Chapter 2 #2
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…”
“…Princess Gwenna, after all these years…”
“…surely our knights will be sent…”
His pulse raced like a spooked horse. Dragon. The word curled in his gut like smoke. His fingers twitched toward his sword’s hilt before his mind caught up. This wasn’t the ruins of Solavere Palace. He was no longer a powerless boy.
He forced his legs to keep moving. A dragon sighting? And Princess Gwenna—missing for so long—mentioned in the same breath? His thoughts ground against each other like a blade against a whetstone, sparking with possibilities, none of them good.
The great oak doors loomed ahead, flanked by a pair of guards in polished armor. They inclined their heads respectfully as he approached, then pushed open the doors. Finn’s breath caught as he stepped inside.
In daylight, the throne room glowed with brilliant color. The high, vaulted ceiling rose overhead, supported by pristine marble columns. Stained-glass windows, painstakingly replaced after the destruction of years past, cast shifting pools of jewel-toned light across the marble floor.
Impressive. Or at least, meant to be. A kingdom rebuilt in glitter and gold, as if that could erase the past. A painting of King Darius facing down a gold dragon hung on the wall near the entrance.
Finn forced himself to walk forward, ignoring the knot that formed in his throat.
He glanced at the dais, where the magnificent throne rose in all its opulent glory—fashioned of gold, inlaid with precious gems. It shone like a beacon, a symbol of the king’s power and the kingdom’s desire to move beyond tragedy.
And there, lounging with casual grace upon that glittering throne, sat King Darius the Glorious himself.
Finn had always found the king a study in contrasts. King Darius was all polish and charm on the surface—perfectly coiffed hair, silks that draped with unrelenting elegance, a warm smile that could dazzle any courtier. But smiles were easy. Trust was harder.
His gaze lingered on the king’s hazel eyes.
There was a calculating coldness there that never quite matched the brightness of that cool smile.
Finn had seen sharper steel dull itself behind a pleasant face before.
Sometimes he wondered if it was simply the mark of a royal: a mask one had to wear when holding an entire kingdom in one’s hands.
He couldn’t recall if the old king held such a look.
He approached the dais, catching snippets of grave whispers from the cluster of advisors around the throne. Their expressions were grim, underscoring the sense of urgency clinging to the room like a gathering storm.
Finn dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “Your Majesty. You summoned me?”
“Ah, Sir Finnian Brightmoor,” King Darius greeted, his voice as smooth as honey. “Rise, my loyal knight. We have matters of importance to discuss.”
Finn stood, meeting the king’s gaze. The warmth in King Darius’s voice was performative, like a merchant flattering a buyer before naming an outrageous price. But beneath the charm lay something sharper, something colder. The shift in the king’s tone set Finn’s nerves on edge.
King Darius leaned forward. “Tell me, Sir Finnian—what do you recall of the tragedy that befell this castle ten years ago?”
Finn’s gut clenched, the question striking harder than a mace to the head.
He had just woken from the ruins of that night, and now the king wanted to discuss it over morning court?
He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady.
“I…I was here that night, Your Majesty,” he managed. “When the dragon came.”
The king nodded slowly. “Yes. I recall you lost your father in that attack. Sir Wesley—one of our most loyal knights. He gave his life for the kingdom.”
Finn swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He died protecting the royal family.”
“Indeed, he did,” King Darius said softly. A hint of something—pity, or perhaps curiosity—crossed his features. Then the king straightened, his tone growing crisp. “And it appears we may need that same valor once again.”
Finn’s pulse quickened. He had spent a decade training, pushing himself to the brink, all to be ready if ever another dragon threatened these lands.
King Darius spread his arms wide, addressing the room at large.
“For ten years, we have mourned the loss of my betrothed, Princess Gwenna,” he went on, his voice rich with a grief long worn to polished stone.
“The night of the dragon’s attack changed everything.
That night, the land that might have been our ally betrayed us under the guise of a Revendarian princess. ”
A ripple of agreement passed through the gathered courtiers. Finn caught a few exchanged glances—some smug, others grim, as if this was merely confirmation of what they had long suspected. A few even nodded, murmuring to their neighbors, their expressions dark with certainty.