Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Finn drifted toward wakefulness. Something was different. The chilly dampness of the dungeon was gone, replaced by warmth. He wasn’t lying on stone. His body rested on something soft.
I must be dreaming.
A hand ghosted over his arm, feather-light. Finn’s eyelids fluttered open, his vision slow to adjust to the shift in brightness. Sunlight. There was sunlight streaming through a narrow slit of a window.
The scent of herbs filled the air, subtle but familiar—marigold and comfrey, clean linen, something faintly lemony beneath it all. The air was warm. Too warm.
This wasn’t the dungeon.
Finn’s brows furrowed. The agony in his body had dulled, replaced by a deep, distant ache. His last memories came in fragmented flashes—Gwenna’s voice, the rush of freedom, leaning heavily on Cedric…and Darius.
His pulse jumped. Where am I?
A woman knelt beside him, garbed in the deep blue robes of a royal healer.
Finn stiffened, instinct screaming danger, but her hands were gentle as she dabbed cool salve along his forearm, where the burns had been.
Had been. His breath hitched—his skin, raw and blistered before, was pink and whole.
He hadn’t imagined it, had he? The searing agony of the brand, the shattering of bone—
His fingers twitched, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. His right hand was no longer a mangled wreck. The bones, crushed beneath the mallet, had been reset, the deep ache settling into his joints like a phantom pain. It didn’t make sense. He should be ruined. He was ruined.
His throat worked, but the words caught. He turned his head, sluggish, searching for something—someone—familiar, but the healer only murmured a soothing incantation, her magic whispering against his skin.
For a long moment, Finn simply breathed. His body still ached, but it was manageable now. Not the grating, all-consuming fire it had been before.
“Wha—” His voice scraped against his throat like gravel.
The healer glanced up, expression neutral, though something gleamed behind her eyes—pity? “Don’t talk yet,” she instructed. “Drink this.”
She pressed a cup to his lips, and Finn swallowed greedily. Water, fresh and sweet, washing away the dryness in his mouth, soothing his ragged throat.
Then the memories returned. The dungeon. Cedric’s fierce presence. Gwenna’s determination. The sickening crunch of bones reshaping under magic’s cruel grip. Darius.
Cedric.
Finn shoved himself up, ignoring the sharp protest of his muscles. “Where are they?” His voice was raw, but forceful. “Where’s Cedric? Where’s Gwenna?”
The healer’s hands were firm but careful as she pushed him back down, stronger than he expected. Or perhaps he was weaker than expected. “I don’t have any information for you,” she said briskly. “My job is to tend to your wounds, nothing more.”
Finn’s jaw clenched. He wanted to fight, to demand answers, but looking at the healer, he knew it would be futile. She wasn’t here to tell him anything. She was here to keep him alive. And if she was under Darius’s employ, that meant…
His stomach twisted. He let himself sink back onto the cot, muscles still wound tight with frustration. The healer resumed her work, moving methodically as she changed his bandages.
Finn’s brow furrowed. He had been injured badly, but now…healing this quickly? His gaze flicked to the healer. “What are you using?” His voice was quieter this time, edged with suspicion. “I’ve never felt anything work so fast.”
The woman hesitated. Just for a breath. Then she met his eyes, something unreadable in her expression. “A special blend,” she said finally, voice softer than before. “Created for…unique circumstances.”
A chill crept up Finn’s spine. Why would Darius want him healed so quickly? The worst of the pain had fled, and now only hunger and weakness dogged him. Before he could press further, the door creaked open.
Two guards entered, their boots thudding against the stone floor. They moved with the professionalism of trained soldiers, their expressions blank. Finn’s pulse kicked up.
“It’s time,” one of them said.
The healer didn’t look up. She began gathering her supplies, never looking at Finn. But as she turned to leave, she paused. Her lips parted. “May Rynvath’s ferocity be with you,” she murmured. So quiet, Finn almost missed it. Then she was gone.
“Rynvath?” he whispered. The Untamed Spirit, the god of the hunt? Why invoke his name?
The guards hauled him to his feet. Finn gritted his teeth as they wrenched him upright, but to his shock, he didn’t collapse. His legs held steady, his body moving with only a dull ache instead of searing pain. Whatever the healer had used, it had worked too well.
His stomach churned. “Time for what?” he demanded, but neither guard answered.
Their grip on his arms was tight—not quite brutal, but firm enough to leave bruises. He didn’t struggle. Not yet. Not until he knew where they were taking him.
The halls blurred past as they dragged him forward. The twists and turns of the castle corridors were disorienting, unfamiliar. He tried to memorize the route, but his head was still fogged, his thoughts slipping like water through his fingers.
Then light. Bright sunlight. Finn winced, squinting against the sudden glare. His eyes adjusted slowly, revealing a small courtyard enclosed by high stone walls. And at its center, a wagon. This wasn’t just another interrogation. This wasn’t another session with the torturer.
He was being moved. His Majesty, the Royal Prick, had plans for him. And given the king’s flair for the dramatic, nothing about them would be good.
As the guards shoved him into the wagon, Finn barely caught himself before he hit the rough wooden planks.
Still-healing bruises throbbed, but it could have been far worse, if not for the healing.
The wagon lurched forward, the wheels clattering against the cobblestone streets, and through the gaps in the covering, Finn caught snippets of conversation from the crowd outside.
“…biggest event in years…”
“…never seen the arena so full…”
“…wonder if the knight stands a chance…”
Arena? Finn’s stomach twisted. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the rhythmic clatter of the wagon wheels. What was Darius planning?
Through the slats, the city blurred past—banners hanging from balconies, vendors calling out, the streets lined with people craning their necks, eager for whatever spectacle they had been promised.
Finn saw flashes of painted signs with crude illustrations, though he couldn’t quite make them out.
Whatever it was, the citizens of Mirathen were expecting blood.
His mouth was dry as he stared at their eager, animated faces. There was no fear here, no solemnity. Only anticipation. A festival atmosphere, a celebration of violence.
When the wagon finally rolled to a stop, Finn’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. The guards yanked him out, dragging him forward. And then they reached the destination. The arena.
Its towering stone walls loomed over him. The very air seemed charged, vibrating with the distant roar of a restless crowd.
A hard shove sent him stumbling forward.
“This way,” one of the guards grunted.
Finn had no choice but to comply. They led him down a passageway, deeper into the underbelly of the coliseum. The further they descended, the louder the roar of the spectators became. It rattled through the stone like an approaching storm.
At last, they emerged into a small armory, and Finn’s breath hitched.
Racks of weapons lined the walls, swords and spears gleaming in the torchlight. A table bore pieces of armor—not the finest quality, but sturdy enough. Finn’s gaze skimmed over them, his unease growing.
And then he saw it.
His armor.
The familiar Revendarian steel was laid out on a nearby table, polished to a shine. All of the dings and scuffs he’d picked up from his ill-conceived battle with Cedric had been repaired. His own gauntlets, his greaves—the gear of a knight of the realm.
Why was it all here?
The realization slammed into him with the force of a charging warhorse.
This wasn’t an execution.
This was a fight.
Finn turned to the guards, his hands balling into fists. “What is this?” His voice came out hoarse, but the fury behind it was unmistakable. “What are you expecting me to do?”
The guards said nothing. They simply began outfitting him. His own armor, buckled tight against his body. His breastplate, his vambraces, each strap cinched with the swiftness of men who had done this a hundred times before.
Every piece felt heavier than it should.
Finn tensed. His mind screamed at him to resist. But what was the point? Even if he refused, Darius would force his hand another way.
Then, finally, one of the guards retrieved a weapon from the table and turned, extending it toward him.
Sunwrath.
The ruby in the sword’s pommel glinted, the blade’s edge gleaming even in the dim light.
His fingers curled around the hilt instinctively, the weight settling into his palm like an old companion.
A shield followed—though this was not his own.
Finn seldom used them, finding they only interfered with his preferred fighting style.
But he was so unbalanced all he could do was stare down at the shield as he understood what was coming.
A trial by combat.
Darius meant to make a spectacle of him. Would he face the king’s champion? Finn’s mind stretched, running through all of the senior knights. There were several who might step up to fight and put Finn in his place.
They marched him forward into an antechamber, a heavy wooden gate barring the way ahead. Finn caught glimpses of the crowd through the slats—thousands of spectators, their voices a deafening roar of excitement.
One guard lingered for just a moment. “Kavros watch over you,” he muttered under his breath. Then they were gone.
Finn swallowed hard. A horn blared, loud enough to rattle his skull. The gate rose.
Finn squared his shoulders, forcing his feet onward, stepping into the blinding light of the arena.
The noise hit him like a wave. Thousands of voices rose in a mixture of cheers and jeers, a chaotic rumble of bloodlust. The scent of sand and sweat filled his lungs, the ground beneath his boots uneven and well-trodden.
His gaze swept the arena, taking in the towering walls, the vast stretch of the battlefield—built not for honor, but for spectacle. And close enough to savor every moment was the royal box.
It wasn’t set high and distant like in some grand coliseum.
No, Darius wanted to watch this. His Highness, Lord of Petty Tyranny, wanted to see every drop of blood spilled, every desperate moment.
The royal box was positioned just above the first rows, an open, elevated platform where the nobility could enjoy the best view of the slaughter to come.
And there—so close that Finn could see the tension in her shoulders, the flex of her fingers—sat Gwenna.
She was a vision of poise, swathed in embroidered silks, her hair pinned in a crown of intricate braids.
But Finn knew her too well to be fooled.
Every line of her body was too rigid, her hands too tightly curled in her lap.
She wasn’t there to watch. She was waiting. And seething.
His Royal Dumbassery didn’t know of the brewing storm beside him.
The king rose to his feet, arms outstretched, and slowly, the roar of the crowd faded into a tense, expectant hush.
“People of Lunareth!” Darius’s voice boomed over the coliseum, amplified by magic. “Today, we witness a trial by combat! Before you stands Sir Finnian Brightmoor, accused of treason against the crown.”
Treason. Finn clenched his jaw so hard it ached. You’re the traitor. But screaming it here wouldn’t matter.
King Dickhead paced the length of the royal box, his posture radiating control, his voice rich with performative mercy.
“But I am a fair king. I offer Sir Finnian a chance to prove his innocence and regain his freedom. If he can defeat the monster that has plagued our kingdom for so long—the dragon that slaughtered the royal family—he will be exonerated of all charges.”
Finn froze. No.
No, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
A thunderous roar erupted from the crowd, but Finn only heard the roar of blood rushing to his head. His fingers turned to ice around the hilt of his sword.
“Let the trial begin!”
The opposite gate groaned open. Finn whipped around, every muscle locking into place.
A massive scaled head emerged from the shadows, followed by the sinuous length of a golden neck.
Sunlight struck Cedric’s scales, setting them ablaze in a gleaming display of raw power.
The dragon did not hesitate. He did not resist. He charged, a force of nature given form, his wings flaring as he surged forward, the ground quaking beneath his weight.
The only thing that stopped him were the chains.
Eight men strained against them, their bodies braced, their faces twisted with effort as they fought to hold him back.
Even so, Cedric dragged them, talons carving deep furrows into the sand, his powerful body flexing with unchecked aggression.
The iron links groaned, the enchantments woven into them flaring with arcane light to reinforce their hold.
Without them, Finn knew Cedric would already be upon him.
Finn’s hope shattered as he locked eyes with the dragon before him.
There was nothing there.
No sign of recognition. No intelligence, no warmth. Just a predator with golden glowing eyes staring at its prey.
The Cedric he knew—the man—was gone.