Cedric hesitated. That was a reality he hoped never happened. “Then I’ll handle it.”
That answer clearly didn’t satisfy Gwenna, but she sighed and raked a hand through her hair. “Fine. But I swear, if he so much as twitches wrong, I’m throwing another rock at his head.”
“Fair enough.” A weary smile tugged at Cedric’s lips. He glanced toward the narrow window—a half-broken shutter letting in a chilly breeze. Something to be repaired. The sky outside had deepened to inky black, dotted with scattered stars.
“You should sleep,” Cedric told Gwenna, forcing gentle authority into his voice. “I’ll keep watch tonight. You can relieve me in the morning.”
Her lips pressed into a tight line. “And when will you sleep, Ced?”
He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. My human hours are short enough; I can’t waste them asleep. “I’ll doze during the day…as a dragon,” he said, voice flat. “Just make sure he stays out of the stables, all right?”
She studied him for a moment, her expression wavering between concern and acquiescence. Then she nodded. “Fine. But wake me if anything changes.” With that, she moved to the door, pausing only to level him with a final, searching glance. Then she slipped out, leaving Cedric alone with Finnian.
Cedric exhaled, dragging the stool closer to the knight’s bedside. The small flame of the lantern danced across the walls, illuminating the soft contours of Finnian’s face. Gods, he looks young, Cedric thought, brushing aside the curtain of black hair from Finn’s forehead to check the bruise.
Cedric rested an elbow on one knee as he watched the slow rise and fall of Finnian’s chest. His mind drifted back to their brief conversation in the market: the fervor in the knight’s voice as he spoke of duty, the unwavering sense of purpose that Cedric had once admired in the men and women who served the crown.
In another life—if Darius hadn’t twisted everything, if Cedric hadn’t been cursed—things could have been different. Could we have been friends?
The idea made Cedric’s heart clench with longing. But the memory of Finn’s fervor refused to be dismissed.
He shivered, scolding himself for such pointless daydreams. “Stop it. He’s here to kill you, remember?”
Still, he caught himself wishing that he could trust Finn, that he could show the knight who he really was without fear. But that path was littered with uncertainties—and the certain knowledge that if Finn recognized Cedric as the dragon, there would be steel in his hand before Cedric could utter a word.
Leaning back against the wall, Cedric folded his arms across his chest. Outside, the wind whispered around the tower’s crumbling stones, a lonely sound that echoed his own unease. Finn’s arrival, he thought, has set something into motion—something we might not be able to stop. Whether that meant redemption or ruin for him and Gwenna, he couldn’t begin to guess.
Chapter Ten
Consciousness hauled Finnian back by the collar. His skull pulsed like iron struck by a blacksmith’s hammer. The sour taste of bile coated his tongue.
When he finally cracked his eyelids, the room bucked beneath him. Finn gritted his teeth against the vertigo, fingers digging into sweat-damp sheets. Rough linen chafed his palms.
The air smelled of yarrow poultices and wood smoke, undercut by the metallic tang of blood—his own, he guessed, from the crusted stiffness at his temple. His probing touch found a bandage, the lump beneath it throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Rynvath’s teeth. Whatever the princess had clobbered him with, she’d put her royal spine into the swing.
He lay in a narrow bed. Sunlight spilled through a single shuttered window on the far wall. The modest room was sparsely furnished—just a small table, a creaky wooden chair, and a footlocker near the door. Better than a dungeon cell, Finn thought, though the distance between him and his armor—he spotted it on a table across the room—felt like a mile. His sword, his dagger, even his boots were well beyond reach. So much for a quick escape.
Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The instant he moved, a lance of pain shot through his skull. The room tilted sickeningly, shadows sliding in his periphery like waterlogged ink. Finn clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of the mattress in a white-knuckled grip until the nausea faded to a bearable churn.
Each breath sent dull reverberations through his skull. Even so, he forced himself upright, jaw locked against the wave of dizziness that turned the floor into a rolling ship deck. The window. Focus on the window.
The jagged ache receded enough for him to see outside: an expanse of lush forest spread out below—green treetops swaying in a gentle breeze. A pang of disquiet clenched his gut. The golden dragon could be anywhere out there, free to roam.
The door’s screech nearly sent him crashing. Finn braced against the wall, knuckles whitening on cold stone as the world lurched sideways. Pain lanced through his skull—a hot poker behind the eyes. He’d pay good coin to never hear another hinge creak again.
“You shouldn’t be up.”
He knew that voice. Honeyed steel, sharp enough to draw blood.
Gwenna stood framed in the doorway, sunlight catching the silver threads in her woolen overdress. No damsel’s silks here—this was practical garb, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. She carried a tray like a soldier bearing a shield, steam curling from a clay bowl. Finn’s stomach rolled at the smell of stew.
“You hit me.” Finn glared, though the effect was undercut by the fact he had to lean against the wall for support. “With a rock.”
Her lips twitched. Not a smile—a dagger being drawn an inch from its sheath. “You were trying to kill my…pet. What did you expect me to do, curtsy?”
He opened his mouth to retort, only to realize she’s right. He’d come here expecting a helpless victim. Instead, he found a woman who had decked him with a rock and now regarded him with a mix of annoyance and genuine concern. Gwenna might wear no crown, no fancy attire, yet she carried herself with more authority than some nobles he’d encountered.
“But…the dragon,” he started, voice faltering under her pointed stare.
