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MONSTROUS THOUGHTS

CEDRIC

Cedric’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, all he saw was darkness.

Thick, suffocating blackness that clung to his mind, sticky as syrup. He moved, stretching his fingers, his toes, searching for that full-body ache, waiting for the pain to hit him, to feel as if he’d been trampled by a herd of warhorses.

But there was nothing.

Nothing except a strange, unfamiliar coldness in his chest.

I’m still alive.

He let out a shaky breath, the weight of that realization pressing down on him from all sides. Memories flooded his mind in fragmented bursts—the triple-toned roar of the resurrected fyre wyrm, flames dancing on the lake, the blast of power lighting him up, the feeling of soaring backward through the air...and then the heat. Surrounding him, consuming him, corroding him. Yet here he was. Whole. Intact. Present.

When he shouldn’t be.

Cedric tried to sit up, his body protesting. A hand pressed firmly against his shoulder, easing him back onto the bed. No, not a bed.

He blinked, the shadows in his vision slowly giving way to dim, familiar light. A stone ceiling loomed overhead, intricate etchings spiraling into the corners. It felt as if it was watching over him where he lay, splayed on a loose pile of pillows in the middle of the room.

In the middle of the Sanctum.

He was back in the Celestial Sanctum.

Glancing over, Cedric found Zephyr kneeling beside him, relief pouring from her, so thick it was nearly tangible.

“Welcome back,” she said softly. “You’ve been out for quite a while.”

“What’s a while?” Cedric’s voice came out rough and strained, his throat burning as if he’d inhaled smoke.

She bit her green-tinged lip. “Almost a whole day,” she admitted.

Surprise zipped through Cedric as he rose to his elbows, then glanced down at himself. He took in the black tunic draped over his torso, the loose pants curving around his waist. The melancholy that had overtaken him at the creeping memory of what happened on that lake of fire momentarily dissipated as he said, “Did you dress me?”

Zephyr’s cheeks turned a darker shade of green. “W-we couldn’t very well leave you as you were,” she stammered.

Cedric heard a low chuckle and turned to see Thraigg ambling over. “Aye, even dead to the world as ye were, I doubt ye would’ve found charred armor makes for comfortable bedclothes, boyo. What’s left of yer armor can be found o’er there.” The dwarf thrust his thumb in the direction of the bedroom doors that lined the back of the antechamber before adding, “Which is where we found these for ye too.”

“You seem rather untroubled to see me like this,” Cedric said.

Thraigg let out a single laugh. “Would you rather I be wringing my hands at your side like this one?” He jerked his thumb at Zephyr.

“Don’t let his dwarven bravado fool you,” she said with a shy grin. “He was just as worried as the rest of us.” She gestured at Kit and Nox, sitting a few paces away and wearing matching expressions of concern.

Cedric barely noticed. There was only one person his vision sought.

Elyria sat on a long bench, wings hidden, her back pressed against the stone wall opposite him. She circled her finger around the rim of a goblet, her expression flat. She wasn’t looking at Cedric. Her eyes were drawn halfway shut, like it was a labor to hold them open. She seemed tired—something more than exhaustion sitting heavy on her shoulders—and the sight of it made Cedric’s stomach squeeze.

He tore his eyes from Elyria to survey the other champions. Kit offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, Nox sitting beside her with a thoughtful expression on their face. Thraigg, meanwhile, had wandered over to a small table nearby, immediately digging into the bowl of fruit that lay upon it. Whatever the Crucible still had in store for the remaining champions, Cedric was relieved to see that starving them out didn’t seem like part of the plan. The usual display of pitchers and platters dotted the antechamber, put there by whatever ancient magic still ran through the Sanctum.

And with Zephyr at his side, now offering him a flagon of water and a small yeast roll, that accounted for everyone.

There was nobody else there.

He didn’t really need to ask, but he found the word slipping from his lips anyway. “Gael?”

Zephyr shook her head.

Something prickled behind Cedric’s eyes. Their group had become so small. He knew it was absurd to get emotional about it. He could practically hear Lord Church hissing in his ear, telling him to control his emotions . And regardless of the fact that doing so had been nearly impossible from the moment he stepped foot inside Castle Lumin, it was true that there was little point in dwelling on this. It was what was supposed to happen, after all. Only one person was ever supposed to walk away a victor at the end of this.

Contrition settled uncomfortably on Cedric’s skin. It was more than shame though. More than guilt. Something more like grief. Not just for Cyren and Gael and the others they had lost, but for the person he was supposed to be—the man who had died somewhere in the Crucible. The person who cared more for his mission than the people around him. Who wanted nothing more than to win the crown for Havensreach, to do his duty to the king, to prove Lord Church had been right to place his faith in him.

He hardly knew that person now. He could barely remember the resolve he’d felt when walking through the Gate in Castle Lumin.

Perhaps that was the point of all this. In the second trial, he’d been forced to shed parts of himself in order to reveal his truth. Was that the only time that had happened? Perhaps each of these trials—all of his near-misses with death—had been slowly chipping away at the person he was when he entered.

“Tell me what happened,” he said, pulling himself up to a sitting position.

Zephyr stilled. “After Cyren was”—she cleared her throat—“taken, Tenebris pushed Thraigg and me through the gate, so I didn’t see any of it for myself. But my understanding is that Gael burned herself out taking down the wyrm. That was right after you...”

“Right,” Cedric said, his voice low. Flashes of obsidian-laced power and orange-red flames danced in his mind. “After me.”

“You have no idea how relieved we all were to see Elyria come through the gate with you,” she continued, her voice high, like she might banish the sorrow in the air with forced cheer.

“She brought me through?” His gaze immediately drifted back to where Elyria sat. This time, as if she sensed his returning attention, her heavy-lidded eyes shot open, brilliant green meeting warm brown before she tore them away.

Why was she avoiding his gaze again? Unlike the bewilderment that had washed over Cedric when she did this after he woke from Belien’s attack, anger sparked in him instead. Was this to be their new dynamic, then? He would nearly die, she would save him, only to act as though he didn’t exist when he awoke? Why bother saving him at all?

A gnawing sort of fear twisted inside him—a coiled serpent. That icy feeling in the center of his chest grew colder.

Cedric forced himself to sit up fully this time, ignoring Zephyr’s quiet protest. His head spun, but he gritted his teeth, the need for answers far stronger than the pain that tugged at his limbs.

“I should be dead,” he said .

No one responded at first, the silence hanging in the room like a shroud.

“I shouldn’t have made it out of the trial.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” Zephyr’s voice was calm, but Cedric thought he caught the flicker of something else behind the words. “Of course you should have.”

He clenched one of the pillows by his legs in his hand, the plush fabric at odds with the rough, grating feeling scraping under his skin. He couldn’t explain where this was coming from, why he was suddenly so angry , other than that he was so tired of feeling worthless. So tired of being the weakest link amongst them.

“You know it’s true. She knows it’s true!” He pointed a finger at Elyria, who put her goblet down, stood, and started pacing toward him. “How many times should I have died in here? The wyrm should have killed me. The dragon should have killed me. My own memory should have killed me!” His voice cracked. “And that stars-forsaken lake of fucking fire should absolutely have killed me.”

He slammed his fist into the pillow, his breathing growing erratic as the memories of the end of the trial swirled around him—sinking into the firestorm, unbearable heat crawling up his limbs, the way his body had felt for a moment like it was turning to ash. And then...nothing. No pain. No death.

He looked at his hands, his palms up, as if searching for answers in the unscarred skin.

“What is this?” he breathed.

It was Elyria who finally spoke, her melodic voice shockingly gentle. “Cedric, it’s nothing to?—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, cutting her off. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. Don’t tell me I’m fine. Don’t tell me there’s nothing shameful about the fact that despite being the supposed ‘great champion of Kingshelm,’ I wouldn’t have even made it past the first fucking trial without your help.”

He tipped his head back and released a hollow laugh. “Maybe that’s the point though. Look how easily my fellow humans were all taken by the Crucible. Did we even have a chance? Or were the Arbiter’s claims for unity just sweet lies? Something to whet our appetites for victory, encourage us to help you all go further.”

“Humans aren’t the only ones who have been lost to the Crucible,” Elyria said, her tone sharpening.

The others exchanged glances, the air in the room thick. Several long moments passed before anyone spoke again.

“No matter how it happened, what matters is that you survived, Cedric,” Kit finally said. “We can all try to reason the whys and hows and?—”

“There’s no reason to be had here, clearly,” Cedric said. He could feel the tenuous grasp on his sanity slipping the more he argued this. How could they not see? There was something wrong here, for him to have survived when he shouldn’t have. “I should be dead. I felt it.”

“Well, you’re not,” Elyria snapped. “And you’re right, you did almost die. Again. But for once, I’m not the one who saved you—by some miracle, you seem to have done that yourself this time. Lunara knows how you managed to do that, but don’t try to weasel your way out of the accomplishment of actively preventing your own fiery death.”

Cedric bolted to his feet, opening his mouth to protest. She wasn’t finished.

“But if the situation arises again, if you get into danger again—and you’re right, you do seem to attract death like moths to a fucking flame, so I’d say there’s a pretty big stars-damned chance it’ll happen—you should know that I wouldn’t hesitate to save you. I’d do it again and again and again, because I don’t want you to fucking die!”

Her eyes blazed as she came to stand in front of him, her nose only a few inches from his own.

“You’re the one who put the idea in my head that we might just have a chance to finish this thing and get out of here alive. I don’t even care who ends up with the fucking crown at this point, I just want that . I want the after that you promised. And I’m not willing to lose anyone else to the celestials’ mad games.”

Cedric shook his head, his breathing growing shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears. That icy cold in his chest was spreading, a squirming feeling creeping through his veins. It felt a little bit like mana, though he didn’t even have to look at the drained token still hanging from his neck to know that was impossible .

“I—” He pressed his trembling hands over his heart, trying to tamp down the feeling spreading there. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“Breathe, boyo. Just breathe.” Thraigg’s voice was low, restrained, the kind tone one might use to calm an animal thrashing about its cage. He shuffled close enough to reach out a thick hand and pull Zephyr back.

“Cedric...” The silver fire in Elyria’s eyes was immediately replaced with concern as she lifted a hand to reach for him.

He recoiled instinctively. “No,” he said, voice tight. “There’s something...wrong.” His mind was spinning. He didn’t belong here; he wasn’t meant for this. Lord Church had gotten it wrong. All of Havensreach had gotten it wrong. He wasn’t capable of winning. He wasn’t made for this.

The air in the room felt suddenly charged—too hot, too cold, too thin, too thick. His erratically tracking eyes met Elyria’s for a split second, some unreadable emotion flicking across her face.

“Cedric, you need to calm down,” she said. “You’re going to?—”

And that’s when Cedric realized that it wasn’t ice that had been slowly spreading from his chest and into his veins.

It was fire.

A heat simmering just under his skin, so piercing, so bright, it had felt freezing.

Light exploded from Cedric’s chest, filling the room from floor to ceiling.

And he combusted.