Princess Gwenna crouched, a gleeful grin lighting her face as she peered inside. “Oh, excellent! These mushrooms will be perfect for tonight’s stew. Though I’m not sure we’ll have any beans left, thanks to a certain four-legged menace.” She shot a wry glare at the goat, Clarence, who sauntered nearer, more curious than afraid.
Finn’s jaw tightened. In all the stories I’ve heard, goats should be terrified of dragons—yet here we have a goat with more courage than sense.
His mind reeled, each new detail more bizarre than the last. A dragon hunting mushrooms for stew? Is that what I’m seeing? Gooseflesh raced along his arms, and he had to remind himself to breathe. This is so wrong.
“You got back late last night,” Princess Gwenna continued, her tone almost scolding as she peered at the dragon with genuine concern. “I was worried.”
The dragon snorted in response, a rolling rumble that vibrated in Finn’s chest even from a distance. Princess Gwenna nodded as though she understood every nuance of the creature’s low grunt.
“Of course you didn’t want to wake me,” she said, attempting a mock-stern look that dissolved into affectionate exasperation. “And then this morning you fly off before I can check on you!”
Finn’s breath caught as he watched them—this casual closeness, a language all their own. It belied everything he’d been taught: that dragons were apex predators, incapable of empathy. They were acting more like…family. Has she truly befriended her captor?
He swallowed the knot in his throat, but his thoughts slipped away like a greased pig when something tugged at his waist. He jerked away and nearly toppled over, arms flailing to keep his balance. What the?—?
The goat. Its hungry eyes were fixed on the leather pouch dangling from his belt. “Shoo!” Finn hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “Go on, get away!”
It bleated at him—an alarmed, annoyed sound—and then, as if offended by his refusal to share, the goat bounded off. Straight toward Princess Gwenna and the dragon.
Rynvath’s hairy balls, Finn cursed under his breath. The princess and dragon whirled in unison toward the goat’s bleating. They’re going to see me.
His heart hammered in his ears. This is it. If Princess Gwenna truly was enthralled, he had to act. If the dragon was controlling her, or at least conditioning her to stay, he owed it to her—and to the memory of his father—to set her free.
He exploded from the bushes with a roar that shredded his throat raw. The dragon’s gaze—those cursed, molten eyes—snapped to him. “Princess! Stand back!”
The beast reared, wings flaring into a fortress of sinew and scale around Gwenna. Finn charged, Sunwrath screaming toward the vulnerable spot beneath its jaw. But the dragon twisted, serpent-smooth, and his blade carved only air.
“Nivara take you!” Finn snarled. He feinted left, then swung right, aiming for the delicate wing membrane. Claws met steel in a screech that crackled up his arms. The dragon’s warm breath billowed over him. Still no fire. No claws raking his guts. Just those damnable talons, deflecting, always deflecting, as if he were a dull whetstone to polish them on.
“Stop!” Gwenna’s cry frayed at the edges. Finn barely heard, too focused, too driven to get through the dragon.
Another thrust met with a parry. Finn’s sword skidded off scales, spraying sparks. He swung at the dragon’s neck. The beast slid aside. He jabbed at its belly. A talon flicked the strike away. Muscle and scale, moving like water over stone. His arms trembled.
“Fight me, you spineless worm!” Finn’s spittle struck the dragon’s snout. It didn’t flinch. Its tail curled around Gwenna, like a mother hen protecting a chick. The wrongness of it seared Finn’s nerves. How dare it pretend to care!
He lunged, blade screaming upward in a killing arc. The dragon leaned back and Sunwrath grazed a single scale. A chip no bigger than a fingernail clinked to the moss. Useless. Worthless. Finn’s boot crushed the fragment as he spun, slashing wildly at its legs. Talons caught each strike. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Breath sawed in his lungs. Reason guttered—the distant voice urging strategy drowned under a tidal roar of hate. He didn’t want strategy. He wanted to feel scales split. Wanted the dragon’s dying shriek to shake the trees.
Finn feinted toward its heart, then pivoted, the blade plunging for the joint of its hind leg.
The dragon sidestepped, tail brushing Finn’s thighs—not a strike, just a nudge. It could have sent him flying, could have crushed him beneath one massive claw, but it didn’t. It was holding back. Even now. Even as Finn swung for its throat.
Rage drowned reason. It’s mocking me. It’s toying with me. A snarl ripped from his throat as he surged forward, blind to anything but the need to see this beast fall.
His foot snagged. Root or talon, he’d never know. Finn bounded up, attempting to recover his footing. A shadow blurred—not the dragon’s bulk, but something smaller. Faster. With auburn hair.
Crack.
Pain ricocheted inside his skull, the blow sending a shockwave through his helm. His vision split, tilting sideways as his ears rang. Darkness swallowed the dragon’s silhouette.
Chapter Nine
Cedric sighed, closing his eyes to brace against the familiar agony that heralded the return of his human form.
When it was over, he slumped forward, breathing hard. The cool night air brushed against his bare skin, straw poking at his knees and elbows. Sweat gathered at his temples. Still better than being trapped in scales, he told himself.
A single lantern hung from a post nearby, casting weak light on the stable’s rough-hewn walls. Shadows jumped and twisted with each sway of the flame, and for a moment, Cedric just watched, trying to calm his erratic heart. Another day survived, he thought grimly. But the next instant, the memory of the unconscious knight flooded his mind. We haven’t survived yet.
