Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Finn dozed fitfully on the uncomfortable bed at the tavern. Cedric’s words kept looping through his mind, a quiet echo that eroded his certainty: Be careful, Sir Knight. The path you’re on may lead you places you never intended to go.
By the time the first grey light of dawn filtered through the window’s warped shutters, Finn had made up his mind—he had to return to the outpost, observe, and try to glean the truth behind its residents.
He left Ghost stabled in town—stealth was paramount, and weaving through the dense forest on foot seemed wiser than drawing attention with a horse.
The fresh morning air nipped at his cheeks as he slipped out of Duskridge.
The sun remained just below the horizon, spilling pale light over the rolling hills.
Every so often, a distant rooster’s crow punctuated the calm.
An hour later, the forests thickened, branches forming a woven canopy overhead.
Here, the breeze whispered secrets through the leaves, and shadows stretched long across the mossy ground.
Finn moved cautiously, checking each step for tripwires or hidden snares.
Gwen—Princess Gwenna, he corrected—was clearly adept at tinkering.
The barmaid had said as much. So it stood to reason that she’d built the traps.
Or had she? He frowned, recalling the woodcarver’s deft hands. Traps were more of a craftsman’s work than a tinkerer’s, weren’t they? And Cedric…Cedric seemed capable. Too capable.
Finn’s fingers grazed Sunwrath’s hilt as he stepped over a tangle of roots, scanning the path ahead. Either way, someone here was very good at keeping people out.
Eventually, Finn reached the spot that had given him chills on his first approach: a grim tableau of bones and battered armor, arranged like a macabre warning at the mouth of the narrow cave.
Morning light caught the corroded edges of breastplates, and empty eye sockets glared in silent rebuke. His stomach tightened at the sight.
He tried to swallow the unease creeping up his spine. Finn ducked into the mouth of the cave, its cold gloom seeping into his bones. Here, the air smelled damp and somewhat metallic, the echo of dripping water magnified by the enclosed space.
The cave seemed longer this time, his heart pounding at each corner as though he expected a dragon to burst from the shadows. Calm down, he told himself. You faced that creature already, and it didn’t kill you.
Finally, the narrow tunnel opened onto a sliver of forested valley. Sunlight beamed through the foliage, and Finn allowed himself a determined breath. I’m back.
Finn pressed on, branches snagging at his surcoat, a few catching the edge of his gorget beneath his helmet. Once he spotted the watchtower rising above the treetops, he slowed his pace, moving with the stealth of a hunter.
A thick patch of bushes offered a decent vantage point with minimal risk. Settling in behind them, he was grateful for the protection his enchanted armor provided.
Hours stretched, the sun climbing higher.
Finn’s muscles cramped, and he shifted carefully to avoid drawing attention.
No movement. No sign of Cedric—or the princess.
Twice, he nearly gave up, imagining how Gwenna might have already been taken elsewhere.
But then a door creaked, and his pulse quickened.
Gwenna emerged, chestnut hair glinting in the midmorning sun.
She carried an empty basket and wore practical, earth-stained clothes—hardly the finery of a royal.
Finn watched as she ambled toward a small garden plot near the base of the tower.
She knelt without hesitation, plunging her hands into the soil to harvest a row of root vegetables.
Carrots, maybe? He tilted his head, wishing he had a better angle.
“Clarence!” The exasperation in Gwenna’s voice rang through the clearing. “Get out of those beans right now, you gluttonous beast!”
Finn bit back a chuckle as a shaggy goat trotted into view, chewing with unwavering audacity. Gwenna squared her shoulders, glaring at the creature. “I swear, one of these days I’m going to turn you into a fine roast,” she huffed, though her tone brimmed with fondness.
A small smile tugged at Finn’s lips. This was no fragile princess caged by fear. She was independent and unafraid, scolding goats and tending gardens as though this life were completely hers.
Confusion swarmed in his mind. Does she really need—or want—saving? But the memory of her lineage loomed: her family slain, the golden dragon spiriting her away. Maybe the dragon enthralled her, robbing her of her past. The thought left a bitter tang in his mouth.
Suddenly, a swift shadow darted across the clearing, and Finn ducked out of habit.
When he dared to glance up, the sight made his blood run cold.
The golden dragon—its scales ablaze with reflected sunlight—circled overhead in a wide arc.
Finn’s pulse hammered, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. Not yet. Observe first.
With powerful strokes of its wings, the beast navigated a gap in the treetops, landing in the clearing with surprising grace.
Clouds of dust and stray leaves swirled around, but there was no roar, no flicker of flame.
Instead, it folded its wings, a low rumble in its throat—less a threat, more a greeting?
Finn tensed, expecting Gwenna to recoil in terror or run for cover. To his astonishment, she lit up like someone greeting a dear friend. “There you are!” she called, relief coloring her voice. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”
Finn swallowed hard, gaze darting between Gwenna and the dragon. She closed the distance, fearless, that same fondness she’d shown the goat now directed at the towering reptile. This can’t be normal. His hand settled on Sunwrath’s pommel.
Finn stared, incredulous, as the dragon bowed its head and extended sharp claws—only to deposit a woven basket at Princess Gwenna’s feet like an offering.
It didn’t attack—it’s giving her…supplies?
Every instinct he possessed screamed that this was impossible, that dragons were mindless beasts of fire and fury.
Yet here it was, behaving almost…helpfully.
Princess Gwenna crouched, a gleeful grin lighting her face as she peered inside.
“Oh, excellent! These mushrooms will be perfect for tonight’s stew.
Though I’m not sure we’ll have any beans left, thanks to a certain four-legged menace.
” She shot a wry glare at the goat, Clarence, who sauntered nearer, more curious than afraid.
Finn’s jaw tightened. In all the stories I’ve heard, goats should be terrified of dragons—yet here we have a goat with more courage than sense.
His mind reeled, each new detail more bizarre than the last. A dragon hunting mushrooms for stew? Is that what I’m seeing? Gooseflesh raced along his arms, and he had to remind himself to breathe. This is so wrong.
“You got back late last night,” Princess Gwenna continued, her tone almost scolding as she peered at the dragon with genuine concern. “I was worried.”
The dragon snorted in response, a rolling rumble that vibrated in Finn’s chest even from a distance. Princess Gwenna nodded as though she understood every nuance of the creature’s low grunt.
“Of course you didn’t want to wake me,” she said, attempting a mock-stern look that dissolved into affectionate exasperation. “And then this morning you fly off before I can check on you!”
Finn’s breath caught as he watched them—this casual closeness, a language all their own. It belied everything he’d been taught: that dragons were apex predators, incapable of empathy. They were acting more like…family. Has she truly befriended her captor?
He swallowed the knot in his throat, but his thoughts slipped away like a greased pig when something tugged at his waist. He jerked away and nearly toppled over, arms flailing to keep his balance. What the—?
The goat. Its hungry eyes were fixed on the leather pouch dangling from his belt. “Shoo!” Finn hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “Go on, get away!”
It bleated at him—an alarmed, annoyed sound—and then, as if offended by his refusal to share, the goat bounded off. Straight toward Princess Gwenna and the dragon.
Rynvath’s hairy balls, Finn cursed under his breath. The princess and dragon whirled in unison toward the goat’s bleating. They’re going to see me.
His heart hammered in his ears. This is it. If Princess Gwenna truly was enthralled, he had to act. If the dragon was controlling her, or at least conditioning her to stay, he owed it to her—and to the memory of his father—to set her free.
He exploded from the bushes with a roar that shredded his throat raw. The dragon’s gaze—those cursed, molten eyes—snapped to him. “Princess! Stand back!”
The beast reared, wings flaring into a fortress of sinew and scale around Gwenna. Finn charged, Sunwrath screaming toward the vulnerable spot beneath its jaw. But the dragon twisted, serpent-smooth, and his blade carved only air.
“Nivara take you!” Finn snarled. He feinted left, then swung right, aiming for the delicate wing membrane.
Claws met steel in a screech that crackled up his arms. The dragon’s warm breath billowed over him.
Still no fire. No claws raking his guts.
Just those damnable talons, deflecting, always deflecting, as if he were a dull whetstone to polish them on.
“Stop!” Gwenna’s cry frayed at the edges. Finn barely heard, too focused, too driven to get through the dragon.
Another thrust met with a parry. Finn’s sword skidded off scales, spraying sparks. He swung at the dragon’s neck. The beast slid aside. He jabbed at its belly. A talon flicked the strike away. Muscle and scale, moving like water over stone. His arms trembled.
“Fight me, you spineless worm!” Finn’s spittle struck the dragon’s snout. It didn’t flinch. Its tail curled around Gwenna, like a mother hen protecting a chick. The wrongness of it seared Finn’s nerves. How dare it pretend to care!
He lunged, blade screaming upward in a killing arc.
The dragon leaned back and Sunwrath grazed a single scale.
A chip no bigger than a fingernail clinked to the moss.
Useless. Worthless. Finn’s boot crushed the fragment as he spun, slashing wildly at its legs.
Talons caught each strike. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Breath sawed in his lungs. Reason guttered—the distant voice urging strategy drowned under a tidal roar of hate. He didn’t want strategy. He wanted to feel scales split. Wanted the dragon’s dying shriek to shake the trees.
Finn feinted toward its heart, then pivoted, the blade plunging for the joint of its hind leg.
The dragon sidestepped, tail brushing Finn’s thighs—not a strike, just a nudge. It could have sent him flying, could have crushed him beneath one massive claw, but it didn’t. It was holding back. Even now. Even as Finn swung for its throat.
Rage drowned reason. It’s mocking me. It’s toying with me. A snarl ripped from his throat as he surged forward, blind to anything but the need to see this beast fall.
His foot snagged. Root or talon, he’d never know. Finn bounded up, attempting to recover his footing. A shadow blurred—not the dragon’s bulk, but something smaller. Faster. With auburn hair.
Crack.
Pain ricocheted inside his skull, the blow sending a shockwave through his helm. His vision split, tilting sideways as his ears rang. Darkness swallowed the dragon’s silhouette.