“If the gods have any mercy, they’ll strike me down right now.” Cedric rubbed his temples. But when the knight’s expression softened—just a fraction, just enough—something loosened in Cedric’s chest. A dangerous warmth, curling around his heart like ivy.
After dinner, they cleaned up together, though Cedric hardly registered the task. His mind was already in his workshop, already bracing for what it would mean to be alone with Finn again.
The outbuilding smelled of sawdust and cedar. Lantern light danced along the rough edges of unfinished carvings and half-whittled pieces. Finn stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the array of tools and figures scattered across the workbenches.
“Wow,” he whispered, reaching toward a half-carved raven mid-flight. Cedric’s muscles tensed, anticipating the inevitable recoil when Finn noticed the dragon figurine lurking behind it, but the knight only lifted a small stag, marveling at its carved antlers.
“These are incredible, Cedric.”
Pride surged through Cedric’s veins. “Thank you. It’s just a way to make ends meet, really.”
Finn snorted, giving him a dry look. “Hardly. Anyone can look at this and see the passion you put into it.”
Before Cedric could muster a response, Finn’s fingers finally brushed the dragon. His thumb traced the sculpture’s articulated tail, the delicate ridges along its back.
Cedric felt that touch like a shock to his spine.
Finn turned the carving over in his hands, his grip light, not like a knight inspecting a weapon, but like someone who actually cared about the craftsmanship.
“The detail is amazing,” Finn whispered. He glanced at Cedric, brow furrowing, like he was working through something. “How do you do it?”
Cedric exhaled, tension easing just a fraction. “Patience. And a lot of mistakes.”
Finn chuckled. “That makes sense. Just…wouldn’t have expected this from you.”
Cedric arched a brow. “And this meaning…?”
Finn grinned, setting the dragon back down with exaggerated care. “Oh, nothing. Just that most princes I’ve heard about spend their time debating politics, studying diplomacy, and perfecting their waltz—not carving stags out of cedar.”
Cedric crossed his arms. “I did study diplomacy.” He wet his lips. “A skill which I’m employing at the moment, in fact.” Cedric glanced at the tools on his nearby workbench. “If you want, I could show you how it’s done.”
Finn went still for half a second—just long enough that Cedric felt it. Then, softer the knight said, “I’d like that.”
Cedric swallowed. Too late to take it back now. “Here, let me show you,” he said before he could second-guess himself. He reached for a fresh piece of wood and a carving knife, gesturing for Finn to take a seat on the wooden bench.
Their shoulders brushed as he settled beside Finn, handing over the wood and carving knife. “Hold it like this,” Cedric murmured, reaching to adjust Finn’s grip. His fingers skimmed over rough, calloused hands—hands made for wielding a sword, not the small carving knife. Finn let Cedric guide his hold without resistance.
Cedric cleared his throat. “The trick is control. You’re not hacking at it like a training dummy.”
Finn glanced at him, eyebrows lifted high. “That a dig at my technique?”
Cedric sucked in a breath, adjusting Finn’s fingers around the hilt of the knife. “No, this is a dig at your technique.” He gave Finn’s wrist a light slap. “Relax. You’re gripping it like you’re about to duel the wood.”
Finn huffed, loosening his hold just a little. “Better?”
Cedric tilted his head in assessment. “Marginally.”
He demonstrated, angling the blade against the grain, letting the knife whisper over the wood. “You start with the basic shape. You don’t need to press too hard—just enough to get the first layers off.” He turned the block in his hands, showing Finn how the blade should glide through the grain, not fight against it.
Then, after only a moment of hesitation, he covered Finn’s hand with his own. Bad idea. Terrible idea. But necessary.
“The pressure has to be firm, but controlled,” Cedric continued, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. He guided Finn’s hand, directing his first cut. The knife bit cleanly into the wood, releasing a fine curl of pale cedar that fluttered down onto Finn’s thigh. “Not bad.” Cedric’s breath caught when Finn turned his head—far too close—grinning like a rogue.
“Look at that,” Finn mused, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m an artist.”
Cedric scoffed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Finn made another slow pass with the knife, his brow furrowing in concentration. The lantern light cast warm gold across his cheekbones, tracing the line of his jaw.
