Cedric sucked in a breath as the first wave of it hit. He gritted his teeth, staggering as his body forced itself back into its natural form. It never got easier. The shift left him gasping, his muscles trembling from the agonizing change from his draconic form.
Transformation always left him raw. Tonight, his shoulders and collarbone burned where wings had melted back into muscle, the ghost of talons itching beneath his fingernails. He pressed his forehead against the oak’s gnarled bark, waiting for the world to stop tilting. Stable straw would’ve smelled sweeter than this leaf mold, but at least here, no one witnessed his shaking hands.
Cold air nipped at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. He reached for his clothes, pulling on his shirt and trousers with hurried, clumsy fingers. His boots followed, laced with hands still unsteady from the aftershocks of transformation. When he finally stood upright again, fully dressed, he rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the lingering ache of realigned bones.
Cedric took a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he started down the narrow trail leading home.
By the time he reached the goat pen, moonlight had leached color from the world. His enhanced vision painted everything in icy blues and searing silvers. The latest goat pen repair held—the new planks stood pale against weather-beaten wood. The warhorse mare’s warm breath fogged his sleeve as he checked the latch.
The simple motion stirred something old in him.
He missed horses.
It wasn’t just a pastime he missed. It was a part of himself. Sunset had been his—a proud, fiery mare who had carried him through his years as a prince, a constant. Was she still alive? Had Darius’s men claimed her after he vanished? The thought made his stomach churn.
It was easier not to think about what he’d lost.
“Don’t get stuck in the past,” he muttered to himself, the words grinding between his teeth.
Cedric lifted his chin, squaring his shoulders as he strode toward the tower, forcing himself to be present in the here and now. Through the warped glass of the window, he glimpsed Finn and Gwenna setting the table. Cedric slowed, watching unnoticed from the shadows. Gwenna said something, her tone teasing, and Finn laughed—a sound so unguarded, so full, that it sent an unexpected jolt through Cedric. The knight’s smile burned brighter than the last flare of sunset. Cedric’s throat closed around a breath gone sharp as broken glass.
He couldn’t just stand here staring. As he pushed the door open, Cedric called out, “Evening.”
Finn turned, his grin widening until it carved dimples into his cheeks. “Cedric! Just in time for dinner.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Cedric’s answering smile felt brittle as he moved to help Gwenna.
They sat to eat, the fire crackling in the hearth, filling the room with an easy warmth. Cedric focused on his food, forcing himself to sink into the familiar dance of conversation—Gwenna’s sharp banter, Finn’s dry wit, the way their words wove through the evening like threads in a tapestry.
Then Finn turned to him, and Cedric knew he was doomed.
“So, how’s the wood carving been going?” Finn asked, leaning toward him, resting his elbow on the table. “I’d love to see your work sometime.”
Cedric’s throat betrayed him, constricting around a half-chewed bite of bread. Haven’t touched a chisel or carving knife in days, he thought, the admission curdling in his gut. He forced himself to swallow—the bread, the guilt, all of it.
“It’s, uh, been going well,” he managed. Then, before he could think better of it, his tongue ran ahead of his caution. “Would you like to come see my workshop after dinner?”
Finn’s grin widened immediately, bright as firelight. “I’d love to.”
Regret. Immediate, tangible regret. Cedric barely had time to process it before Gwenna let out a dramatic, suffering groan. “Gods, please, I beg of you—flirt less at the dinner table.” She paused, then added, “And maybe not at all.”
Cedric scowled. “We are not flirting.”
Finn, entirely unfazed, speared a piece of roasted meat with his fork and shrugged. “I don’t know, Prince Cedric. Inviting a knight to your private quarters? People might talk.”
Cedric scoffed at the use of his former title, well aware of Gwenna’s warning glance. “No one would talk.”
Gwenna thunked her cup down on the table, eyes narrowing. “I might talk.”
Cedric rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his own skull. “It’s a workshop, not a secret rendezvous.”
Finn raised his eyebrows. “Could be both.”
Gwenna leaned forward, fixing Finn with a look that was a little too sharp. “And why, exactly, would a knight be interested in my brother’s workshop?”
Finn, for once, hesitated—only slightly, but Cedric caught the flicker. Then, smooth as ever, he smiled. “Because I admire fine craftsmanship.”
Gwenna arched a brow. “Uh-huh. That admiration better stay strictly professional.”
