Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Cedric hissed against the molten pain of the transformation.
His wings crumpled inward with a sound like tearing parchment, golden scales dissolving into sweat-damp flesh.
He staggered as his talons shrank to toes, the stable’s hay prickling his newly human soles.
Flexing his fingers—fingers, gods, the relief of joints that bent instead of hooked—he inhaled deeply.
A faint gust of night air curled into the stable, carrying the aroma of Gwenna’s cooking and reminding him of his very human hunger.
Cedric ran a hand through his hair, still feeling the phantom weight of horns that were no longer there, and quickly dressed in his worn tunic and breeches.
He tugged on his boots—scuffed from countless forays into the forest—then pushed open the stable door.
The goats in the adjacent pen stirred at the sound, shifting in the twilight.
Lilac, the smallest of the herd, flicked her ears but remained curled in her favorite corner, unimpressed by the disruption.
Clarence sprang over to the fence and greeted Cedric with a sharp, demanding bleat before unceremoniously dropping goat pellets in the hay.
One of the younger goats skittered away from the mess with an offended snort.
“Goodnight to you too,” Cedric chuckled. At least Clarence was consistent, in his own mischievous way.
He made his way across the moonlit courtyard to the tower’s entrance, heart tightening a little at the thought of what awaited him within.
Gwenna was at the hearth, stirring a pot that gave off the savory aroma of her signature rabbit stew.
The small kitchen glowed in the firelight, and seeing his sister framed by that warmth made Cedric sigh in relief.
“There you are,” Gwenna said, her voice pointed but edged with relief. “I was beginning to think you’d flown off and left me to deal with our…guest all by myself.”
Cedric winced. He could hear the tension beneath her words, and he hated that she felt so on edge. “You know I wouldn’t do that,” he said softly. Stepping around to help set the table, he kept one ear tuned to her mood. “How is he?”
“Awake. Asking questions. Being entirely too perceptive for my liking.” Gwenna’s words bit like a winter wind.
An uneasy current rippled through Cedric.
Of course Finn would be perceptive. That keen intelligence had sparked in every word the knight spoke during their brief interaction in the market square.
“It’s only natural he’d have questions,” Cedric offered quietly.
If I were in his position, I’d be brimming with them, too.
Gwenna met his logic with stubborn silence, the same silence she wielded whenever she thought he was being willfully stupid. And maybe he was.
But her frustration wasn’t just about the knight—it was about him. Because in her eyes, Cedric had the luxury of believing things could change. That words could fix what swords had broken.
Gwenna was willing to kill a Lunarethen knight to keep them safe.
And while Cedric understood her reasoning, he couldn’t let himself cross that line.
Maybe he was too idealistic. Maybe talking to Finn was pointless.
But gods, he was tired. Tired of hiding.
Tired of killing when there was no other choice.
They ate in silence, each lost in troubled thoughts.
The stew was as delicious as ever, but Cedric barely tasted it.
Every spoonful felt like a countdown, reminding him that time was running out before Finn learned too much.
When Gwenna finished, she stood to clear the bowls, but Cedric lifted his hand.
“I’ll handle them,” he said, standing. “You’ve had a long day.”
She eyed him doubtfully. “You hate doing the dishes.”
A tired laugh escaped him. “I still do, but it’s the least I can do after you spent the day shepherding a suspicious knight.” Heat pricked behind his eyes, guilt for all the ways Gwenna had carried burdens he couldn’t while trapped in dragon form each day. “You’ve earned a bit of rest.”
Gwenna’s lips parted, as if she might protest, but then she slumped a little. “All right,” she conceded. “I am bushed. Just…promise me you’ll be careful?”
Cedric snorted. He’d been groomed to rule a kingdom. And while that training was more than a decade old, he was no slouch with simple tasks at the outpost. “I’m fine. Everything is fine. Totally fine.”
“You realize that’s not at all convincing, right?” Gwenna asked cheerfully. But she came over and gave him a hug anyway. “If you need me, come wake me.”
“I won’t be doing that,” Cedric said immediately. Gwenna was never in a good mood when woken prematurely. If people thought he was scary as a dragon, they had never beheld a sleep-deprived Gwenna. His sister laughed, then headed for her room.
Cedric allowed himself a smile as she left, then returned to the task at hand. He washed and dried the dishes, then straightened the kitchen area. There wasn’t much to do, though, and Cedric was just delaying what he knew must come. Finn was here—was hurt—because of him.
He made his way back up the stairs, pausing outside Finn’s door.
Taking a deep breath to bolster himself, he knocked softly before entering.
There was no answer, so Cedric gently shoved the door open.
Gwenna had fed their guest earlier, though he’d brought along a bowl of stew covered with a towel to keep it warm, just in case the knight was hungry again.
Cedric moved to set the bowl on the small table, then placed the lantern he carried beside it.
The moment metal touched wood, Finn startled awake, eyes snapping open. Cedric’s pulse picked up, but he schooled his face into a calm expression.
“You,” Finn said, voice rough with residual pain or grogginess. There was no immediate hostility, just watchfulness.
“Me,” Cedric agreed, attempting a reassuring smile as he dragged a chair closer to the bed. The lantern illuminated the caution in Finn’s grey eyes. Not anger, at least. Small victories. “You’re looking much better than you were last night.”
Finn carefully pushed himself upright, wincing at the effort. His intense gaze stayed locked onto Cedric’s face, searching for…what, exactly? Answers? Reassurance? Weakness?
“I remember you,” Finn said softly. “From the market.”
Those words hit Cedric with a spike of relief and tension both. So he recalls. He forced a tight smile. “Yes, that was me.” A man living a lie, hoping the knight wouldn’t see through it. Life’s complicated.
“You didn’t mention you were a prince.” Finn’s tone was cautious, but there was no immediate accusation in it.
Cedric’s stomach twisted. Of course, that would come up first. He scoffed, jaw tightening. “I’m not,” he said curtly. “Not anymore.”
Finn’s eyes lit with something Cedric couldn’t quite figure out. “Right,” he said slowly. “Because you’re supposed to be dead.”
So that’s how it’s going to be. Cedric shook his head. This was not a conversation he intended to have. “You shouldn’t be moving around so quickly,” he deflected instead, eager to change the subject. “Nice and slow, or you’ll end up dizzy on the floor again.”
Finn’s expression shifted, becoming unbearably stubborn. “The knight’s physician would have me walking by now.”
Cedric snorted. “The knight’s physician isn’t here, is he?” He crossed his arms, leaning back just enough to be irritating. At least, that was Gwenna’s observation about this pose. “Unless you want to take it up with Gwenna, who—need I remind you—put you in this condition in the first place.”
Finn scowled, muttering something under his breath that Cedric was fairly certain wasn’t thank you for your concern.
Shaking his head and allowing himself a small chuckle, Cedric stood and moved closer, pulse quickening at the prospect of touching the knight again. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to Finn’s head.
Finn hesitated only a moment before nodding.
Cedric reached out, fingers skimming carefully around the bandage. “It looks much improved,” he murmured, half to himself, keeping his voice neutral. “How’s your vision? Any dizziness?”
Finn gingerly rubbed his forehead. “Better,” he admitted. “A bit fuzzy around the edges, but it’s not spinning like before.”
Satisfied, Cedric stepped back, settling into the chair. He tried, and failed, to come up with a conversational topic. Finn, despite the blow to his head, was faster.
“You were a prince. The one who was supposedly killed by the dragon.” The knight’s gaze almost pinned him in place.
Great, back to my favorite topic again. Cedric drew a slow breath, schooling his features. “If I were dead, I wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would I?”
Finn’s brow lifted. “That’s not really an answer.”
Cedric narrowed his eyes. “If it soothes your conscience, then consider me a very convincing impostor.” He followed it up with a single-shoulder shrug, as if the whole thing had been a matter of theatrics and not a big, scaly curse.
Finn scoffed. “You’re being impossible. Why? Why fake your own death? Why hide away in this tower?”
Something in Cedric cracked. Fake. The word sat wrong, heavier than Finn probably meant it.
If only it had been that simple. His bravado thinned, like fabric worn too threadbare to hold.
“It’s… not like that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, debating how much to reveal.
“There are things about that night—about everything—that you might not understand.”
Finn let out a slow exhale and, despite the obvious ache in his head, leaned forward. “You’d be surprised what I can understand.”
Cedric swallowed hard, torn between the instinct to protect himself (and Gwenna) and the bizarre, magnetic pull of this knight, who—gods help him—was just stubborn enough to make Cedric want to talk.