Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The shrill ring of a contraption beside the bed jolted Gwenna awake, her heart lurching into her throat.
She swore under her breath, scrubbing a hand down her face.
Every single time. You’d think she’d get used to her own blasted invention by now, but no—it still startled her like a war horn at dawn.
With a groan, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, shaking off the remnants of uneasy dreams. The images clung to her mind, sticky as cobwebs: Cedric, trapped in his dragon form, surrounded by soldiers, their blades glinting in torchlight.
She had screamed for him, fought to reach him, but her limbs had been made of lead, her voice swallowed by the night. And then…
She shook her head violently. No. It was just a dream. But the unease remained, burrowing deep in her gut like the embers of a dying fire.
Gwenna lit the bedside lantern, the golden glow spilling across the stone walls of her room.
How many days had it been since Finn left?
Five? Six? Each morning, she awoke wondering if today would be the day soldiers stormed the tower, swords drawn, ready to drag them back to the life she had no intention of returning to.
And Cedric—he was falling to pieces. She knew the signs too well, remembered the way he had withdrawn when they had first fled to the outpost, how he had moved through the world like a ghost of the man he had been.
This was worse. He was listless, his presence muted, as though his body remained while his mind drifted somewhere he couldn’t escape.
He went through the motions—eating, speaking, existing—but the light in him had dimmed, smothered beneath guilt and something deeper, something heavier.
And if he thought she was going to sit back and let him sink, then her idiot brother had clearly forgotten who he was dealing with.
Rolling her shoulders, Gwenna dressed swiftly. A soft wool blouse, a sturdy skirt that wouldn’t tangle at her knees, and her well-worn boots laced tight. She wrapped a thick shawl around her shoulders, tucking it close against the morning chill.
The aroma of bread greeted her as she descended. Her stomach tightened—not with hunger, but with worry.
In the kitchen, Cedric stood by the hearth, slicing a loaf of bread with slow, methodical movements, as if the simple act of cutting was the only thing anchoring him to the present. A tremor ran through his grip, slight but telling, before he tightened his hold.
The fire cast shifting light across his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes. He looked up as she entered, his expression carefully composed, a rehearsed smile curving his lips—but it was empty, a mask stretched over a broken man.
“Good morning,” he said, voice even but stripped of any real warmth. “I thought we could use something hearty today. Something to keep us going.”
Gwenna arched a brow as she dropped into a chair. “You mean something to keep you going when you inevitably forget to eat later?” Her tone was lighter than before, teasing but not unkind.
Cedric didn’t look up, his shoulders hardly shifting as he let out a breath—too heavy for a sigh, too empty for real frustration. He sliced another piece of bread like a man going through the motions of a life that no longer felt like his own.
“Good morning,” Gwenna said, circling back to his earlier greeting. “I’m thinking of heading into Duskridge today.”
Cedric hesitated mid-slice. “Why?”
“Because sitting here like anxious hens won’t do us any good,” she said, reaching for a slice of bread and a jar of jelly.
“We need information, Cedric. We don’t know what’s happening in Mirathen, or if Finn made it back in one piece, or if there’s a bounty out for our heads yet. We can’t afford to be ignorant.”
Cedric’s lips pressed into a thin line, his posture tensing as though the mere mention of Finn shattered him all over again. He said nothing at first, his gaze unfocused. Gwenna watched his throat work as he swallowed whatever thoughts were clawing their way up, but the words never came.
She leaned forward, softening her tone just a fraction. “Cedric, I know you’re worried, but—”
“I am worried,” he muttered, finally looking at her, his expression weary. “If something happens—if someone recognizes you—”
“I’ll be careful,” she cut in, leveling him with a look before he could spiral further. “I always am. No one in Duskridge knows who I really am. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just a traveling trader.”
His fingers tightened around the knife again. “Gwenna—”
She saw it then—the shadow of something close to fear, but deeper, more desperate. Not fear for himself. Fear of being left behind. Fear of losing her. She was all he had left.
He exhaled, slow and resigned. His resistance crumbled like ash in the wind. “Fine,” he groused. “But be quick. And cautious.”
Gwenna flashed him a smirk. “You do know who you’re talking to, right?”
Cedric blinked slowly, like it took effort to pull himself back to the present. His answer was delayed, and when it came, it was little more than a whisper. “Right.”
Cedric was sluggish as he placed a plate of toast and eggs in front of her.
Gwenna dug in, but her gaze kept drifting to him.
He sat across from her, food untouched, eyes fixed on the wood grain of the table.
He was here physically, but his mind had already drifted again, slipping into the same place it had been for days—somewhere she couldn’t reach.
By the time she finished eating, Cedric had withdrawn completely.
His shoulders slumped, his hands resting in his lap like he’d forgotten what to do with them.
The bleak emptiness in his eyes made her fingers twitch with the urge to shake him, wake him up, but she knew better. He would only retreat further.
Gwenna sighed, pushing back from the table. “I’ll be back before sunset. Try not to mope yourself into an early grave while I’m gone.”
Cedric didn’t respond.
She didn’t expect him to.
Brushing crumbs from her skirt, Gwenna grabbed a satchel and began packing it with supplies: a few coins, some herbs she could trade, and a selection of Cedric’s wooden carvings.
“It’s time.” Cedric watched as Gwenna hefted the pack onto her back.
She knew he didn’t mean her departure. With a soft sigh, Gwenna wrapped her arms around him, and for a moment, he didn’t react at all.
Then, slowly, his arms came up, hesitant, uncertain—like he wasn’t sure how to hold on. But he did. His fingers curled into the fabric of her shawl, gripping too tightly, as if the moment he let go, something in him might come apart completely.
“Be safe,” he whispered.
“You, too,” she murmured. “Try not to wallow too hard while I’m gone. Your handsome, brooding prince act at least needs an audience.”
Cedric huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head, but the shadows in his expression didn’t lift. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the barn, fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt.
Gwenna lingered in the doorway, watching as he disappeared inside.
Then she waited. The first noise came—a muffled, bitten-off sound that barely slipped past the stable walls, but it made something in Gwenna flinch.
Then the next: a sharp, broken inhale, the scrape of claws on straw, the unmistakable, awful sound of shifting bone.
Her stomach twisted. Gods, how did he bear it?
Twice a day, every day. Bones breaking and reshaping. Skin stretching, muscles twisting into something monstrous. She’d heard village women gossip before, laughing about how their husbands couldn’t function with a sniffle while they soldiered through fevers and monthlies without complaint.
If only they knew what Cedric endured.
There was no room for weakness, no luxury of rest. No one to tend to him, no one to ease the pain. He just bore it. Alone.
Moments later, a golden head emerged from the stable, Cedric’s slit-pupiled eyes fixing on her with a comfortingly annoyed look.
“Sorry,” Gwenna called, lifting a hand. “Wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m off now!
” She waved, flashing a grin before turning toward the trees.
She knew he hated when she overheard his transformation, but too bad.
If he thought she was going to stop worrying about him just because he’d perfected the art of suffering in silence, he was sorely mistaken.
The forest was damp and quiet, dewdrops clinging to the edges of leaves and spiderwebs.
The morning fog curled lazily through the trees, making the air thick and cool.
Gwenna kept her pace light but purposeful, weaving through the underbrush with a route she had walked a hundred times.
She never took a direct path. Habit, caution, and paranoia all dictated that she move like a shadow, slipping between the trees in a way that would be difficult to track if anyone ever bothered to try.
Which was stupid. No one was looking for them.
Or, at least, that had been true before.
She swallowed hard, shoving the thought down. It sat like a stone in her stomach anyway.
The cave entrance loomed ahead, a jagged mouth in the hillside, half-choked with creeping ivy and moss. The air grew cooler as Gwenna approached, damp with the breath of stone and shadow.
She stepped inside without hesitation.
The darkness swallowed her whole. Water dripped from unseen crevices, the steady plink, plink echoing against the cave walls. Beneath her boots, the ground sloped unevenly, slick with condensation. She moved with confidence. She had made this journey before.
The cave twisted and narrowed, then widened again, the faint gleam of daylight teasing ahead. She followed it, emerging on the other side to a world transformed—not by nature, but by death.
The bones remained where she had left them.