Finn nodded, feeling like little more than an actor reciting lines. “Yes, please. Whatever you have will be fine.”
After settling Ghost in the stable with fresh oats and water, Finn made his way into the inn’s common room. The warmth from the hearth wrapped around him, the scent of stew thick in the air. A few farmers sat in the corner nursing their tankards, speaking in low, familiar tones, utterly unaware of the storm raging inside him.
He dropped into a chair near the fire, grateful for its heat, but the flames did little to chase away the cold that had settled in his heart.
Moments later, a kindly woman with greying hair approached, placing a steaming bowl of stew and a thick slice of crusty bread in front of him. Her gaze softened as she studied him. “Eat up, dear,” she said gently. “You look like you could use a good meal.”
Finn thanked her, digging into the stew with more enthusiasm than he’d expected. The first bite was rich and savory, the warmth spreading through him, but the simple pleasure of food couldn’t drive away the burning ache in his heart.
The fire crackled, its glow casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. A low buzz of conversation drifted from the other patrons, a quiet murmur of lives unburdened by impossible choices. Finn forced himself to take another bite, but the food sat heavy in his stomach.
He hadn’t realized he’d stopped eating until a voice cut through his thoughts.
“You all right there, lad?”
Finn looked up, startled from his reverie. The innkeeper was watching him from across the bar, a cleaning rag in his hand, his brow furrowed in concern. “You seem troubled.”
Finn hesitated, clutching the spoon like it was his sword. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just…wrestling with a hard decision.”
The innkeeper nodded sagely. “Ah, those are the worst kind.” He leaned on the bar, as if offering wisdom were as natural as serving ale. “But you know what my old pa used to say? ‘When your head and your heart don’t agree, listen to your gut.’”
Finn huffed a quiet laugh. “And what if your gut is as confused as the rest of you?”
The innkeeper shrugged, offering a knowing smile. “Then you’re in for a rough night, I’m afraid. But morning always brings clarity, or so they say.”
Finn didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure there was anything to say. The old man meant well, but Finn wasn’t convinced that dawn would bring anything other than more doubt, more questions with no straightforward answers. More heartbreak.
With that bit of homespun wisdom, the innkeeper moved on, leaving Finn alone with his thoughts once more. His duty pulled him one way, his emotions another.
He knew what he was supposed to do. Duty wasn’t meant to waver. Oaths weren’t supposed to bend for golden eyes and quiet smiles, for hands that had traced his skin like he was something precious instead of something doomed.
His head told him the answer was simple—return to the capital, give his report, warn them all. But his heart—his heart ached with an unrelenting agony he had no right to feel. Not for a man he was supposed to call his enemy.
Finn had spent years believing that the dragon was a mindless monster, a scourge that needed to be eradicated for the safety of the realm. But Cedric was not mindless. He was not a beast driven only by hunger and destruction. He was a man—a man who had bled and suffered, who had loved and lost, who had looked at Finn with such raw vulnerability that it left him breathless.
Finn didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
As he made his way up to his rented room, the wooden stairs creaking beneath his boots, he longed for simpler days—days when his path had been clear, when he had known without doubt what was right. But Cedric had pulled Finn into something far more complicated than he had ever imagined.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, sleep remained elusive despite his exhaustion. He could still feel the ghost of Cedric’s touch, the way his lips had lingered on Finn’s, as though torn between wanting and restraint. The warmth of his body, the hesitant way his fingers had traced along Finn’s skin.
And then—fear.
Cedric had been afraid. Finn hadn’t understood it at the time, but now…now he did.
Finn had been wrong. He had been so very, terribly wrong.
A lump rose in his throat as he swallowed against the truth clawing its way to the surface. Cedric had every right to be afraid.
Finn had been sent to kill him.
A shuddering breath escaped him, and he dragged a hand over his face, his mind racing in circles.
He had to return to Mirathen, yes. That much hadn’t changed. He needed to speak to the king. But he wouldn’t reveal Cedric’s secret. He couldn’t.
Instead, he would tell King Darius that Princess Gwenna was safe, but that she wasn’t ready to return to court. It wasn’t a lie—at least, not entirely. It would buy him time. Time to go back to the tower. Time to demand the truth from Cedric.
Time to understand.
