Because despite everything—despite the lies, despite the betrayal, despite the firestorm raging in his mind—Finn knew one thing with certainty.
He needed to see Cedric.
Dragon or man, it didn’t matter.
With that determined thought, Finn finally closed his eyes. Though sleep, when it came, brought little peace. His dreams were a chaotic swirl of golden scales and whispered names, of firelight kisses and the unbearable burden of an unsaid truth.
The next morning dawned clear and bright, the sunlight cutting through the haze of exhaustion clinging to him. Finn sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his resolve crystallizing.
He dressed quickly, strapping Sunwrath back into place at his side. Downstairs, the scent of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee filled the air. The innkeeper’s wife offered him a warm smile as she placed a plate of eggs and toast before him. Finn managed a small nod of thanks, but his mind was already miles away.
He ate quickly, shoving food into his mouth without tasting it, then settled his tab and stepped outside. The crisp morning air bit at his skin, chasing away the last dregs of fatigue.
He mounted Ghost, feeling the mare shift beneath him, eager to move.
“Safe travels!” the innkeeper called from the doorway.
Finn gave a final nod, then spurred Ghost forward.
The miles passed in silence, the drum of hooves matching the racing tempo of his thoughts. He rehearsed his explanations. He had never been good at deception, but this time, he had no choice.
The familiar spires of Lunareth’s capital loomed in the distance, the sun glinting off their stone facades. It should have felt like home. It should have brought him relief.
Instead, his stomach churned with unease.
Because, for the first time in his life, Finn wasn’t sure where he truly belonged.
Chapter Seventeen
The forest canopy blurred beneath Cedric as he soared, his golden wings catching the last dying rays of the setting sun. The world below was a darkening sea of treetops, shifting in and out of focus as he pushed himself harder, faster, his wings carving through the cool air. He’d been flying for hours, tracing the jagged spine of the mountains in reckless, aimless patterns, chasing an escape that refused to come.
It was useless. No matter how far or fast he flew, he couldn’t outrun the memory of Finn’s face—the raw betrayal that had shattered the quiet intimacy of the night before. The shock, the hurt, the way Finn had stumbled back as though Cedric had struck him. And, gods, maybe he had. Maybe the truth had been more of a wound than claws ever could be.
The wind roared past him, whipping along the membranes of his wings, howling in his ears like a taunt. You should have told him.
He had known this moment would come. Had tried to push Finn away, had thrown up every barrier he could to prevent the inevitable.
And yet, in that stable, with Finn’s warmth pressed against him, with the taste of his kiss still lingering like something sacred—Cedric had allowed himself to hope. To believe. To think that, just maybe, he could carve out something for himself in this life that wasn’t loneliness or regret.
How utterly foolish he had been.
As the sun dipped beyond the horizon, Cedric knew he couldn’t delay his return much longer. His naked human form would be too vulnerable at this altitude in the mountains.
Maybe he deserved it. He had misled Finn. Without a doubt, the knight would come back for his blood—no matter what whispered promises he’d made in the dark of night. Cedric glanced down at the snow-covered ridge. Maybe it would be a kindness to die of exposure.
But then Gwenna would be alone. And that knowledge, for all these years, had been the only thing that kept him clinging to this tortured life. His sister didn’t know how many times he’d considered his own end. How many times the singular thought of Gwenna’s hurt at his loss had stayed his hand.
He sucked in a rumbling breath. Gwenna was his anchor. If he returned for anyone, it was her.
With a heavy heart, Cedric angled downward, gliding toward a clearing close to the tower. His landing was far from graceful—his back legs hit first, claws digging deep furrows into the soft earth before his momentum carried him forward. His body pitched, wings flaring at the last moment to balance him. He trembled. His chest heaved with the effort, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest.
Then, before he could second-guess himself, the transformation took him.
Pain. It struck like lightning through every fiber of his being. Bones cracked and reformed, sinew pulling tight, limbs shrinking, reshaping. His scales melted into flesh, tail wisping into little more than golden effervescence. The shift never got easier. Cedric clenched his jaw, refusing to cry out, but his entire body convulsed as the last remnants of his dragon form vanished.
He deserved this pain.
When it was over, he lay curled on his side in the dirt, naked and shivering. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs burning. The cold surrounded him, but he made no effort to move. For a long moment, he simply lay there, face half-buried in the damp earth, listening to the rustle of the wind through the trees.
