Scales and Steel, page 9
Finn swallowed hard, gaze darting between Gwenna and the dragon. She closed the distance, fearless, that same fondness she’d shown the goat now directed at the towering reptile. This can’t be normal. His hand settled on Sunwrath’s pommel.
Finn stared, incredulous, as the dragon bowed its head and extended sharp claws—only to deposit a woven basket at Princess Gwenna’s feet like an offering. It didn’t attack—it’s giving her…supplies? Every instinct he possessed screamed that this was impossible, that dragons were mindless beasts of fire and fury. Yet here it was, behaving almost…helpfully.
Princess Gwenna crouched, a gleeful grin lighting her face as she peered inside. “Oh, excellent! These mushrooms will be perfect for tonight’s stew. Though I’m not sure we’ll have any beans left, thanks to a certain four-legged menace.” She shot a wry glare at the goat, Clarence, who sauntered nearer, more curious than afraid.
Finn’s jaw tightened. In all the stories I’ve heard, goats should be terrified of dragons—yet here we have a goat with more courage than sense.
His mind reeled, each new detail more bizarre than the last. A dragon hunting mushrooms for stew? Is that what I’m seeing? Gooseflesh raced along his arms, and he had to remind himself to breathe. This is so wrong.
“You got back late last night,” Princess Gwenna continued, her tone almost scolding as she peered at the dragon with genuine concern. “I was worried.”
The dragon snorted in response, a rolling rumble that vibrated in Finn’s chest even from a distance. Princess Gwenna nodded as though she understood every nuance of the creature’s low grunt.
“Of course you didn’t want to wake me,” she said, attempting a mock-stern look that dissolved into affectionate exasperation. “And then this morning you fly off before I can check on you!”
Finn’s breath caught as he watched them—this casual closeness, a language all their own. It belied everything he’d been taught: that dragons were apex predators, incapable of empathy. They were acting more like…family. Has she truly befriended her captor?
He swallowed the knot in his throat, but his thoughts slipped away like a greased pig when something tugged at his waist. He jerked away and nearly toppled over, arms flailing to keep his balance. What the—?
The goat. Its hungry eyes were fixed on the leather pouch dangling from his belt. “Shoo!” Finn hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “Go on, get away!”
It bleated at him—an alarmed, annoyed sound—and then, as if offended by his refusal to share, the goat bounded off. Straight toward Princess Gwenna and the dragon.
Rynvath’s hairy balls, Finn cursed under his breath. The princess and dragon whirled in unison toward the goat’s bleating. They’re going to see me.
His heart hammered in his ears. This is it. If Princess Gwenna truly was enthralled, he had to act. If the dragon was controlling her, or at least conditioning her to stay, he owed it to her—and to the memory of his father—to set her free.
He exploded from the bushes with a roar that shredded his throat raw. The dragon’s gaze—those cursed, molten eyes—snapped to him. “Princess! Stand back!”
The beast reared, wings flaring into a fortress of sinew and scale around Gwenna. Finn charged, Sunwrath screaming toward the vulnerable spot beneath its jaw. But the dragon twisted, serpent-smooth, and his blade carved only air.
“Nivara take you!” Finn snarled. He feinted left, then swung right, aiming for the delicate wing membrane. Claws met steel in a screech that crackled up his arms. The dragon’s warm breath billowed over him. Still no fire. No claws raking his guts. Just those damnable talons, deflecting, always deflecting, as if he were a dull whetstone to polish them on.
“Stop!” Gwenna’s cry frayed at the edges. Finn barely heard, too focused, too driven to get through the dragon.
Another thrust met with a parry. Finn’s sword skidded off scales, spraying sparks. He swung at the dragon’s neck. The beast slid aside. He jabbed at its belly. A talon flicked the strike away. Muscle and scale, moving like water over stone. His arms trembled.
“Fight me, you spineless worm!” Finn’s spittle struck the dragon’s snout. It didn’t flinch. Its tail curled around Gwenna, like a mother hen protecting a chick. The wrongness of it seared Finn’s nerves. How dare it pretend to care!
He lunged, blade screaming upward in a killing arc. The dragon leaned back and Sunwrath grazed a single scale. A chip no bigger than a fingernail clinked to the moss. Useless. Worthless. Finn’s boot crushed the fragment as he spun, slashing wildly at its legs. Talons caught each strike. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Breath sawed in his lungs. Reason guttered—the distant voice urging strategy drowned under a tidal roar of hate. He didn’t want strategy. He wanted to feel scales split. Wanted the dragon’s dying shriek to shake the trees.
Finn feinted toward its heart, then pivoted, the blade plunging for the joint of its hind leg.
The dragon sidestepped, tail brushing Finn’s thighs—not a strike, just a nudge. It could have sent him flying, could have crushed him beneath one massive claw, but it didn’t. It was holding back. Even now. Even as Finn swung for its throat.
Rage drowned reason. It’s mocking me. It’s toying with me. A snarl ripped from his throat as he surged forward, blind to anything but the need to see this beast fall.
His foot snagged. Root or talon, he’d never know. Finn bounded up, attempting to recover his footing. A shadow blurred—not the dragon’s bulk, but something smaller. Faster. With auburn hair.
Crack.
Pain ricocheted inside his skull, the blow sending a shockwave through his helm. His vision split, tilting sideways as his ears rang. Darkness swallowed the dragon’s silhouette.
Chapter Nine
Cedric sighed, closing his eyes to brace against the familiar agony that heralded the return of his human form.
When it was over, he slumped forward, breathing hard. The cool night air brushed against his bare skin, straw poking at his knees and elbows. Sweat gathered at his temples. Still better than being trapped in scales, he told himself.
A single lantern hung from a post nearby, casting weak light on the stable’s rough-hewn walls. Shadows jumped and twisted with each sway of the flame, and for a moment, Cedric just watched, trying to calm his erratic heart. Another day survived, he thought grimly. But the next instant, the memory of the unconscious knight flooded his mind. We haven’t survived yet.
He forced himself upright, wincing at the lingering stiffness in his limbs. The clothes he’d hung over the stall door that morning still waited for him—loose trousers and a simple linen shirt, well-worn boots that had seen too many miles. He pulled them on quickly, fingers clumsy in his rush. Each tug at the laces only reminded him of the knight’s steel-grey eyes, brimming with conviction and…hatred.
It was that hatred that had wounded Cedric the most. That look…as if he despises everything I am.
The wooden door to the stable creaked on its hinges as Cedric pushed it open. Outside, the night was calm—a faint breeze carried the scent of pine, mingled with the smoke and herbs drifting from the old tower’s kitchen. The outpost felt oddly tense in the cool moonlight, the usual sense of peace overshadowed by the knowledge that an armed knight lay inside.
Hopefully still alive.
He paused at the threshold, inhaling slowly, then stepped across the courtyard to the tower’s entrance. Gwenna stood in the far corner of the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest, fury sparking in her violet eyes.
“Well?” she demanded, voice edged with impatience. “What are we going to do with him?”
Cedric’s gaze followed hers, drawn to the prone figure on the kitchen floor. Even now, lying helpless, the knight seemed formidable. His dented armor reflected the lantern light in dull glints. The same enchanted leather armor he’d seen every knight of Lunarath wear, though it gleamed and looked just like platemail. His helmet had been pulled off and now rested on the table.
“You just left him here?” Cedric asked, unable to mask his surprise. He’d imagined she might have at least dragged him into an unused storeroom, if only for privacy’s sake.
Gwenna’s lips thinned. “What else did you expect? Besides, we can’t keep him here. It’s too dangerous. We should—”
“Should what?” Cedric cut in, his voice sharp. “Kill him? Dump his body in the forest and hope no one comes looking?”
Gwenna’s jaw clenched, and her glare held firm. “If that’s what it takes to keep us safe, then yes.”
A chill rippled through Cedric. Once, the thought of taking a life had horrified Gwenna. But ten years of running and hiding, coupled with the inevitability of violence, had changed them both.
He knelt beside Finn, gingerly touching the knight’s shoulder. “No,” he said softly. “We can’t keep doing that, Gwen. Not anymore. He’s a knight of Lunareth.” Something in his chest twisted at the words. Wouldn’t he have been sworn to protect me under different circumstances? He cleared his throat, glancing up at Gwenna. “Besides, I spoke with him in the village. He’s misguided, but not evil.”
“You what?” Gwenna snapped, her eyes narrowing to annoyed slits. “When were you planning on sharing that little detail?”
He raked a hand through his disheveled golden-brown hair, wincing at the tangles from his recent shift. “I was going to tell you, but then…everything happened so fast.” He gestured at the unconscious knight. “I met him in the market. He was asking questions about dragons, and I wanted to know why he was so determined to kill me.”
Gwenna’s indignation wavered. “And?” she prompted, voice quieter now.
“And he truly believes he’s on some grand, righteous quest,” Cedric answered, a hollow pang forming in his chest. “He thinks I abducted you, that I’ve been holding you captive all this time. In his mind, he’s the hero—coming to rescue you from a monster.”
“He’s in for a rude awakening when he comes to,” Gwenna muttered, snorting in disbelief.
Despite the tension in the room, a weary, humorless smile tugged at Cedric’s lips. He stared at the knight’s face, smudged with dirt and blood. A shallow cut marred his forehead, the scrape already scabbing over. He recalled the flash of determination—and yes, hatred—written there only hours ago.
A pang shot through Cedric as he remembered the humor in the knight’s voice at the village, the curiosity in those steely eyes. He hates me because he thinks I’m a monster—and I can’t blame him.
Finnian stirred, and a low groan slipped from his lips. Cedric’s heart jolted—some mixture of relief and apprehension—at seeing the knight regain a semblance of consciousness. Cedric leaned in, mindful of the tender swelling behind Finn’s ear.
“He’s got a nasty bump,” Cedric muttered, probing delicately at the bruise. Good thing I came in now, he thought grimly. Another few hours without tending and the knight could have ended up with a worse injury than a sore head.
“What exactly did you hit him with?” he asked, glancing at Gwenna with mild incredulity.
She offered a tight shrug. “A rock. It was the first thing I could grab.”
Cedric shook his head, though a hint of amusement curled at the corners of his mouth. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
His attention drifted back to Finn, who was seemingly oblivious to their discussion. The sharp determination that had defined him in battle was gone. His features were slack, breath ragged, dark lashes stark against too-pale skin. He looked impossibly young like this—too human, too breakable.
And Cedric hated how he noticed. Hated the way his gaze lingered a beat too long, the way unspoken emotion twisted in his heart. He couldn’t allow his mind to drift there. It was an impossibility.
“We should treat this before it gets worse,” he said, “and get him somewhere more comfortable than the kitchen floor.” His gaze slid to Gwenna.
She let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes. “Sure, I could have dragged him up the stairs and bumped him against every step on the way. Didn’t seem wise.”
Cedric had to admit, she had a point. She might be strong, but carrying an armored knight up a narrow staircase was no small feat. “All right, fair enough.” He stooped, bracing one arm behind Finn’s shoulders. “Give me a hand?”
Between the two of them, they hoisted Finn into a carry across Cedric’s shoulders. The knight wasn’t a lightweight—heavier than Cedric expected, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Sometimes I forget how my strength changed along with my curse, he thought, pushing back the guilt that always followed that realization.
“If you’re so determined to take care of him,” Gwenna said, the reluctance in her tone undeniable, “I’ll bring that yarrow salve I made last week.”
“That would be great,” Cedric replied, gripping Finn’s legs more securely. Part of him wanted to reassure her, to promise they’d handle this mess. But Gwenna’s set jaw warned him she wanted no more comforting words right now.
He ascended the narrow stone steps with care, mindful not to let Finn’s legs or arms—and especially his head—bump against the walls.
The spare bed was little more than a wooden cot with a thin straw mattress, tucked into a corner room that had once belonged to an outpost officer. But it would serve. Kneeling, Cedric carefully lowered Finn onto the cot, adjusting his limbs so they wouldn’t dangle off the edge. At least it’s better than the floor.
He frowned at the knight’s armor—enchanted leather, scuffed and dented, straps caked with dirt. The thick pieces had clearly seen better days. Days that didn’t involve Gwenna and Cedric. He can’t heal properly wearing this, Cedric thought. And it can’t be comfortable.
Cedric leaned over the immobile man, hands hovering for a beat, as if asking permission the knight couldn’t grant. With a resigned sigh, he eased open the buckles running along Finn’s side. The straps creaked in protest as Cedric slid them free of their loops.
Calm down, Ced. You’re only doing this out of necessity.
Certainly not because it had been so long since he’d touched anyone else, much less someone as handsome as Finn.
When he lifted the first panel of leather, a subtle glow clung to the armor, remnants of the enchantment that gave it steel-like resilience. Cedric marveled at the faint shimmer. It had been ages since he’d seen the magically enchanted armor worn by a knight of Lunareth. He shut his eyes for a moment, imagining happier times.
Standing on a balcony, peering down as a knight rode out on a mission, their armor gleaming as Lunareth’s crimson and gold flags fluttered overhead.
Cedric allowed himself a sad smile at the memory. The arm guards came next, buckled tight around Finn’s biceps. The straps gave under Cedric’s careful tug, revealing sweaty linen sleeves beneath. Cedric’s gaze caught on the flex of muscle, the warm skin underneath—too close, too intimate. He swallowed hard, forcing his focus back to the task at hand. Cedric moved on to the thigh guards, which didn’t really help the whole proximity issue he was currently battling.
For Aurenis’s sake. One handsome knight ends up in front of you, and he’s all you can think about. Your brain is not below the belt, Ced.
The final step was freeing the chest piece fully, lifting it away from Finn’s torso. A purple bruise bloomed on the knight’s torso, but it was the pale scars that drew Cedric’s attention. His fingers hovered, a sudden awareness of how close they were—how exposed Finn seemed, and how easily Cedric could trace those scars with a touch.
He pulled back, shaking off the thought. Gods, this is going to be a problem.
Soft footsteps in the hallway announced Gwenna’s return. She stepped into the room, a small clay jar in one hand and a bowl of water and cloth in the other. Without ceremony, she thrust them at Cedric. “Here,” she said, curtly. “This is all you. I need to go find…something.”
Cedric took the proffered items, but raised a brow. “What?”
She crossed her arms, eyeing Finn with a mix of exasperation and guarded concern. “I need to find where he got the audacity,” she grumbled under her breath, as though it were a serious errand.
A startled laugh escaped Cedric. The sound of his amusement seemed to thaw some of Gwenna’s tension, though she maintained a tight-lipped scowl for show. Instead of leaving, she stepped back, leaning against the wall where she could watch but remain out of the way.
Cedric sat at the edge of the cot. He dipped the cloth into the bowl of water Gwenna had brought and wrung it out, then carefully blotted the crusted wound on the knight’s forehead. Finn didn’t stir, but the crease between his brows deepened.
“Relax,” Cedric murmured, though he suspected Finn couldn’t hear him. “Just cleaning you up.” He gently wiped away the worst of the grime.
The cloth came away tinged with dried blood and dirt. Cedric set it aside and popped open the jar of salve. A pungent, earthy aroma wafted up, reminding him of the times Gwenna’s homemade remedies had soothed him after a day spent hauling timber or scouring the forest for fresh game.
“Let’s hope this helps,” he muttered, dabbing his fingers into the salve and spreading it along the swelling.
Cedric’s gaze settled on Finn’s face, where unconsciousness had done little to soften the strong planes and defined angles. The lantern light skimmed over his features—the proud cut of his jaw, the high cheekbones, the faint crease between his brows, as if even now, he resisted surrender.
Dark lashes rested against sun-bronzed skin, their depth accentuating the symmetry of his face. A thin scar marked his jawline, a remnant of past battles. It suited him, somehow, adding to the undeniable presence he carried, even now, stripped of his armor and vulnerability laid bare.
Gods, he’s exquisite.
The thought hit like a stray ember, burning at the edges of his restraint. It wasn’t some startling revelation—he’d noticed Finn’s handsomeness the moment they met. But here, in the quiet, with his guard lowered and his life quite literally in Cedric’s hands, it felt…different.
