Cedric.
He saw him—not just as a dragon, not just as a beast commanded to kill, but as everything Cedric had ever been.
The shimmer of his golden scales, more than just gold—streaked with amber and bronze, shifting in intricate patterns like veins in autumn leaves. The delicate iridescence of his wing membranes, catching the sunlight like spun glass. The power in every line of his body, magnificent and terrifying in equal measure.
And then there were his eyes.
Those beautiful, familiar amber-flecked eyes. The eyes Finn had lost himself in. The eyes that had once softened when Cedric smiled, when he laughed, when he looked at Finn like he mattered.
“Cedric,” Finn choked out, the sound little more than a whisper, devoured by the arena’s frenzied hunger. But he didn’t care about the thousands of voices baying for his death.
He only spoke to one.
“You are not what he’s made you.” Finn stared up at Cedric.
The dragon shuddered. A tremor that rippled from the very marrow of his being. His scales rattled, his claws flexing against the sand as if trying to root himself—as if resisting a command only his body obeyed.
And Finn saw it.
Another flicker of humanity in those tortured eyes, drowning beneath the weight of something that threatened to crush it entirely. A soul caught in a war it hadn’t asked for.
Ignoring the protest of his battered, screaming body, he pushed himself to his feet, vision spinning. “Come on, golden boy,” he urged, voice low. Gentle. As if speaking too loudly would shatter this fragile moment. “I’ve seen you fight harder against Clarence the goat. Don’t let King Dickhead win.”
Please, gods, let him listen.
Then, with agonizing slowness, Cedric stepped back. A single jerky movement. Then another.
Each step was stilted, like a marionette yanked against its will. But he was moving. Away from Finn. Away from the kill.
Finn’s breath caught. This was real. Cedric had fought it. Cedric had chosen him.
Finn stepped forward, close enough that he could have reached out and touched Cedric’s snout, had he dared. “Even like this, I trust you. Gods help me, I trust you.”
The sword in Finn’s grip trembled. Finn glanced down at it, swallowing as the memory rose of his first fight against the golden dragon at the tower. How Cedric had refused to fight, had only met each sword thrust with a parry of claws. The dragon could have killed him then, if he’d wanted to.
But he hadn’t.
Finn’s grip loosened. He let the sword fall. The crowd’s roar dampened the clang.
The surrender wasn’t for them. It was for Cedric. For everything they had been. For everything they still could be. He peered up at the dragon. At the prince he loved.
A chilling voice shattered the tenuous peace. “Obey.” Darius, the single word full of command. “You belong to me. Now do as you were made to do.”
The dragon let out a sound unlike anything Finn had ever heard. A keening cry that spoke of a soul being torn apart. It left Finn blinking against the sting of sudden tears.
“Rynvath’s fangs.” Finn’s breath hitched. “No.”
The dragon twitched. Claws flexed. His head gave the barest shake.
Please, Finn begged silently. Please fight it. He lifted a shaking hand, fingers ghosting against the tiny golden scales on Cedric’s snout. The dragon shuddered, and for a single heartbeat, he leaned into it. A press against Finn’s palm as fragile as a butterfly’s wings.
For one agonizing heartbeat, he thought Cedric had won.
Then the humanity in his eyes faded. Extinguished, like a candle snuffed out. Like a man losing the war. Like a beast surrendering to instinct.
And in that instant, Finn knew he should never have dropped his sword. He had been horribly wrong.
One moment of hope, gone.
