He passed a stall selling woven charms shaped like tiny leaves—druidic symbols for protection, though they were a rarity Lunareth. The vendor, an older woman with weathered hands, caught his gaze and quickly tucked the charms behind a basket, as if expecting trouble. Finn frowned. For years, the kingdom had hunted druids to extinction—or so it was said. And yet, here she was, selling their symbols in plain sight.
Finn shook his head and continued on. He wasn’t here to search for Revendarian druids.
He was about to turn a corner when something stopped him dead in his tracks: a beautifully carved wooden dragon statue perched on a crate in front of a modest stall. Lantern light shimmered across the intricately rendered scales, bringing each ridge and talon to life with striking detail. Its wings were poised for flight, carved with loving care. Such craftsmanship… A strange recognition tugged at Finn. This looks so much like the dragon I fought.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a soft voice said at his elbow. He whipped around to see a middle-aged villager in a simple tunic, a knowing smile creasing his lined features.
Finn tore his gaze from the statue. “It’s…remarkable,” he admitted, voice betraying genuine awe. He reached out, hesitant, and ran a fingertip along the dragon’s snout. “Who made this?”
The man’s smile deepened. “Cedric. He’s got a genuine gift, that one. Not from here, but he fits well enough.”
Something in Finn’s stomach swooped—half anticipation, half trepidation. Marla had mentioned Gwen lived with a woodcarver. If this was the same man, then he was likely the one who’d set those traps. And if Gwen truly was Princess Gwenna, then Cedric might have answers—about her past, about the dragon, about everything.
The villager scratched his chin, shifting when Finn didn’t respond. “I could introduce you, if you like. He’s not here often, but he’s here tonight.”
Finn squared his shoulders, ignoring the persistent throb in his ribs. “Yes,” he said, forcing a calm into his voice he didn’t quite feel. “I’d like that.”
Finn followed the villager through the bustling market, his gaze flicking across the lively stalls. The tempting scent of spiced apples and roasting meat made his stomach rumble. Food later. Answers first.
Ahead, the villager angled toward a quieter corner, where torchlight struggled to reach. Finn spotted two figures near a table lined with carvings much like the dragon he’d seen. But he hardly spared them a glance. His focus was on the men.
One of them, a burly figure with a thick beard and arms like tree trunks, gestured animatedly as he spoke with the other man. His heavy fur-lined cloak and the dusting of sawdust across his tunic fit every expectation Finn had of a mountain craftsman. That had to be Cedric.
The man laughed at something, throwing back his head with an uproarious howl. Finn braced himself, already preparing for a clash of wills.
The villager halted nearby, clearly hesitant to interrupt. Before Finn could step forward, the burly man clapped the other on the shoulder, then turned away.
“Cedric,” the villager called. “This knight was admiring your dragon statue. He wanted to meet you.”
The larger man didn’t twitch or turn. But the other man—the one Finn had immediately dismissed—lifted his head.
Finn pursed his lips. That can’t be Cedric.
He had pictured a shaggy mountain man—someone weathered, broad-shouldered, all rough edges and practicality. The kind of man who belonged in the wilderness.
But Cedric…wasn’t that.
He stood at his stall like a wolf surveying its territory, lean and poised. His golden hair caught the torchlight, loose waves falling across his brow. Finn’s gaze traced the sharp angles of his face—the sculpted lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth. His well-worn clothes carried subtle embroidery at the seams, and he wore a vest that fit too well to be secondhand. A silver chain glinted at his throat, a detail that snared Finn’s attention longer than it should have.
A slow, uncertain heat curled in his gut, unwelcome and undeniable.
The villager muttered a quick farewell and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Finn standing there, still trying to reconcile this poised, golden-haired artisan with the rugged trap-setter he’d imagined.
Maybe it was the way Cedric watched him—assessing, amused, like a predator indulging a curiosity rather than a man meeting a stranger. Finn should have been wary. Instead, something about that gaze sent an inconvenient thrill down his spine.
Then Cedric spoke, voice warm despite the guarded gleam in his eyes. “Always a pleasure to meet an admirer of my work.” His lips quirked with amusement. “Though I must say, it’s not often I get knights interested in my carvings.” A slight pause, a tilted head. “What is your name?”
Finn blinked. The villager had mentioned Cedric wasn’t originally local, and Finn had assumed he was Revendarian. But there was no trace of the accent. No rolling vowels, no clipped consonants. Either he’d lived here long enough to smooth his speech—or he was hiding where he came from.
Then Finn realized Cedric was waiting for an answer.
“I’m Sir Finnian Brightmoor, but you can call me Finn.” That was too familiar, damn it. I’m not here to flirt, and more’s the pity. He cleared his throat, forcing himself back on course. “I appreciate fine craftsmanship when I see it. Your dragon…it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
For the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered across Cedric’s face—gone too quickly for Finn to pin down. Then he inclined his head, speaking softly. “Thank you. I find dragons…fascinating creatures. So often misunderstood.”
Finn’s instincts bristled. Not alarm bells—not quite. Misunderstood?
He thought of golden scales flashing in the forest. Of the sheer force behind that tail strike, sending him flying. Misunderstood wasn’t the word he’d use.
