He swallowed the lump of frustration in his throat. Could they really uproot themselves again? Gwenna deserved better. She’d built a life here—her tinkering, her goats, her quiet contentment. And I dragged her into it. Anger flared, a familiar self-loathing that had never quite left him.
But I won’t kill another knight for no reason, he vowed silently, the wind biting at his cheeks. If Finn forces my hand…I’ll find another way. The very notion churned his stomach. Fighting Finn—somehow the idea bothered him more than any other mercenary or bounty hunter who’d ever come calling. Was it because Cedric had learned his name, had spoken to him in a way that made him human and not a cruel enemy? Or perhaps it was because he’d glimpsed the shadow of doubt in the knight’s eyes.
Or maybe it was the way Finn had looked at him just before Cedric left. More personal…more dangerous.
He paused in the courtyard, scanning the silent ruins. Night insects buzzed, and for an instant, he let the stillness envelop him. This is home, he reminded himself, heart heavy. I just hope it stays that way.
He clutched the sack of supplies—flour, salt, new threads for Gwenna’s sewing. Simple things that made their life a little more comfortable.
A soft sigh escaped him as his gaze drifted toward the treetops. If Finn came back, he wasn’t sure what scared him more—the fight he’d have to win, or the truths he wouldn’t be able to avoid.
Chapter Eight
Finn dozed fitfully on the uncomfortable bed at the tavern. Cedric’s words kept looping through his mind, a quiet echo that eroded his certainty: Be careful, Sir Knight. The path you’re on may lead you places you never intended to go.
By the time the first grey light of dawn filtered through the window’s warped shutters, Finn had made up his mind—he had to return to the outpost, observe, and try to glean the truth behind its residents.
He left Ghost stabled in town—stealth was paramount, and weaving through the dense forest on foot seemed wiser than drawing attention with a horse. The fresh morning air nipped at his cheeks as he slipped out of Duskridge. The sun remained just below the horizon, spilling pale light over the rolling hills. Every so often, a distant rooster’s crow punctuated the calm.
An hour later, the forests thickened, branches forming a woven canopy overhead. Here, the breeze whispered secrets through the leaves, and shadows stretched long across the mossy ground. Finn moved cautiously, checking each step for tripwires or hidden snares. Gwen—Princess Gwenna, he corrected—was clearly adept at tinkering. The barmaid had said as much. So it stood to reason that she’d built the traps.
Or had she? He frowned, recalling the woodcarver’s deft hands. Traps were more of a craftsman’s work than a tinkerer’s, weren’t they? And Cedric…Cedric seemed capable. Too capable.
Finn’s fingers grazed Sunwrath’s hilt as he stepped over a tangle of roots, scanning the path ahead. Either way, someone here was very good at keeping people out.
Eventually, Finn reached the spot that had given him chills on his first approach: a grim tableau of bones and battered armor, arranged like a macabre warning at the mouth of the narrow cave. Morning light caught the corroded edges of breastplates, and empty eye sockets glared in silent rebuke. His stomach tightened at the sight.
He tried to swallow the unease creeping up his spine. Finn ducked into the mouth of the cave, its cold gloom seeping into his bones. Here, the air smelled damp and somewhat metallic, the echo of dripping water magnified by the enclosed space.
The cave seemed longer this time, his heart pounding at each corner as though he expected a dragon to burst from the shadows. Calm down, he told himself. You faced that creature already, and it didn’t kill you.
Finally, the narrow tunnel opened onto a sliver of forested valley. Sunlight beamed through the foliage, and Finn allowed himself a determined breath. I’m back.
Finn pressed on, branches snagging at his surcoat, a few catching the edge of his gorget beneath his helmet. Once he spotted the watchtower rising above the treetops, he slowed his pace, moving with the stealth of a hunter.
A thick patch of bushes offered a decent vantage point with minimal risk. Settling in behind them, he was grateful for the protection his enchanted armor provided.
Hours stretched, the sun climbing higher. Finn’s muscles cramped, and he shifted carefully to avoid drawing attention. No movement. No sign of Cedric—or the princess. Twice, he nearly gave up, imagining how Gwenna might have already been taken elsewhere. But then a door creaked, and his pulse quickened.
Gwenna emerged, chestnut hair glinting in the midmorning sun. She carried an empty basket and wore practical, earth-stained clothes—hardly the finery of a royal. Finn watched as she ambled toward a small garden plot near the base of the tower. She knelt without hesitation, plunging her hands into the soil to harvest a row of root vegetables. Carrots, maybe? He tilted his head, wishing he had a better angle.
“Clarence!” The exasperation in Gwenna’s voice rang through the clearing. “Get out of those beans right now, you gluttonous beast!”
Finn bit back a chuckle as a shaggy goat trotted into view, chewing with unwavering audacity. Gwenna squared her shoulders, glaring at the creature. “I swear, one of these days I’m going to turn you into a fine roast,” she huffed, though her tone brimmed with fondness.
A small smile tugged at Finn’s lips. This was no fragile princess caged by fear. She was independent and unafraid, scolding goats and tending gardens as though this life were completely hers.
Confusion swarmed in his mind. Does she really need—or want—saving? But the memory of her lineage loomed: her family slain, the golden dragon spiriting her away. Maybe the dragon enthralled her, robbing her of her past. The thought left a bitter tang in his mouth.
Suddenly, a swift shadow darted across the clearing, and Finn ducked out of habit. When he dared to glance up, the sight made his blood run cold. The golden dragon—its scales ablaze with reflected sunlight—circled overhead in a wide arc. Finn’s pulse hammered, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. Not yet. Observe first.
With powerful strokes of its wings, the beast navigated a gap in the treetops, landing in the clearing with surprising grace. Clouds of dust and stray leaves swirled around, but there was no roar, no flicker of flame. Instead, it folded its wings, a low rumble in its throat—less a threat, more a greeting?
Finn tensed, expecting Gwenna to recoil in terror or run for cover. To his astonishment, she lit up like someone greeting a dear friend. “There you are!” she called, relief coloring her voice. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”
Finn swallowed hard, gaze darting between Gwenna and the dragon. She closed the distance, fearless, that same fondness she’d shown the goat now directed at the towering reptile. This can’t be normal. His hand settled on Sunwrath’s pommel.
Finn stared, incredulous, as the dragon bowed its head and extended sharp claws—only to deposit a woven basket at Princess Gwenna’s feet like an offering. It didn’t attack—it’s giving her…supplies? Every instinct he possessed screamed that this was impossible, that dragons were mindless beasts of fire and fury. Yet here it was, behaving almost…helpfully.
