Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Finn trembled as he saddled Ghost, his fingers clumsy, betraying the turmoil raging inside him.
The stable, which had been a place of warmth and whispered confessions mere hours ago, now felt suffocating, its walls closing in around him.
Every shadow in the dim morning light twisted into the shape of golden scales, every rustle of straw an echo of wings unfurling.
I have to get out of here.
His breath came unevenly as he tugged the girth tighter than necessary, and Ghost shifted beneath him with a disgruntled snort, ears flicking back in protest. Finn forced himself to pause, dragging in a shaky breath as he loosened the girth a notch.
He couldn’t afford to fall apart now. He needed to leave—needed distance, space to think, to breathe.
But no matter how far he rode, the name tangled in his thoughts like roots too deep to tear free:
Cedric.
The thought of him sent another violent pang through Finn. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away, but the images came unbidden—the press of Cedric’s lips, the warmth of his body, the quiet, stolen moments between them. Moments Finn had thought were real.
And yet…
The same Cedric, wings spread wide in the morning sun, golden and terrible. The same Cedric, fleeing into the sky, leaving nothing behind but shattered trust.
A hollow ache spread through Finn, a weight settling in his chest that no amount of deep breathing could dislodge.
Ghost shifted again, sensing his unrest, and Finn forced his hands to still, smoothing a palm down the mare’s neck. “Easy, girl,” he murmured, though it was himself he was trying to soothe. “We just need to go.”
He had already retrieved his things from inside the tower—his pack slung over his shoulder, filled with what little he had brought on this mission.
His enchanted armor, his coin purse, a few supplies.
And most importantly, Sunwrath. The sword’s presence was reassuring against his back, but now Finn felt like a traitor, unable to wield the sword as he’d vowed.
He imagined swinging the blade at Cedric-as-dragon.
Would he dance away as before, parry the incoming attack?
Or would he take the blow and end the agony between them?
Finn swallowed hard, shoving the thought away.
With a final check of the saddle, he led Ghost out into the courtyard.
The sun had fully risen now, casting long shadows across the ground, and the light—gods, the light—caught on the stones with a golden hue that mirrored Cedric’s scales too perfectly. Finn gritted his teeth and tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
His muscles remembered the motions even as his mind spiraled.
As Ghost moved out, Finn couldn’t stop himself from glancing back at the tower, his gut twisting. The windows were dark, offering no sign of life. No Cedric waiting in the doorway with regret in his eyes. No Gwenna storming out, demanding answers.
Maybe she was still asleep.
Or maybe—maybe she knew.
Finn exhaled sharply, willing the thought away. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have time to face Gwenna, to ferret out her part in this tangled mess. Not now.
He nudged Ghost forward. As they passed through into the trees, Finn looked over his shoulder one last time. He wasn’t just leaving the tower behind. Finn was leaving behind every foolish, na?ve part of himself that had dared to believe there could be something more.
The only sounds were the rhythmic thud of Ghost’s hooves against the dirt, the distant birdsong, and the occasional whisper of leaves shifting in the breeze.
Finn should have found solace in the quiet.
But his thoughts refused to settle. They looped back, again and again, forcing him to relive everything he believed—everything Cedric had shattered.
The first time he had seen Cedric, standing in the market, quiet and wary. Had he known then who Finn was? What he had come to do?
The tentative trust that had grown between them, now tainted beyond recognition.
How much of it had been real? And how much had been a carefully crafted deception?
Finn wanted to believe in the moments that had felt unguarded—the way Cedric had looked at him, the way he had touched him. But then he remembered the attack on Solavere Palace. The fire, the screams.
A fresh wave of nausea surged through him. His grip tightened on the reins. How do I reconcile this?
Because the dragon that had killed his father, the dragon Finn had sworn to destroy, should not have been the same man who had kissed him with such aching tenderness. It didn’t make sense.
Finn couldn’t shake the image of Cedric’s dragon form in the stable, hunched and miserable, golden eyes filled with sorrow and something dangerously close to fear. That wasn’t the posture of a mindless, bloodthirsty beast.
Finn stared at Ghost’s wind-tousled mane.
His mind was still churning when he looked up and realized the road ahead had split.
To the left—the path back to Lunareth’s capital.
To the right—the road curved back toward the village, toward the abandoned outpost, toward answers he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
Finn hesitated, his heart urging him to turn back, to demand answers from Cedric.
But what good would it do? The truth had been laid bare in the stable, gleaming in the morning light.
Cedric had lied to him. Not just a small lie, not something forgivable—this had been a deception so vast, so unthinkable, that Finn could scarcely wrap his mind around it.
He blew out a soft breath, willing the shaking in his hands to subside. He needed to focus on his duty. That was all that mattered now. He was a knight of the realm, sworn to protect his people, sworn to serve the king. He had been given a task, and he had failed.
Finn had failed.
The depth of that failure squeezed the air from his lungs. He was going to have to face the consequences.
With a heavy heart, Finn guided Ghost to the left. The mare obeyed without hesitation, carrying him farther and farther from the place that had so briefly felt like something more than a mission.
As they continued down the path to the capital, Finn’s mind turned to the task ahead. He had to report to King Darius, to inform him that Princess Gwenna had been found, and that she was safe. But what of Cedric?
Finn’s stomach churned at the thought of revealing Cedric’s secret. The idea felt wrong, like a betrayal, but wasn’t it his duty? Hadn’t he sworn an oath to his kingdom? He had been sent to slay a dragon, and instead, he had…
Finn clenched his jaw.
He couldn’t even put it into words.
And if he told the king? If he dared to speak the truth aloud?
Finn could already picture the reaction. The king’s fury. The mobilization of an army. Hunters, wizards, knights—every resource thrown toward eradicating the golden beast.
A fresh wave of nausea swept over Finn.
No.
He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not until he knew more. Not until he understood why Cedric had attacked Solavere Palace. He needed the truth—the real truth, not the stories traded in taverns or the fearful whispers of courtiers. And he would find it.
But first, he had to explain himself.
How was he supposed to justify returning empty-handed?
How would he make the king understand Gwenna wasn’t some lost damsel in need of rescue?
That she had carved out a life for herself, one she had no desire to leave behind?
Finn wasn’t sure how he would frame the truth, but he knew one thing: King Darius would not be pleased.
These thoughts plagued him as he rode. The forest thinned, giving way to rolling hills and scattered farmsteads, but Finn barely registered the changing scenery. His thoughts remained a tangled mess.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones. His limbs ached, his head throbbed, and the gnawing emptiness in his stomach had become impossible to ignore. When he spotted a small inn nestled at the foot of a hill, relief swept over him like a wave.
He guided Ghost toward it, dismounting with stiff limbs.
The scent of roasting meat drifted to him.
It should have been comforting. Instead, it made his stomach twist, dredging up memories of the last meal he’d shared with Cedric and Gwenna—the warmth of their laughter, the way Cedric’s eyes had lingered on him when he thought Finn wasn’t looking.
Finn swallowed hard and pushed the thought away.
The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered man with a bushy mustache and a well-worn apron, glanced up from wiping down the counter.
His eyes flicked to Finn’s sword and enchanted armor, and his brows lifted with interest. “Well now, you’re a long way from the capital,” he said, setting the rag aside.
“Not often we get knights passing through.”
Finn forced a weary smile. “I don’t need any fanfare, just a place to rest for the night. Do you have a room available?”
The innkeeper gave a knowing chuckle. “A bed and four walls? That I can do. The hayloft’s open, if you’re feeling nostalgic for hard travel. But I’m guessing a real mattress is more to your liking?”
Finn exhaled, the hint of amusement tugging at his exhaustion. “A mattress would be preferable.”
“Good choice,” the man said, already reaching under the counter for a key.
“And your horse? We’ve got a sturdy stable out back, fresh hay, and my daughter’s been fussing over the animals all evening—your steed will be spoiled rotten before sunrise.
” He slid the key across the counter. “Supper’s still hot if you’re hungry.
Bread’s fresh, stew’s decent. Drink’s extra, unless you look pitiful enough, in which case my wife will probably take pity and pour you one anyway. ”
Finn nodded, feeling like little more than an actor reciting lines. “Yes, please. Whatever you have will be fine.”