Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Finn jolted upright, the screams shattering his slumber. Sweat chilled against his skin, sheets twisted around his legs like bindings trying to hold him down. But the screams couldn’t be ignored. Danger.
Finn yanked on his trousers, the fabric sticking to his damp skin, then shoved his feet into his new boots—still reeking of the tannery. His hands fumbled with the laces, urgency tangling his fingers.
The hallway air carried the sharp tang of his mother’s nightly tea, bitter in the back of his throat.
She stepped from the dimness, her knuckles white where they gripped her robe, her face pale with fear.
Finn’s own pulse thundered in his ears. Protect.
The instinct roused in his bones, in his blood—older than his fifteen years, older than reason.
“What is it, Mom?” His voice cracked, thin and frightened.
He clenched his jaw, gaze locking onto the armor by the wall.
Moonlight crawled over its surface, catching on the runes etched into the steel.
It should’ve been a symbol of strength, a promise of the future he’d trained for.
Instead, it mocked him. Tomorrow’s dream, tonight’s joke.
Torchlight bled through the doorway, carving jagged shadows across his mother’s face. “Dragon.”
What? Finn’s knees locked, his grip slipping against the doorframe.
Legends. But legends didn’t reek of smoke and charred stone.
Didn’t gouge the sky with claws that made the cobblestones tremble beneath his boots.
His tongue turned useless, stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Move. Breathe. He lurched outside and stopped in his tracks.
The knights’ families lived in a small cluster of houses at the edge of the palace grounds. A short walk, normally—a piss-and-a-joke distance. Tonight, that stretch of packed dirt might as well have been the ocean. Flames ripped through the sky like rabid wolves.
A huge, winged shape gleamed against the inferno.
Finn’s gut coiled with nausea, acid burning the back of his throat.
Thrill and terror tangled inside him, twisting so tight he couldn’t breathe.
His fingers twitched, aching for a sword, for something solid to hold onto.
Destined to be a knight. The words rang empty now, drowned by the thunder of his own pulse.
“I have to do something,” Finn muttered.
He whirled back inside, skidding across the floorboards to grab his armor.
His hands shook as he tried to fasten the buckles.
This was the same armor he had admired just hours ago, the same set he’d planned to don with pride in the morning.
Now, the straps felt stiff and uncooperative in his clumsy fingers.
His mother rushed to him, eyes damp with fear. “Finnian, no. You can’t go,” she said, even as her hands—traitorous in their love—helped fix a stubborn buckle. “The knights are already there. The king’s guard, your father...they’ll handle it. Stay here. Stay safe.”
He turned to her, torn between reaching for her and running. “Mom, I—” The words stuck. How could he explain the pull in his chest, the grim certainty that if he didn’t go, if he didn’t try, he’d never forgive himself?
She started to say something else, but he never heard it. His feet were already carrying him out into the smoke-filled street.
The distance to the palace felt like miles.
His steps seemed to slow under the pallor of fear and the sting of ash in the air.
The roar of the dragon rose over the crackle of fire, peppered with shouted orders from knights and shrieks from fleeing servants.
Finn pressed onward, boots pounding against cobblestones.
By the time he reached the outer courtyard, the heat of the flames licked at his face.
Stone archways that had once been regal entrances now glowed orange, the tapestries within catching fire.
Knights and palace guards dashed about in confusion, some trying to corral terrified courtiers, others aiming crossbows or spears at the dragon as it surged back into the palace.
Finn spotted an opening through the side doors of the great hall.
With all the chaos, no one stopped him. He darted past frantic pages and into the billowing smoke.
The acrid smell burned his nostrils, forcing him to cough.
Sweating beneath his newly donned armor, he pressed a hand to his mouth and nose, desperate to see what was happening.
The remains of the once-opulent hall stretched out before him—columns toppled, tapestries aflame, and rubble strewn across the floor. A man stood in the heart of devastation, sword raised against a monstrous, gold-scaled dragon. A glint of firelight on the knight’s armor made Finn’s pulse thunder.
“Kavros save us,” Finn whispered.
It was his father.
Sir Wesley stood poised, sword in hand. The enchanted steel of his armor glimmered with arcs of reflected flame. Somehow, despite the swirling sparks of debris, he cut a calm, determined figure. Until he saw Finn.
“Run, Finnian!” Sir Wesley’s voice carried across the chaos, panic lacing his tone. “Get out of here! Get to safety!”
Finn froze. Everything inside him wanted to obey his father’s command to run—wanted to flee the choking smoke and unrelenting heat. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from the dragon.
It hunched beneath a gaping hole in the ceiling, where shattered rafters and splintered stone jutted like broken bones against the night sky.
The creature’s long, curved horns had tangled with a chandelier, now hanging drunkenly by a single chain.
The scattered starlight above mingled with the glow of flames licking around the half-destroyed roof, creating an otherworldly glare on the dragon’s golden scales.
Its wings, half-spread, filled the ruined ballroom with a terrible, inescapable presence.
Every inch of it was designed to kill. Its talons carved deep gouges in the marble, its powerful tail lashed through the smoke, and its great, golden head moved with the slow deliberation of a predator enjoying the hunt. Watching. Waiting. Deciding.
And its eyes—those merciless, glowing eyes—found Finn.
He wasn’t just a stray survivor. He wasn’t even a threat. The dragon’s gaze pinned him in place, not with curiosity, but with a cold, measuring intent. It wasn’t the look of a mindless beast. It was a predator marking its next kill.
Finn’s pulse slammed against his ribs. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Then Sir Wesley’s battle cry rang out.
His father’s sword struck, punching through the layer of thin scales just below the dragon’s left wing.
The beast shrieked—not just in pain, but in fury, the sound tearing through the crumbling hall like a living thing.
It reared back, a violent, bone-rattling quake shaking the walls.
Cracks split through the remaining patches of ceiling.
Finn stumbled, shielding his face as shards of stone and plaster rained down. A deep, reverberating groan rippled through the castle, the walls shuddering under the weight of destruction.
The dragon lurched, twisting as it recoiled from the wound. Claws raked deep into the marble, struggling for balance, its tail sweeping in a wide arc. The sheer force of its movement sent a violent tremor through the chamber.
It collided with a crumbling column. The weakened stone gave way instantly, splintering apart in a cascade of rubble.
Finn’s stomach lurched as he saw the rubble begin to give way. His father’s face turned upward—too late.
Stone collapsed in a deafening avalanche.
Finn’s scream tore through the destruction. He ran toward the wreckage, panic hammering through him. His mind was a blur of fire and falling stone, of his father buried beneath crushing weight—until a change in the air sent ice knifing down his spine.
Something shifted. Finn skidded to a halt, breath locking in his throat. The dragon whirled to track him—a deliberate, predatory pivot.
It saw him. It wanted him.
Jaws parted, revealing jagged teeth gleaming like a row of daggers. A low, deadly rumble shook the floor, and Finn’s stomach plunged as a terrible glow ignited in its throat.
Every knight’s tale he’d ever heard about dragonfire burning men to ash slammed through his mind in a paralyzing rush.
He couldn’t move. His boots felt nailed to the floor.
Smoke coiled through the shattered room, tinged with the scent of blood and destruction. Finn’s father was gone. The castle was crumbling. His future destroyed in a single breath.
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.