The dragon reared back, its maw luminescent with flame. Finn squeezed his eyes shut, the burn of tears lost to the sting of smoke. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The fire was coming.
Present day
Finn bolted upright, a strangled cry dying on his lips. The echo of it reverberated off the walls of his bedchamber, dampened by the resounding silence that followed. Sweat plastered his nightshirt to his skin, and his heart pounded so violently he half-expected it to make a break for freedom. Frankly, it had the right idea.
For a moment—terrifying and all too familiar—he was that helpless boy again, lost in the smoke and flame. And gods, wasn’t he tired of reliving it.
Then reality reasserted itself, his chamber coming into focus in the grey pre-dawn light. The heavy draperies, the polished oak armoire, the small bronze statue of Kavros on the mantel—reminders of his faith and of the man he’d become. Or at least, of the man he was supposed to be. Right now, he mostly felt like an idiot who needed more sleep and fewer nightmares.
“It was only a dream,” he whispered. Just a dream. Just my own mind kicking me in the ass again. Truly, a delightful way to start the morning.
He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes to banish the final, lingering wisps of memory. He could still smell the acrid smoke as Solavere Palace burned. A trembling sigh escaped him. There would be no more sleep now; the first pale streaks of dawn were already creeping through the tall windows that overlooked the capital city of Mirathen.
The city was a bastion of art and architecture—at least the buildings crouched around Solavere Palace were. Over the last decade, the palace itself had undergone extensive restoration, replacing the sections ravaged by dragon attack with fresh masonry and gilded details that glinted in daylight. It was said Lunareth’s builders were the finest in the world, and the palace was their crowning jewel—a place meant to inspire awe and drown out the memories of terror.
Finn inhaled slowly, willing his pulse to calm, then set about his morning routine. He poured cold water from a basin into a shallow bowl, splashing it onto his face in a bracing shock that banished the haze of sleep. It also forced the last vestiges of the nightmare to recede—if only for now.
His armor rested on a wooden stand nearby. Finn ran his fingertips over the steel breastplate, feeling the familiar ridges of the etched metal. The etched falcon in flight—the Brightmoor crest—stood proud beneath his touch, a symbol that had once belonged to his father. The armor had been reforged a few years back, but the crest remained, its legacy older than he was. Even now, a slight pang of sorrow surfaced whenever he looked at it.
“Nothing good comes from dragons,” he whispered, fingers tracing the falcon’s outspread wings.
He shoved the thought aside, jaw tightening as he buckled each piece into place. Next came his sword belt. The blade it carried was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, forged by a master smith who dedicated each strike of the hammer to Kavros, god of creation, ambition, and destruction.
Drawing it partway free, he caught sight of his reflection in the polished steel. He was no longer that helpless boy trembling among the ruined columns. He was Sir Finnian Brightmoor now, a man shaped by a decade of relentless training and hardened by a vow to avenge his father’s death.
And yet the dreams persisted. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the flames licking at the tapestries, could still hear the thunderous crash of rubble.
A soft knock pulled him from his thoughts. Re-sheathing the sword with a decisive snick, he raised his voice. “Enter.”
The door creaked open to reveal a wide-eyed page, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old. “Begging your pardon, Sir Finnian,” the boy managed, gaze darting between Finn and the sword, “but His Majesty King Darius the Glorious requests your presence in the throne room immediately.”
Finn’s eyebrows rose. That was never a good sign. “Did His Majesty say why?”
“No, sir. Only that it was urgent.”
“All right. Tell His Majesty I’ll be there shortly.”
The page bobbed his head and hurried off, leaving Finn to wonder at the summons. If King Darius actually called something urgent, it either meant trouble or a very long speech. Possibly both.
He strode from his chambers, down corridors still dim with flickering lanterns. Sunlight was just beginning to peer over the high walls, igniting motes of dust in golden beams. Servants were already bustling about, and guards were shifting stations like clockwork. The palace bore scars if one knew where to look—sections of masonry that had been rebuilt, tapestries newly woven to replace those lost in the fire and ruin of the dragon’s attack.
But not all the wounds were from that night. The city had changed in the last few years, shaped by the ongoing war in Revendar. In the lower districts, refugees from the western kingdom still crowded the streets—displaced farmers, outcasts, even those rumored to be druids in hiding. Some had fled their crumbling homeland, driven out by violence that had yet to end. Others had come seeking sanctuary, only to find resentment waiting for them.
Finn had overheard the muttered complaints of merchants more than once. Too many mouths, too few hands willing to work. Ah, yes. The noble art of blaming the desperate. A time-honored tradition among those who never missed a meal.
But it wasn’t just the usual grumbling anymore. Lately, the whispers had sharpened to accusations.
They brought this on themselves.
The druids of Revendar consorted with dark magic—why else would a dragon slay our royal family?
They should count themselves lucky we let them live at all.
The last thought made Finn’s stomach turn.
As he neared the throne room, Finn picked up on a subtle crackle of energy in the air. Courtiers congregated in tight clusters as they headed for breakfast, their voices low but urgent. He caught snatches of conversation:
“…dragon sighting in the mountains…”
