Page 12 of Forged Flight

I nearly drop the forceps. “Elowen!”

“What?”

“I am literally performing surgery right now!” I shoot them my best disapproving glare over the top of my mask. “Have some decorum.”

They roll their eyes. “It’s a routine hellhound spay. You’ve performed this procedure, what, a thousand times?”

“That doesn’t make it any less inappropriate.”

They snort. “Even behind that mask, I can tell you’re blushing.”

I groan. “Lucan and I are just working together to help Maple. It’s completely professional.”

Elowen laughs softly, dabbing away some excess blood from the incision with a piece of gauze. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

“I’m stopping by his forge after work today to help him with the prosthetic bone structure,” I insist. “It’s…” I hesitate. “Professional.”

They snicker. “Mhm.”

With a muttered prayer for patience, I return my attention to the surgical site.

“Okay,” I murmur. “Final stitch.”

The curved needle passes cleanly through the skin. I tie off the final knot, trim the excess suture, and carefully inspect the incision.

A quiet breath escapes me. “All done.”

Elowen smiles. “Nice work, boss.”

“Let’s get her cleaned up.”

Together, we remove the sterile drapes and wipe away the last traces of antiseptic from the sleepy old hellhound’s belly. She doesn’t stir, still comfortably under anesthesia.

I peel off my blood-speckled gloves and toss them into the biohazard bin before carefully removing my gown. The familiar ritual is almost meditative—untie, peel away, dispose, sanitize.

Elowen begins preparing the recovery kennel, lining the concrete floor with soft blankets.

“I’ll monitor her while she wakes up,” they say, gently sliding one arm beneath the hound’s shoulders. “Go take five minutes before your next appointment.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Doc.” They flash me a teasing grin. “Get some fresh air. And if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of Lucan across the street.”

I shoot them a disapproving frown.

After washing my hands, I slip out the clinic’s side door that leads to the narrow cobblestone alley. I draw in a long, slow breath, letting the scent of pine, damp earth, and woodsmoke fill my lungs.

The alley beside the clinic is quiet, save for the distant rush of the river winding through town.

I lean against the weathered brick wall and tilt my head back. Above the rooftops, the mountains rise like ancient guardians around Thistle Grove. Their slopes are ablaze with autumn—scarlet maples, golden aspens, and copper beeches glowing beneath the afternoon sun. The highest peaks catch the light, burning crimson against a cloudless blue sky.

I exhale, the tension in my shoulders slowly melting away.

Surgery always demanded every ounce of my focus. But now… my thoughts drift somewhere far less professional.

A broad pair of hands blackened with forge soot. A deep, rumbling voice. Kind blue eyes that sparkle in the sunlight.

“Oh, goddess,” I murmur to myself.