Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Finn shifted in the saddle, half-tempted to yank off the tangle of twigs still clinging to his battered armor. But every time he raised an arm, his ribs stabbed with pain.
He guided Ghost through the gates of Duskridge, forcing himself to keep his chin high. The tall silhouettes of the watchtowers cast long shadows over the village square.
The village was thriving. More so than Finn imagined it might, so close to the Revendarian border.
Duskridge had always been a quiet place, its stone cottages battered by northern winds.
Merchants hawked bright Revendarian cloth, their voices rich with the lilt of their homeland.
A woman in simple wool robes stirred a pot outside a cookhouse, the scent of spiced lamb curling into the crisp air—not a Lunarethan recipe, but one passed down through generations.
Here, in the shadow of the border, they did not try to blend in.
They carried their culture openly, woven into the fabric of their new lives.
That should have been a comfort. Instead, unease curled in Finn’s gut.
Maybe the Misthaven Mountains shielded them from conflict. Maybe the war had simply moved on without them. Or maybe they had stopped seeing Lunareth as their salvation.
He shook away the thoughts. Those were none of his concern at the moment.
Surviving his current embarrassment was.
Farmers and tradesfolk paused in their daily routines to whisper behind calloused hands as he rode by. Finn caught snippets—hushed exclamations about the blood on his cheek, or the weary slump of his shoulders.
Let them stare, he told himself. He’d fought a dragon—sort of—and all he had to show for it was bruised ribs and a shredded ego. Not exactly the stuff of ballads.
They see me as a failure, he thought, glaring at a trio of gawking children. One of them pointed, mouth agape, until an embarrassed mother shooed the child back. “Mama, why does the knight look so sad?” the boy asked, voice carrying. Finn clenched his jaw, wishing he could melt into the ground.
The reality stung. He’d come so close to rescuing Princess Gwenna.
The memory of the outpost and her furious eyes still burned in his mind, tangled with the image of that perplexing dragon.
Neither creature—princess nor beast—had acted the way he’d expected.
Or wanted them to act, he admitted to himself, wincing as he shifted in the saddle.
A weather-beaten man beckoned him from the roadside, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“You look like you could use a drink, son,” the old-timer said, voice rasping, “and The Drunken Dragon’s got the best ale ‘round.” The sign overhead depicted a frothy mug swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze.
A bitter laugh escaped Finn’s lips. The Drunken Dragon.
Perfect. Perhaps it was Thalos and his chaos mocking him.
Still, the prospect of a stiff drink tempted him more than he cared to admit.
After stabling Ghost in a nearby livery—murmuring apologies to the mare for the hurried brush-down—he forced his aching legs into the tavern.
Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of spiced ale and roasting meat.
Timber rafters enclosed the space, giving it a cozy, if somewhat stifling, atmosphere.
Conversations stuttered and quieted as Finn entered, and he was glad he’d pulled out the worst of the twigs at the stable.
He felt a dozen sets of eyes track him as he limped toward the bar.
A barmaid—Marla, by the stitching on her blouse—approached with a motherly sort of concern crinkling the corners of her eyes. “You look a sight, Sir Knight. Anything I can get for you?”
“Ale,” Finn said, easing onto a stool and hissing when his bruised ribs pinched. “And…information, if you’re willing.”
Marla handed him a tankard brimming with dark ale. “Drink’s a copper. The rest might cost you more,” she teased gently, but her gaze held genuine sympathy.
He took a long gulp, the cool bitterness a welcome balm for his tattered nerves. When he set the mug down, he leaned forward, voice lowered. “I’m seeking information about a dragon.” The last word came out strained.
A hush rippled through the tavern. A wheezing old man at the far end erupted into laughter.
“Oho! The dragon, he says! Well, let me tell you about the dragon, lad. Meanest, ugliest beast you ever did see. Breathes fire hot enough to melt steel, they say. Why, I saw it myself, just the other day. Came swooping down over the village, screeching like a banshee—”
“That was your mother-in-law, you old fool!” someone called out, eliciting a round of laughter.
Finn’s cheeks burned. This is no joke. His gut clenched, remembering how the golden scales gleamed in the sunlight—and how easily the beast had knocked him aside.
“I saw it,” he insisted, voice sharpening. “Out in the forest, near that abandoned outpost. It—” It protected the princess, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t quite force the words out. He tried to steady himself with the reminder that he was duty-bound to uncover the truth.
The laughter died, replaced by tight silence and sidelong glances. Marla’s face turned serious. She leaned in, her whisper hardly audible over the crackle of the hearth. “We do not speak of the dragon with outsiders.”
Finn blinked, pulse picking up. “But I’m a knight of Lunareth.” Surely that counts for something.
She inclined her head, but her expression remained guarded. “Exactly. And that’s why I’ll tell you this: there is no dragon.”
Finn’s breath caught in his throat. For a second, Marla’s words rattled around in his head, colliding with his certain knowledge of what he’d seen at the outpost. That damned dragon was real.
He could still feel its tail smashing into him.
The blow to his pride stung almost as much as the bruises.
Yet the villagers of Duskridge insisted otherwise.
“What?” he blurted, face heating with a mix of confusion and exasperation. “Had you not heard me say I’d seen it? I know what I saw.”
Marla’s stance hardened, as though preparing to shield her entire village with nothing more than her apron.
“Yes,” she allowed, her tone carrying an edge of caution, “and you didn’t see it, Sir Knight.
Because you see, ever since that dragon didn’t appear here—” she placed pointed emphasis on the denial, “—our farmers have flourished. No predators attack their herds. By Sylvara, not even crows harass the crops.”
A murmur of agreement stirred among the villagers nearby. One man—a broad-shouldered blacksmith with a Revendarian accent—lifted his mug. “Aye, and for that, we’re grateful.”
Finn blinked. He hadn’t expected the villagers to rise to the dragon’s defense, much less feel gratitude.
The man met his gaze, unflinching. “Many of us were given no choice but to run, Sir Knight. War took our homes, took our lands. You know this.” His expression darkened. “But here, we’re safe. The dragon—” he cut a glance at Marla, then exhaled sharply. “The storm has never turned on us.”
Finn ground his teeth. On one hand, their words confirmed the villagers had knowledge of the beast. On the other, Marla and her cronies were contradicting themselves—claiming it both existed and did not. But it wasn’t just their words that twisted his gut.
It was the way they looked at him. The way the blacksmith’s gaze lingered. The way no one else in the tavern rushed to explain themselves, as if daring him to argue. The hush that settled over the room wasn’t fear—it was something heavier. Something closer to defiance.
They weren’t afraid of the dragon.
And they sure as hell weren’t afraid of him.
“That dragon is a monster,” he spat.
Marla snorted, unimpressed by his hostility. “Easy for you to say, when you don’t live off the land,” she said flatly, meeting his gaze with a challenge of her own.
Finn’s stomach churned with frustration. He sensed he could argue until he was blue in the face, but it would get him nowhere. They’ve clearly made peace with the beast—and the princess, for all I know. Yet how could they ignore the dragon had once slain the royal family? None of this makes sense.
He cleared his throat, swallowing hard. Time for another approach. “I, uh… came across an old outpost in the forest,” he ventured, moderating his tone. “Any idea who might live there?”
Marla seemed to relax fractionally, though her stance remained guarded. “You’ve been out where Gwen lives?” she asked, pouring him another splash of ale. She said the name so casually it jarred Finn from his brooding.
He blinked. “Gwen? You mean Princess Gwenna?”
She gave a baffled laugh. “Princess? No, just Gwen. Odd girl, but kind enough. Lives up at that old outpost with someone else—we’re not sure if he’s her husband or kin. They come down from time to time to trade supplies.”
Finn’s pulse spiked. So she and this ‘someone else’ do come here.
The memory of the princess—vehement, fiery, yelling at him to leave—tangled with Marla’s depiction of “Gwen.” For a moment, he tried to reconcile the two images.
Could the princess have chosen to live in the forest with the man who rigged those traps?
“Tell me more about them,” Finn pressed, keeping his voice level. “The woman—Gwen—and this man she lives with.”
Marla shrugged, wiping a stray drop of ale from the bar.
“Not much to say, Sir Knight. They arrived a few years back, set up in that tower. Gwen’s a miracle worker with tinkering.
The other one’s some kind of woodcarver.
His pieces sell like hotcakes. They carve out a quiet life up there, I suppose. ”