Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Cedric’s talons dug into the cliff face, rough granite yielding beneath their razor-edged curve.
The stone radiated heat like a living thing, soaking into the golden plates of his underbelly.
His tongue flicked out, tasting pine resin and distant rain on the wind.
Below, the forest stretched in a rumpled green blanket; the river glinting like a dropped sword between the trees.
His slit-pupiled eyes tracked a hawk’s spiraling descent.
Then his focus returned to the outpost far below.
Finn was down there.
A soft puff of smoke drifted from his nostrils.
He hadn’t meant to let his thoughts drift to the knight so easily, but it was becoming harder to stop himself.
The memory of the previous night burned in his mind—Finn on the ground, winded from his encounter with Clarence, and Cedric reaching down to help him.
His tail lashed, sending a shower of pebbles clattering down the cliff side. Stupid. Reckless. His secondary eyelids slid shut, but it didn’t block the afterimage: Finn’s storm-cloud eyes widening, a lock of ebony hair falling across his brow as Cedric hauled him upright.
He exhaled sharply through flared nostrils. A brisk gust of wind rattled the leaves below, and Cedric finally tore his gaze from the outpost, forcing his thoughts back into order. The sun was sinking lower. It was nearly time.
The dying rays gilded the western peaks when he finally pushed off, wings snapping taut to catch the late afternoon thermals. The cool air rippled over his scales, carrying the scents of the land below as he dove toward his usual landing spot.
Cedric touched down in the meadow a mile from the tower, his claws sinking into the damp earth.
The grass here was tall, golden from the waning season, and it rustled softly as he made his way toward the hollow tree where he kept his clothing.
With Finn at the outpost, he could no longer safely transform there. But Cedric was adaptable.
The sun slipped lower.
The moment the last light of day faded, the transformation began.
Cedric sucked in a breath as the first wave of it hit. He gritted his teeth, staggering as his body forced itself back into its natural form. It never got easier. The shift left him gasping, his muscles trembling from the agonizing change from his draconic form.
Transformation always left him raw. Tonight, his shoulders and collarbone burned where wings had melted back into muscle, the ghost of talons itching beneath his fingernails.
He pressed his forehead against the oak’s gnarled bark, waiting for the world to stop tilting.
Stable straw would’ve smelled sweeter than this leaf mold, but at least here, no one witnessed his shaking hands.
Cold air nipped at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. He reached for his clothes, pulling on his shirt and trousers with hurried, clumsy fingers.
His boots followed, laced with hands still unsteady from the aftershocks of transformation.
When he finally stood upright again, fully dressed, he rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the lingering ache of realigned bones.
Cedric took a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he started down the narrow trail leading home.
By the time he reached the goat pen, moonlight had leached color from the world.
His enhanced vision painted everything in icy blues and searing silvers.
The latest goat pen repair held—the new planks stood pale against weather-beaten wood.
The warhorse mare’s warm breath fogged his sleeve as he checked the latch.
The simple motion stirred something old in him.
He missed horses.
It wasn’t just a pastime he missed. It was a part of himself. Sunset had been his—a proud, fiery mare who had carried him through his years as a prince, a constant. Was she still alive? Had Darius’s men claimed her after he vanished? The thought made his stomach churn.
It was easier not to think about what he’d lost.
“Don’t get stuck in the past,” he muttered to himself, the words grinding between his teeth.
Cedric lifted his chin, squaring his shoulders as he strode toward the tower, forcing himself to be present in the here and now.
Through the warped glass of the window, he glimpsed Finn and Gwenna setting the table.
Cedric slowed, watching unnoticed from the shadows.
Gwenna said something, her tone teasing, and Finn laughed—a sound so unguarded, so full, that it sent an unexpected jolt through Cedric.
The knight’s smile burned brighter than the last flare of sunset.
Cedric’s throat closed around a breath gone sharp as broken glass.
He couldn’t just stand here staring. As he pushed the door open, Cedric called out, “Evening.”
Finn turned, his grin widening until it carved dimples into his cheeks. “Cedric! Just in time for dinner.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Cedric’s answering smile felt brittle as he moved to help Gwenna.
They sat to eat, the fire crackling in the hearth, filling the room with an easy warmth. Cedric focused on his food, forcing himself to sink into the familiar dance of conversation—Gwenna’s sharp banter, Finn’s dry wit, the way their words wove through the evening like threads in a tapestry.
Then Finn turned to him, and Cedric knew he was doomed.
“So, how’s the wood carving been going?” Finn asked, leaning toward him, resting his elbow on the table. “I’d love to see your work sometime.”
Cedric’s throat betrayed him, constricting around a half-chewed bite of bread. Haven’t touched a chisel or carving knife in days, he thought, the admission curdling in his gut. He forced himself to swallow—the bread, the guilt, all of it.
“It’s, uh, been going well,” he managed. Then, before he could think better of it, his tongue ran ahead of his caution. “Would you like to come see my workshop after dinner?”
Finn’s grin widened immediately, bright as firelight. “I’d love to.”
Regret. Immediate, tangible regret. Cedric barely had time to process it before Gwenna let out a dramatic, suffering groan. “Gods, please, I beg of you—flirt less at the dinner table.” She paused, then added, “And maybe not at all.”
Cedric scowled. “We are not flirting.”
Finn, entirely unfazed, speared a piece of roasted meat with his fork and shrugged. “I don’t know, Prince Cedric. Inviting a knight to your private quarters? People might talk.”
Cedric scoffed at the use of his former title, well aware of Gwenna’s warning glance. “No one would talk.”
Gwenna thunked her cup down on the table, eyes narrowing. “I might talk.”
Cedric rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his own skull. “It’s a workshop, not a secret rendezvous.”
Finn raised his eyebrows. “Could be both.”
Gwenna leaned forward, fixing Finn with a look that was a little too sharp. “And why, exactly, would a knight be interested in my brother’s workshop?”
Finn, for once, hesitated—only slightly, but Cedric caught the flicker. Then, smooth as ever, he smiled. “Because I admire fine craftsmanship.”
Gwenna arched a brow. “Uh-huh. That admiration better stay strictly professional.”
“If the gods have any mercy, they’ll strike me down right now.” Cedric rubbed his temples. But when the knight’s expression softened—just a fraction, just enough—something loosened in Cedric’s chest. A dangerous warmth, curling around his heart like ivy.
After dinner, they cleaned up together, though Cedric hardly registered the task. His mind was already in his workshop, already bracing for what it would mean to be alone with Finn again.
The outbuilding smelled of sawdust and cedar. Lantern light danced along the rough edges of unfinished carvings and half-whittled pieces. Finn stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the array of tools and figures scattered across the workbenches.
“Wow,” he whispered, reaching toward a half-carved raven mid-flight. Cedric’s muscles tensed, anticipating the inevitable recoil when Finn noticed the dragon figurine lurking behind it, but the knight only lifted a small stag, marveling at its carved antlers.
“These are incredible, Cedric.”
Pride surged through Cedric’s veins. “Thank you. It’s just a way to make ends meet, really.”
Finn snorted, giving him a dry look. “Hardly. Anyone can look at this and see the passion you put into it.”
Before Cedric could muster a response, Finn’s fingers finally brushed the dragon. His thumb traced the sculpture’s articulated tail, the delicate ridges along its back.
Cedric felt that touch like a shock to his spine.
Finn turned the carving over in his hands, his grip light, not like a knight inspecting a weapon, but like someone who actually cared about the craftsmanship.
“The detail is amazing,” Finn whispered. He glanced at Cedric, brow furrowing, like he was working through something. “How do you do it?”
Cedric exhaled, tension easing just a fraction. “Patience. And a lot of mistakes.”
Finn chuckled. “That makes sense. Just…wouldn’t have expected this from you.”
Cedric arched a brow. “And this meaning…?”
Finn grinned, setting the dragon back down with exaggerated care. “Oh, nothing. Just that most princes I’ve heard about spend their time debating politics, studying diplomacy, and perfecting their waltz—not carving stags out of cedar.”
Cedric crossed his arms. “I did study diplomacy.” He wet his lips. “A skill which I’m employing at the moment, in fact.” Cedric glanced at the tools on his nearby workbench. “If you want, I could show you how it’s done.”
Finn went still for half a second—just long enough that Cedric felt it. Then, softer the knight said, “I’d like that.”
Cedric swallowed. Too late to take it back now. “Here, let me show you,” he said before he could second-guess himself. He reached for a fresh piece of wood and a carving knife, gesturing for Finn to take a seat on the wooden bench.