Princess? No, just Gwen. Odd girl, but kind enough. Lives up at that old outpost with someone else—we’re not sure if he’s her husband or kin. They come down from time to time to trade supplies.”
Finn’s pulse spiked. So she and this ‘someone else’ do come here. The memory of the princess—vehement, fiery, yelling at him to leave—tangled with Marla’s depiction of “Gwen.” For a moment, he tried to reconcile the two images. Could the princess have chosen to live in the forest with the man who rigged those traps?
“Tell me more about them,” Finn pressed, keeping his voice level. “The woman—Gwen—and this man she lives with.”
Marla shrugged, wiping a stray drop of ale from the bar. “Not much to say, Sir Knight. They arrived a few years back, set up in that tower. Gwen’s a miracle worker with tinkering. The other one’s some kind of woodcarver. His pieces sell like hotcakes. They carve out a quiet life up there, I suppose.”
Finn swallowed, thoughts spinning at breakneck speed. If Gwen truly is the missing princess, why hide? And who is this woodcarver? He nodded his thanks to Marla, fumbling a few coins onto the bar for the ale and her reluctant answers. “Is there somewhere I can stay for the night?” he asked, muscles still throbbing from the day’s—and the dragon’s—punishments.
Marla gestured to a narrow staircase at the back of the tavern. “We’ve a couple of rooms upstairs for travelers. For a few silvers, you can have one.”
Finn dug into the leather pouch at his waist and deposited five shiny silver coins on the bar.
Marla grinned and swiped them up, exchanging them for a key. “Rest well, Sir Knight.”
Finn wound his way up the tavern’s creaking stairs, a single candle sputtering in the hallway. He slipped into the cramped room, little more than a cot with a thin blanket, and set his bag on the floor.
After stripping off his armor piece by piece—wincing at every bruised spot—he finally collapsed onto the bed. Lumpy as it was, it felt like a damn throne after the day he’d had.
His dreams that night were merciless. Golden scales flashed behind his eyelids, tangled with angry violet eyes and the memory of his father’s death. He jolted awake more than once, heart pounding.
He rose the next day with a stiff back and a resolve to dig deeper. Gwen, the woodcarver, and that thrice-damned dragon—somehow, all of it formed a puzzle he intended to crack.
The next evening, Duskridge’s market square blazed with torchlight. Colored lanterns hung from the wooden eaves overhead, painting the scene in cheerful hues. Despite the late hour, merchants hawked their wares, cloth-swathed stalls lining the streets. The mingled scents of roast spices, freshly baked bread, and orchard fruits filled Finn’s nostrils.
The voices around him were a mix of Lunarethan and Revendarian, their cadences blending in a way that might have once seemed strange, but here, it felt comfortable. Normal.
