Darius exhaled sharply, as if Finn had asked something tedious. “None, if it refuses to be tamed.” His expression darkened. The king waved a hand, pacing a step down from the dais, “Because of their failure, I realized I required a knight I could trust completely. One whose reputation for cunning and skill was unmatched, and whose loyalty to Lunareth is beyond reproach.” He turned to Finn, his gaze heavy with expectation. “If the druids of Revendar did unleash this beast upon us, it is only fitting that a knight of Lunareth be the one to end it.”
And there it was.
Finn drew a slow breath. “I see. You wish for me to attempt what these…others could not.” His words tasted sour as he added, “Capture the dragon?”
The king shook his head. “No, Sir Finnian. If the dragon cannot be controlled, it’s of no use to me. Your task is to slay the dragon and rescue Princess Gwenna from its clutches.”
Finn glanced around the throne room, fully aware of every courtier watching him—judging him. The pressure of so many gazes unnerved him, but none so heavy as the memory of that night ten years ago.
Finn’s pulse hammered. This was the moment he’d imagined a thousand times—though somehow, in those visions, it had felt cleaner. A chance to avenge his father, to prove himself. Not a political spectacle, not this carefully curated drama with King Darius at the helm. But the dragon was real. That part, at least, had not changed.
He straightened his spine, giving King Darius a determined nod. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice steadier than he felt, “I accept. By my father’s memory, I will see this done. I will not fail.”
A surge of applause rippled through the room, punctuated by uneasy murmurs. Nothing like a bit of fanfare before being sent to fight a dragon who’s dispatched every other knight it crossed. King Darius descended the final step from the throne and clasped Finn’s shoulder, leaning in just enough that Finn could catch the faint scent of jasmine and incense that clung to the king’s fine clothes.
“I knew you would not disappoint me,” King Darius said, low enough that only Finn could hear. There was approval in his voice, but also something akin to a veiled threat. “You have a personal stake in this mission. Let that sharpen your blade…and your wits. The dragon is cunning beyond measure, and none who have gone against it survived to tell the tale. You must not join them.”
Finn did not flinch. He’d been fighting for years—against men, against monsters, against ghosts that would not let him sleep. He would fight now, too.
Finn offered a terse nod. “I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed.”
“See that you do,” King Darius replied. “Our kingdom’s future—and yours—depends on it.”
With that, the king stepped back, turning to confer in hushed tones with his advisors. A hundred questions swirled in Finn’s mind: how had King Darius discovered this dragon’s location? Why keep the mercenary attempts a secret? It was all so…strange.
Still, the heartbeat of excitement refused to be stifled. A mission. A chance for vengeance. An opportunity to save the princess—and perhaps the kingdom. Finn pushed aside the unease roiling under his skin.
He had fought to defend Lunareth’s borders, to protect its people. But sometimes, it had been hard to tell who the enemy really was. A farmer with a stolen sword? A mother shielding her starving children? A druid who had done nothing but exist? He had raised his sword against them all.
Now, he was being sent to slay a dragon. At least the beast was a known enemy—one bred for destruction.
Finn strode from the throne room. He couldn’t stop replaying the king’s words—his urgent tone, the implicit demand. None of the mercenaries had returned. None. A bad sign, no matter which way he cut it. A chill slid down Finn’s spine at that thought, but he brushed it aside. Duty first.
Pausing at a wide, arched window, he took in the sight of Mirathen stretching out below. The early morning sun bathed rooftops and winding streets in soft gold, as if blessing the realm with a fresh start.
Or maybe it was a sign from Kavros, the Shaper of Flame, urging him onward. Finn had always believed the fire god guided any who stood at a forge or took up a blade with honest purpose. If this quest demanded steel and strength, then perhaps he was precisely where he needed to be.
His gaze shifted to the distant, hazy peaks of the Misthaven Mountains. Somewhere in that rugged wilderness, a golden-scaled dragon lurked—and possibly Princess Gwenna, lost to the kingdom for ten long years. He gripped the hilt of his sword, a shiver of grim anticipation curling in his gut. Let it come. He had trained for a decade to face exactly this.
The castle armory was a buzz of steel and echoing voices, a place that always quickened Finn’s blood. Squires darted between racks of weapons while apprentices tested the edges of fresh-forged blades. The air tasted of metal dust and sweat—the scent of honest work. No scheming courtiers here, no carefully veiled orders. Just steel, purpose, and the men who knew how to wield it. And for a moment, Finn felt utterly at home.
A voice boomed above the din. “Sir Finnian!”
Finn turned, already recognizing the rough-edged bark before he saw the man behind it. Only Thorne could make his name sound both like a greeting and a reprimand. The old weaponsmith limped toward him, eyebrows drawn up in curiosity. Thorne had once served with Finn’s father, both in the forge and on the field, and Finn trusted him with his life.
“I heard the news,” Thorne went on. “You’re off to challenge the beast that’s been haunting our kingdom?”
Finn gave a wry twist of a smile. “You make it sound like I volunteered.”
The blacksmith snorted. “Ah, lad. Kavros grant you strength, because you’ll need it.”
At the mention of their shared deity, a spark of pride warmed Finn’s heart. Many knights prayed to Aurenis for honor or Thalos for cunning, but those with a taste for the forge and creation—men like his father—gave their devotion to Kavros. That faith flowed through the ringing of hammers on steel, every sword a tribute to the god’s fiery power.
Master Thorne jerked his head for Finn to follow him deeper into the armory. “This way, boy. I’ve something that might catch your interest.”
They passed rows of breastplates and halberds until they reached a tall, iron-bound cabinet fixed to the wall. Thorne fished out a small key from his apron and slid it into the lock, his gnarled hands surprising in their finesse. The lock clicked open, revealing a sheathed sword resting on a velvet-lined shelf.
“It’s special, this one.” Thorne’s words were full of reverence. He eased the weapon into view, letting the morning light dance along its length. “This here is a longblade. She’s a good deal longer than the toothpick you currently use—but one you can wield with one hand or two, depending on the situation. Forged under a prayer to Kavros, during Aurenis’s Festival of the High Sun.”
